Page 20 of The Siren of Sussex

Ahmad set the box down on the gilded rose-silk settee, ignoring Lady Heatherton’s advances. She was the kind of woman who relished flirtation. A product of her class, he supposed. Romantic entanglements were a game to ladies of the ton.

“The question is,” Lady Heatherton continued, “are you ready for me?”

As she drew closer, he couldn’t help but contrast her calculated manner with the frank openness of Evelyn Maltravers.

Lady Heatherton didn’t fare well in the comparison.

Miss Maltravers bested her in every regard save one: Lady Heatherton was no untried country debutante. She was a lady who set the fashion. A lady whose wealth and patronage were necessary in order for Ahmad’s own reputation to flourish.

One day, he’d have his own shop, staffed by a dozen seamstresses. Then, he’d have the luxury of making dresses for any lady who inspired him.

Ladies like Miss Maltravers.

Until then, he must choose his commissions with care.

Evening dresses and ball gowns were both time-consuming and expensive to make. And he had little time or money to spare at present. His hours were already stretched thin with his tailoring commitments—making riding habits and the occasional gentleman’s suit. What time he had left could be spent on only one lady’s gowns. The one best poised to help him achieve his goal.

That he didn’t like her very much mattered not a whit.

“Your gown isn’t quite finished yet,” he said. “But all of the alterations from your last fitting have been made.” He drew the dress from the box, holding it up so that the full ice-blue skirts swept the richly carpeted floor.

She ruffled the fabric with her fingers, temporarily diverted. “How plain it is.”

Ahmad repressed a surge of annoyance. The evening gown wasn’t plain. The delicate muslin was cut and sewn to fit the viscountess like a glove, every piece of costly lace positioned with calculated intention. “You must try it on to appreciate it.”

“If you insist.” She gave a delicate shrug, sending her peignoir slipping off her shoulders to slide down her arms. It dropped to the floor in a frothy puddle around her stockinged feet. “How many petticoats did you say it would require? And what sort of crinoline? You must help me into them, sir, since I have dismissed my maid.”

“Shall I summon her back?”

Lady Heatherton’s pale blue eyes flickered with irritation. “Don’t be absurd. It’s you I want, not stuffy old Crebbs.” She gestured to a tall, lacquered wardrobe that stood against the wall opposite her silk-draped four-poster bed. “I’ve fresh underthings in there. Fetch them.”

Ahmad saw no point in arguing. They’d been through this before. One of the many small power struggles in which the viscountess inevitably got her way.

And why shouldn’t she? She was his customer. Practically his patroness. It didn’t pay to refuse her.

That didn’t mean he had to enjoy performing the little offices she required of him. He wasn’t her plaything. Her bit of rough, as some fine ladies liked to call it. If he were, he wouldn’t be half so obliging.

He’d come of age in a whorehouse, for God’s sake. If she expected her advances to rattle him—to make him stammer and blush—she was in for a disappointment.

Retrieving her petticoats and crinoline from the wardrobe, he assisted her into them with a briskness that spoke more of impatience than intimacy. “Might I suggest that, in future, you have these on before I’m summoned?”

“And why should I when you’re so accommodating?”

He bent his head to tie the tapes of her crinoline at her waist. “Because it would save us both a great deal of time.”

Her fingers slid through his hair.

He stiffened at the sensation. There was nothing pleasurable about it. Her touch left him cold. Repulsed. The same way he’d felt as a boy when Mrs. Pritchard had taken such liberties.

He despised being handled.

“How thick it is,” she murmured. “I’ve been longing to run my fingers through it.”

Straightening, he drew back from her, well out of her reach. “Lady Heatherton—”

“Have I shocked you? Upon my word, I do believe I have. No wonder this gown you’ve made me is so demure and simple. It seems you’ve mistaken my character.”

Like hell he had.