Page 129 of The Siren of Sussex

Mira glanced at Ahmad, her expectant face framed by a stylish little bonnet with an uptilted brim. The wide ribbons were knotted in a large bow beneath her chin. “What do you think?”

He shook his head.

Her lips thinned. She placed the rice-paper camellia back on the tray.

Ahmad wandered to the next case. He stopped to examine a garland of roses through the glass. It was exquisitely made, and uncannily lifelike, all the way down to the touch of brown on some of the leaves.

Mira caught up with him. “Is that more to your taste? It could do nicely for the skirts.”

“No.”

“You mentioned a garland.”

“Of real flowers,” he said. “Not fake ones.” He walked to the next case. It contained a profusion of ivy interspersed with pieces of fruit.

“You haven’t liked anything we’ve seen today,” Mira said, following after him.

“I told you I wouldn’t.”

“Yes, because if you had your way, every gown you design would have the same amount of embellishment as on that black ball gown you made for Lady Anne. In other words, no embellishment at all.” She exhaled a huff of breath. “What is your aversion to trimmings?”

He shrugged. “I don’t like fuss.”

“Fuss is in fashion. Mr. Worth’s gowns—”

“I don’t want to hear about Worth.” Ahmad moved on to the next case.

Mira marched behind him. The swish of her skirts was beginning to take on an air of irritation. “I don’t know why you agreed to come.”

“I needed some fresh air. I thought I may as well accompany you as not.”

“What you need is a good scolding.” She drew him to a display case that stood unattended. Her voice lowered to a fierce whisper. “You’re gloomy all the time now. And you’re working too much. You don’t even take five minutes to eat.”

This was neither the time nor the place for such a conversation. It didn’t stop Ahmad from responding in kind. “Me? What about you?”

She stiffened. “What about me?”

“You’re as miserable as I am.” He caught her bare right hand in his, turning it palm up between them. Her fingertips were discolored. “Ink stains,” he said. “You’ve been writing a great many letters.”

Mira jerked her hand away. “What of it?” She quickly slipped her glove back on. “Letter writing isn’t a crime.”

“Who are you writing to?”

“It’s none of your concern.”

“Who?” Ahmad demanded. He didn’t like to play the tyrant. But Mira hadn’t been herself lately. Even Finchley had remarked on it. She’d been preoccupied. Distracted by some private anxiety.

Adrift, she’d called it. Uncertain of her place in the world.

Ahmad had tried to anchor her. He’d offered her books to read in her leisure hours. And he’d offered her work. Work that she loved—sewing dresses and busying herself with embroidery designs and trimmings. It had filled her days, seeming to give her purpose.

But nothing, no matter how time-consuming, had yet served to take the cloud of worry from her brow.

She glowered at him. “Must you know all of my business?”

He didn’t hesitate. “If it’s something that’s upsetting you, yes.”

“I’m fine,” she said. “I’m not the one who’s pining. Who’s losing weight from not eating.”