Page 151 of The Siren of Sussex

No matter how discreetly he approached Evelyn, there would be talk.

Even in the moonlight, people would see he wasn’t entirely English. Some would even recognize him as a tradesman. Their tailor or dressmaker, in fact. His appearance would be seen as a declaration of equality—not just of race, but of class. A clear statement of his romantic intentions toward Evelyn.

Such things didn’t matter to him for his own sake. They mattered because of her. He wouldn’t allow her to be embarrassed or humiliated on his account.

But when Evelyn saw him, she didn’t appear to be anything other than pleased. Her soft mouth curved in a smile, and her eyes lit with an expression of unfiltered joy.

She scarcely seemed to notice the dour gentleman who had partnered her in the polka, leaving him behind as she floated down from the platform in her rose-festooned amber silk-and-crepe skirts to the iron gate where Ahmad stood waiting.

“You’re here,” she said breathlessly.

“As you see.” He couldn’t keep the gruffness from his voice. “Who was that?”

“Captain Blunt. Would you like to meet him?”

“No.”

Her smile ticked up still further. “How long have you been here?”

“Not long. I came straight to the pavilion.”

“Did you?”

“I thought you might be here,” he said. “And . . . here you are.”

They stared at each other for a taut moment.

“I’ve dreamed of this,” Evelyn said. “You coming up to me at a ball, and seeing me in one of your gowns.” She stepped back. “What do you think?”

He devoured her with his gaze. She was resplendent in the light of the colored lamps hanging from the pavilion. Burnished roses shimmered in her thick auburn hair, and her creamy ivory bosom and shoulders were framed by an artfully placed swathe of shimmering amber tulle and lace.

A silk belt circled her midsection, adorned with a small gold buckle. It gave way to a graceful swell of silk skirts overlaid by a layer of fine crepe. The whole of it emphasized her every curve—from her neckline to her waist and hips, beckoning a man to take her in his arms.

“You’re frowning,” she said. “Have I not placed the roses correctly? Becky said they were meant to be draped—”

“It’s not the roses.”

The orchestra struck up a waltz.

Evelyn looked at him in anticipation.

He offered her his hand. It was a portentous moment. As she took his hand, he was keenly aware of the ladies and gentlemen around them, some of whom were already stealing curious glances. One of the ladies whispered loudly behind her fan.

And . . . he didn’t care.

He’d come here to declare himself, and that’s exactly what he was going to do.

He led her out onto the crowded dancing platform. It was packed with couples, already spinning and dipping to the strains of the waltz. His arm came around Evelyn’s waist, his grip on her hand firm as he swept her into a turn.

She laughed in appreciation. “Where did you learn—?”

He smiled. “At Mrs. Pritchard’s, if you can believe it.”

The women there had all used him as a partner at one time or another. He hadn’t enjoyed it much in his younger days. Dancing—especially with a girl one didn’t fancy—wasn’t much fun for a surly lad of fifteen.

But this was different.

Evelyn was his friend. His muse. And more than that. Much, much more.