“Would he be?”
“Only out of carelessness. He doesn’t take the idea of my having a season very seriously.” It was a lowering thought, but one Evelyn had come to accept. “He’s never thought of me as a pretty girl who might appeal to a suitor.”
“He’s thinking of you that way now, I wager.”
“He can think what he likes. I have no interest in him any longer.”
“Truly? He’s not unhandsome. He rather reminds me of those guileless, faired-haired young heroes in Julia’s novels.”
“Stephen is no hero. A hero doesn’t abandon a lady when she’s at her worst. And he doesn’t humiliate her for three years by pretending she doesn’t exist.” Evelyn grimaced. “Enough about my tedious problems. What about you? Is there nothing you need sorting out this season?”
“Hmm. You could find me a respectable beau for starters. One of your young castoffs, perhaps?”
“I haven’t any castoffs, young or otherwise. At the ball, nearly every man I danced with was in his dotage.”
“You’re faring better than I am. Only look at how the gentlemen stare at you. You’re drawing all of their eyes. And that fellow isn’t in his dotage. Nor is that one on the liver chestnut. Ugh. He’s positively leering.”
Evelyn registered the men’s stares as surely as she always did when she entered the park. It made less of an impression now, especially in light of her feelings for Ahmad. “It’s Hephaestus they’re admiring—and my riding costume. When I commissioned it, I meant it to attract attention.”
Stella smiled. “It’s not your riding costume, you silly creature. It’s you. No habit can make a lady desirable if she isn’t already.”
“Mr. Malik’s habits can.” Evelyn felt an odd tightness in her chest to mention him. The same oppressive weight that had been there ever since she and Ahmad had parted last night.
He hadn’t even deigned to kiss her goodbye before she’d stepped out of the brougham. She feared he might never kiss her again.
But he’d squeezed her hand.
And his voice had deepened in that way of his, making heat pool low in her belly.
He did want her. He’d said so himself.
The rest was up to her.
“His designs bring out the very best in whoever wears them,” she said. “It’s a sort of magic he has.”
“Perhaps I should commission one for myself,” Stella said. “And one of his ball gowns, too, while I’m at it.”
Evelyn brightened. “Oh, you should. He’ll make something beautiful for you, I know it.”
Stella’s smile turned quizzical. “You have a great deal of faith in him.”
“Not without cause.” Evelyn was quiet for several seconds before admitting, “It means everything to me that his business should succeed.”
Stella nudged Locket closer to Hephaestus. “Why should you care?”
Warmth infiltrated Evelyn’s words, imbuing them with unspoken emotion. “Because,” she said, “I think him the best gentleman in the world.”
Stella was silent for a moment. “Well, then,” she replied at last. “We must see what we can do for the fellow.”
Twenty-Five
Ahmad was at his worktable in the back of Doyle and Heppenstall’s, cutting a length of figured green grenadine barege, when Doyle poked his head into the room.
“A pair of ladies is here,” he said in somber tones. “They’re inquiring after your dresses.”
Setting aside his scissors, Ahmad carefully folded away the thin gauzelike fabric he’d chosen for one of Evelyn’s day dresses.
He’d been expecting new customers. After Evelyn’s attendance at Lady Arundell’s ball, they were all but inevitable. He nevertheless felt a glimmer of anticipation.
This was his goal. Not romance. Not falling in love. But building a fashionable clientele. It was past time he set his mind to it, instead of spending every waking hour brooding over Evelyn.
And he had been brooding.
Never mind that it had been only two days since he’d kissed her. Since he’d told her about his mother, and about his childhood in India. Secrets he’d never shared with anyone.
It was a sordid history. But it was his history. He didn’t regret confiding it to her.
At the time, he’d meant it as a warning. It was only later, as the brougham had pulled away from the garden gate of her uncle’s town house, leaving Evelyn safely behind, that Ahmad had realized how much he’d wanted her to know. Not just for her sake, but for his own.
Another infuriating part of this attraction he felt. This blasted desire to share every last piece of himself with her.
It was foolish. Dangerous.
If he wasn’t careful, such impulses would ruin them both.
Rising from his worktable, he reached for his coat and pulled it on.
Seated nearby, Beamish and Pennyfeather cast him nervous glances as he strode past them to the curtained door. It was they who were responsible for filling Doyle’s orders for gentlemen’s suits at present. Orders that had lately been coming with decreasing frequency.
But that was none of Ahmad’s concern at the moment.
He entered the sunlit showroom to find two young ladies standing at the counter. One was dressed entirely in black. The other—though she could be no older than her early twenties—had the most astonishing head of gray hair.
He recognized the pair of them. They were Evelyn’s riding companions: Lady Anne Deveril and Miss Stella Hobhouse. They were accompanied by a smartly dressed lady’s maid and a footman in Arundell livery. The footman’s arms were filled with wrapped packages tied neatly with twine.
“Mr. Malik, I presume.” Lady Anne’s gaze swept over him. “You’re Miss Maltravers’s habit-maker?”
“I am,” he said.
“And her dressmaker?” Miss Hobhouse asked.
“That, too.”
The ladies exchanged a weighted glance.
Ahmad looked between the two of them with a growing sense of uneasiness.
Had Evelyn said something?
He doubted it. Not about their kiss, at any rate. But she might have said something else. Young ladies often shared confidences about men. Indeed, at Mrs. Pritchard’s, Ahmad had frequently been the subject of secret glances and giggling whispers. He’d thought himself past the age of being embarrassed by such things.