Page 22 of The Siren of Sussex

“Why, this is rather pretty.” She preened herself in front of the glass. “I look quite youthful, don’t I? And yet it exposes far more of my bosom than my last evening dress.”

“It’s the coming fashion.”

“You’ll hear no objection from me on that score. Though it could do with more in the way of trimmings. There isn’t a flounce or frill, nor a single ribbon bow. Nothing like the gowns my friends have ordered for the season.”

“Lavish trimmings are popular at the moment,” he conceded.

No thanks to Charles Worth.

The famed dressmaker’s luxurious Parisian gowns, sold at his fashionable salon in the Rue de la Paix, were adorned with acres of expensive lace, glass beads, and silk bows and fringe. It was what Worth was known for. Garments as costly as they were coveted. His designs were copied by modistes from London to New York.

“But excess ruffles and ribbons don’t flatter everyone.” Ahmad straightened the finely sewn seams of her bodice. “This gown does far more to emphasize your figure than an evening dress weighted down with tinsel.”

“Hmm. Perhaps it does. Though I wonder if it would be as flattering on an ugly lady? I imagine not. You see”—she turned to the right, gazing at herself over her shoulder—“it’s my own beauty that draws the eye.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” he said.

Lady Heatherton was an acknowledged beauty. More than that, she was regularly written about in the society pages.

A fact that Ahmad hoped would accrue to his benefit.

If she wore a new design to a ball or soiree, fashionable ladies would pay attention. Many of them would be quick to follow her lead.

“Of course I’m right.” Glancing down at her skirts, a frown of disapproval etched her brow. “I shall trip on these.”

“I’ve yet to hem them.” He gestured toward the upholstered stool on which she usually stood when he made alterations. “If you please, my lady.”

“Yes, but do be quick about it. I have engagements this afternoon and can’t be troubled to stand about all morning.” She extended an imperious hand.

Taking it, he assisted her up onto the stool.

And he felt nothing.

Nothing, save a deep desire to get on with things.

It wasn’t anything like what he’d experienced when he’d clasped Miss Maltravers’s hand. There was no warmth. No crackle of electricity. No quickening heartbeat or swiftly skipping pulse.

He was entirely unaffected.

Strange to think of it. Out of all the women he’d known—all the riding habits and dresses he’d made for courtesans and for the working girls at Mrs. Pritchard’s establishment—it was a bluestocking who had finally moved him. A bespectacled bluestocking from Sussex, of all places.

But no. Not a bluestocking.

An equestrienne.

Smiling to himself, Ahmad knelt to pin Lady Heatherton’s hem.

Five

Evelyn drew off her gloves as she entered the hall of her uncle’s town house in Russell Square. Agnes and one of the footmen trailed behind her, arms filled with boxes—the result of a morning shopping excursion in Bond Street.

“You may take them to my room,” Evelyn said.

“Yes, miss.” Agnes hurried the footman up the stairs. “Careful with those! Miss Maltravers don’t want your grubby mitts crushing her linens.”

Evelyn sighed. She’d spent all of yesterday visiting the names on the list Mr. Malik had given her. First the modiste, where she’d ordered a small selection of day dresses and afternoon gowns, and then the corsetiere, where she’d purchased two new corsets and a pair of short-boned riding stays.

This morning had been the draper’s shop for gloves, parasols, and stockings, followed by the milliner, and—finally—the hairdresser.