Ahmad expected to feel a sense of satisfaction at the thought. It was his dress, after all. His design. But imagining Miss Maltravers waltzing in the arms of some nameless, faceless Englishman brought him no pleasure at all. Not even if she was shining as brilliantly as a star. Not even if she glowed so brightly that every lady in London came calling at Doyle and Heppenstall’s, demanding that he make them a gown just like hers.
His timing was execrable. These feelings he was having for her. His muse. His auburn-haired equestrienne.
He wanted her for himself.
* * *
The next morning, he and Mira set out together for Russell Square, the pieces of Miss Maltravers’s ball gown boxed up in their arms. On applying at the kitchen door, they were shown up the servants’ stairs to the morning room. The drapes were open, and the fire alight.
Miss Maltravers stood by the window, sunlight gleaming in her hair. A smile suffused her face as she came forward to greet them, shining first in her eyes before spreading to the soft curve of her mouth. “Mr. Malik. How do you do?”
His chest tightened as she approached.
This damned physical reaction!
And they hadn’t even touched yet.
He’d done nothing more than look at her. Nothing more than register the gentle sway of her skirts and the way an auburn curl had fallen loose from her chignon to brush the elegant curve of her cheek. His fingers itched to tuck it back again.
A lover’s prerogative. Or that of a husband.
He reminded himself that he was neither, and that no amount of intimacy between them—no measuring and pinning of her garments—would make him so.
“Miss Maltravers.” He bowed. “May I present my cousin, Mira?”
Smiling warmly, Miss Maltravers extended her hand.
Mira gave it a wary look before taking it.
“I’m so very pleased to meet you,” Miss Maltravers said. “I understand you’ve been embroidering my ball gown.”
“Yes, miss.” Mira withdrew her hand.
“I can’t wait to see it.” She ushered them further inside. “My uncle’s housekeeper, Mrs. Quick, has given this room over for my use. I hope it will suit our purposes?”
He set the boxes down on a tufted chair. There was a silk-printed trifold screen in the corner, and a low tapestry footstool nearby, just the right height for alterations. “It will.”
Miss Maltravers summoned her lady’s maid, Agnes, to help her change. Mira disappeared behind the screen with the two of them, and after much whispering and rustling of fabric, Miss Maltravers at last emerged in her ball gown.
It was a shimmering jewel of a dress, with a magnificent set of double skirts, gored to form a slight train behind. The bodice was cut close to her figure, shaped with darts and skillfully curved seams to hug her midriff and provide a sensual frame for the voluptuous swell of her breasts. Short ruffled sleeves left her arms bare, and a silk ribbon belt served to emphasize the narrowness of her waist.
Ahmad stepped back to look at her, solemn and silent, even as his heart threatened to beat out of his chest.
Good God.
She was all the fanciful, overly romantic things Mira had predicted she’d be. Starshine and moonbeams. A vision of luminous beauty. All creamy ivory skin and fiery auburn hair falling from its pins.
He swallowed hard.
Now wasn’t the time to lose his focus. The dress was unfinished and needed his attention. As for the lady in the dress . . .
“I haven’t a looking glass,” Miss Maltravers said. “And judging by your faces I must be grateful I don’t. I might cry otherwise, to see myself in something so beautiful.”
“Oh, miss,” Agnes murmured under her breath. “It’s ever so fine.”
Mira arranged the delicate gauze upper skirt. It was caught up with ribbons to reveal the box-pleated hem of the silk skirt below. Sunshine glinted over the delicate embroidery, making the glass beads twinkle like tiny stars. “You must take care not to rend the gauze when you reach through to use your pocket.”
Miss Maltravers’s eyes widened behind her spectacles. She looked down at her skirts. “A pocket? What pocket?”
“Here.” Ahmad came to stand in front of her.
He was painfully conscious of her low neckline. Though he’d designed the bodice to be revealing, he hadn’t fully prepared himself for the lushness of this particular view.
Heat crept up the back of his neck as he gently took her hand and drew it to the secret, on-seam pocket he’d made in the silk lower skirt. “It’s for your spectacles. You said you didn’t need them for distance. Now you can tuck them away when you’re not using them.”
There was an odd glisten in her eyes. The same unsettling sheen that had appeared when she’d first seen herself in one of his riding habits. “I never asked you to do this.”
“You didn’t have to ask. It’s my job to take such things into account.”
Her hand slid into her pocket and then out again. “You’ve solved a problem I didn’t realize I had.”
“I can solve it in all of your dresses if you like.”
“Can you?”
“Of course.”
“And it won’t spoil your designs?”
“A dress can be functional as well as beautiful,” he said. “And they’re my designs. I can do what I like with them.”
“This dress isn’t functional,” Agnes remarked, running a fingertip over the embroidery. “It’s as light as gossamer, it is. Like fairy wings.”
“Be careful where you put your fingers,” Mira said sharply. “The gauze is very fine.”
Ahmad exchanged a look with Miss Maltravers. Her hazel eyes were shining soft as velvet. Soft as the smile edging her lips.
And he knew in that moment she was more than pleased with what he’d made for her.
She was pleased with him.
Satisfaction came at last. Not because of the dress or how she looked in it. But because he’d been of use to her. He’d made her feel seen—taken care of.
It would be no small thing to take care of Evelyn Maltravers. To look after her as his own.
As quickly as the sugar-spun thought arose, it was dispelled by brutal reality.
He was in no position to become entangled with anyone, least of all a gently bred English lady. He had nothing to offer her. Not now. And even if he did—when he did—the two of them could still never hope to be anything more to each other than what they were in this moment: a man and a woman divided by wealth, rank, and the entire history of British colonial rule.