Page 173 of The Siren of Sussex

His blood simmered. “Ah. But that was a business partnership.” He set a hand on the trunk beside her, half caging her with his arm. “What I’m proposing now is something different.”

She looked up at him in trembling anticipation.

“I’ll be your partner, Evie,” he said. “Your shield, your support, your champion. I only ask for one thing in exchange.” His voice deepened. “I ask that you be my wife.”

She bit her lip. Tears welled in her eyes.

“I love you.” Emotion constricted his chest. “I love you,” he repeated. “And you needn’t marry me to have me as your partner—your friend and champion. It’s not a condition of my esteem. But I would be honored if—”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes.”

In the next instant, she was in his arms.

Satisfaction surged through him. He enfolded her in a powerful embrace, lifting her straight up off her feet. She clung to him fiercely. And he gloried in it, the sensation of her arms twined so tight around his neck. She was strong, his siren. Strong and singular and beautiful.

He buried his face in the curve of her neck.

Her fingers twined in his hair. “I’ve imagined this moment a thousand times since we parted, every day, down to the smallest detail. But real life is so rarely how one plans it.” Her lips brushed his ear, her words an intimate whisper. “It’s better. So much better.”

“Evie,” he murmured.

“I love you, Ahmad.”

His eyes shut tight. He felt the soft declaration as much as heard it. The same precious words she’d uttered to him at Cremorne Gardens. They resonated within him, now just as they had then, sweetly, tenderly, a balm over the sharp edges of his soul. “Tell me again, sweetheart.”

“I love you,” she said. “And I shall be your shield and support, too. Your friend. Your partner. And more.”

He drew back to look at her. “More?”

Her damp cheeks were rosy with blushes.

His arms still around her, he set her feet gently down on the ground. “There will be more,” he promised. And bending his head, he captured her mouth with his in a kiss that said far more than he could ever express with words.

She was right. Life rarely went according to plan. It veered off the path in unexpected and extraordinary ways. His had done so. Bringing him from India to England, from the East End to Mayfair, and eventually all the way to Sussex—here into the arms of the woman he loved.

His muse. His auburn-haired equestrienne.

Her fingers curled in the rumpled cloth of his cravat. “I don’t know all the particulars of that side of things,” she confessed.

He smiled against her mouth. “My love, you must put yourself entirely in my hands.”

Her lips curved in answer, remembering. “You know,” she said, kissing him again, “I do believe I shall.”

Epilogue

London, England

September 1863

Evelyn stepped back to admire the placement of the Royal Warrant of Appointment on the wall of her husband’s shop. It had arrived only today, issued by the Lord Chamberlain’s Office at the palace. She’d hung it up herself, affixing it just above the polished mahogany counter, beneath a gas wall sconce. The glow of the gas jet illuminated the royal coat of arms and swirling script below:

These are to certify that by command of

the Queen

I have appointed

Mr. Ahmad Malik