Page 13 of The Siren of Sussex

“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?”