“As am I.” The young lady paused, adding, “For the third time.” Her blue eyes took on a rueful sparkle. “I’m Julia Wychwood.”
“Evelyn Maltravers.”
“Miss Maltravers.” Miss Wychwood smiled at her. “I shan’t importune you any longer. My ride is over and yours is just beginning.” She turned her horse, diverging from the path. “I expect we’ll meet again. I ride here so often at this time.”
“I shall look forward to it,” Evelyn said with genuine warmth.
Miss Wychwood saluted her as she rode off. “Good day to you!”
“Good day!” Evelyn called back.
What a strange girl. And a voluble one, too. Still, Evelyn was grateful to have met her. She hadn’t any friends here in London. Not yet. Certainly none who shared her passion for riding. And Miss Wychwood looked as if she knew what she was about.
It was rare to encounter a truly good rider these days. So many were content to rely on brutal bits, martingales, and other punishing methods for keeping a horse under control.
Evelyn urged Hephaestus back into a trot, and then into a canter. His hooves pounded down the strip of tan. She kept him to the same gait for a long while, enjoying the easy, effortless motion of his powerful stride. The hoofbeats of Lewis’s mount echoed a distance behind them.
As she rode, her gaze once again drifted to the rail. It was as empty as it had been when she’d arrived. Mr. Malik hadn’t come. She’d just about resigned herself to the fact when, up ahead, a slight movement caught her attention.
Her eyes widened behind her veil.
Good gracious, it was him.
He stood in the shadow of an elm tree, hardly noticeable at first glance. But once she set eyes on him, there was no mistaking his presence. Dressed in an impeccably cut black coat and trousers, he looked both handsome and dangerous. Like a fallen angel, reluctantly come to earth.
Awareness crept into her veins, warm and shivery. She didn’t know why. At three and twenty, she was no green girl. And it wasn’t as if he’d been particularly nice to her. Even now, the way he looked at her . . . That darkling glance. Frowning and sullen. As if he were weighing her in the balance.
She rode up to him at a canter, bringing Hephaestus to a slow halt in front of the trees. He piaffed for several steps—an elevated trot in place—before coming to a standstill. “Mr. Malik,” she said, a little breathless. “Good morning.”
He bowed. “Miss Maltravers.”
“Have you been here long?”
“Since you first entered Rotten Row.”
Her mouth nearly fell open. “That long? But . . . I didn’t see you.”
“Why should you? You were riding.”
“And you were watching? The whole time?”
“I was.”
Frustration knotted her stomach. So far, she’d done nothing but gallop on the straightaway. It had required little skill on her part—or on Hephaestus’s. Hardly the exhibition Mr. Malik would have been expecting. “I can ride a bit longer if you like,” she said. “Put him through his paces. He’s well schooled in dressage, and knows most of the movements of the haute école. I trained him myself.”
“I’ve seen enough,” Mr. Malik said.
Her heart sank.
Dash it all! It wasn’t fair. To have her riding skill dismissed out of hand. Then again, when had anything in life ever been fair? Her plan could still succeed. She wouldn’t permit his rejection to rob her of hope.
If it was a rejection.
He was still here, after all. That must mean something, surely.
“Well?” she asked. Her muscles tensed in anticipation.
“You’re an accomplished horsewoman.”
“I know that,” Evelyn said impatiently. “What I mean is . . . have you decided if you’re going to make me a habit?”
Mr. Malik’s mouth ticked up at one corner. Too late, she realized the double meaning in her words. “Do you know, Miss Maltravers, I believe I am.”
* * *
Ahmad thrust his hands into his pockets as Miss Maltravers rode away.
She looked different on a horse. Elegant and confident. Entirely at her ease.
In truth, he’d never seen anything like her.
She hadn’t been boasting when she’d said that she was a better rider than the Pretty Horsebreakers. From what he’d seen this morning, Miss Maltravers’s skill as an equestrienne was beyond compare. Galloping down Rotten Row on that great Spanish stallion of hers—a horse that would have intimidated most men—she’d been at one with her mount. Thoroughly in control, while at the same time seeming to exert not one ounce of physical force.
Impressive, to be sure. But it was more than that.
There was an inherent grace to her riding. A feminine ebb and flow that had riveted his gaze. It was almost sensual, the way the lines of her body had been in harmony with every movement. Still and sure, with gentle hands and a quiet seat.
He’d watched her with growing awe, a tightness forming in his chest. Good lord. Did she realize how much potential she had? All it would take was the right dressmaker—the right hairdresser and corsetiere.
The right habit-maker.
Miss Walters had managed to snare a marquess as her protector. What was Miss Maltravers aiming for? A duke? A prince?
If she played her cards right, Ahmad didn’t doubt that she could have whomever she wished.
Turning from the rail, he walked back the way he’d come, down the path toward the main entrance of the park. Raindrops fell intermittently, dampening the shoulders of his coat and the brim of his hat. He was too preoccupied to mind, already consumed by visions of the fabric he’d use—the color, texture, and cut.
At present, there was nothing resembling what he wanted at the tailor’s shop. Miss Maltravers required something new. Something special.
Back on the main street, Ahmad hailed a hansom. “Phillotson’s in Holborn Hill,” he told the driver before climbing into the cab.
Phillotson’s was one of four very good woolen warehouses in the city. Ahmad preferred it to the others purely because it was the largest. There were treasures to be found there if one had time enough to spare.
He didn’t have time today. He was meant to be finishing Lady Heatherton’s evening dress. She expected him to bring it to her in the morning for her final fitting. But his mind wasn’t on Lady Heatherton.
His thoughts were full of Evelyn Maltravers.