Tension crackled between them. It was a palpable presence. Even more so after she’d tended his wound, and he’d covered her hand with his.
He held her gaze. “You’re mistaken. I’m not the man for you.”
She looked steadily back at him. Her pulse was racing. She felt much as she did when she was galloping on Hephaestus. A thrilling sense of fear and excitement. The knowledge that she was risking life and limb.
“I believe you are,” she said. “I know it to be true. The feelings we have for each other—”
“And where would such feelings take us if you gave them their head? Straight down the road to ruin. Right into the selfsame predicament that you find your sister in. Poor. Miserable. Exiled from polite society.”
Evelyn shook her head. “It wouldn’t be that way for us.”
“No. With us it would be worse.” He brought his hand to cradle her cheek. His touch made her breath stutter. He was gentle. Almost reverent. As if she were made of the finest French silk. “How would I keep you, Evie?” he asked. “How could I ever make you happy?”
“You do make me happy,” she said.
He bent his head. They were already dangerously close. The small movement brought them closer still.
Her heartbeat accelerated. She knew he was going to kiss her an instant before his lips brushed hers.
It was a brief caress. Similar to the accidental kiss they’d shared in the fitting room at Doyle and Heppenstall’s.
But no.
It was more than that—and different. This kiss was purposeful. A tender, searching inquiry. He was asking her permission.
She gave it readily. Arching up to him, her lips yielded beneath his in unspoken answer: Yes, please.
And he kissed her again, softly, gently.
It was achingly sweet. Quickening her pulse and warming her blood. And yet . . .
Evelyn recognized the feeling of leashed power. The way it coiled just beneath the surface. She knew it well enough from riding a stallion. But this wasn’t only power restrained. This was something else. Something stronger and more hazardous still.
It was passion.
Ahmad’s passion for her. And he was holding it back. Leashing it as though she needed protecting from it.
Her hand lifted to curl around his neck. Her fingers threaded in the thick hair at his nape. “You don’t have to be careful with me.”
His forehead came to rest against hers. “Yes. I do.”
“If you truly want me—”
“I do want you,” he admitted. “So much. But this . . . It can’t happen.”
Her heart dropped into her stomach. He was pulling away from her. Not physically, but in every other way that mattered.
She wanted to hold him tighter. To keep him from withdrawing.
A pathetic impulse.
Gathering her dignity, she dropped her hand from his neck. “Have I made a fool of myself?”
A troubled frown shadowed his brow. “No.”
“But you’re rejecting me.”
He didn’t deny it. His thumb moved over the slope of her cheek in a slow caress. “Because this can’t work.”
“Why not?” There was a sullen flavor to her words. She hated how it sounded. But good lord, this hurt.
“I can’t give you what you want,” he said.
She opened her mouth to object, but he forestalled her.
“You require a wealthy husband,” he reminded her. “It’s why you’re here. You’ve told me so yourself.”
“That was before.”
His lips twisted in a humorless smile. “Before you saw my face in the crystal.”
“I saw your face in the crystal because you were already on my mind. Every gentleman I met at the ball . . . I compared them all with you and found them wanting.”
“That’s very flattering, but—”
“Don’t.” She moved away from his touch. “Don’t patronize me.”
His hand fell from her cheek. “I’m not patronizing you. I only want you to see that being with me isn’t part of your plan.”
“Plans can change,” she said. “Mine already have.”
It was true. Her carefully calibrated blueprint for the season had gone out the window within the very first fortnight. It had been altered by Stephen’s arrival, and Fenny’s return. And by the fact that all of the balls and parties Evelyn would be attending were now in some way related to spiritualism.
And it had been altered by Ahmad. An alteration not only of her plans, but of herself. It had happened the moment she’d heard his voice behind the curtain at Doyle and Heppenstall’s. The moment she’d seen him behind the counter.
“Is that what this is?” He searched her face. “Have you changed your mind? Decided to give this all up?”
“No, but—”
“No,” he said. “You can’t, can you? You have your sisters to think of.” He paused, adding, “And your horse.”
He may as well have dashed cold water in her face. It rather felt like he had.
“I am thinking of them,” she said. “I never stop.”
“Of course you don’t. They’re your first and best concern.”
She couldn’t deny it. “They are. That doesn’t mean there’s no room in my heart for anyone else.”
“Evie . . .”
“There must be a way for us to be together. There must be. All it requires is a bit of ingenuity. If we improve our fortunes, and—”
“It isn’t only the money,” he said gruffly.
Her breath stopped. “What, then?”
“We’re different, you and I. Your world . . . it isn’t the world I live in.”
“It looks similar enough to me,” she said.
“Not from where I’m standing.”
“Because you’re Indian?” She frowned. “But you’re English, too.”
“I’m both,” he said, “and neither. I don’t belong to either world. I belong nowhere.”
A lump formed in her throat. “Don’t say that.”
“It’s the truth. That’s the way it is in India for people like me. And it’s the way it is here. If you were with me, that would be your life, too.”