Page 28 of The Siren of Sussex

“I confess, I did wonder.” She draped her cloak over the wooden chair in the corner of the fitting room. “Neither gown is to my particular taste. But you said Madame Lorraine was better than Madame Elise, and that I—”

“Better than Madame Elise in most respects.” Not in color selection, apparently. And not when it came to trimmings. The excessive flounces and frills did nothing to flatter Miss Maltravers’s figure.

“In other words, dreadful.” She looked at him. “What am I to do?”

He rubbed the side of his jaw. “Have you placed a large order?”

“Not very. Only a few dresses. And I haven’t bought any of my evening dresses or ball gowns yet.”

“Don’t.”

“Where else should I go? There isn’t a great deal of time before my debut.”

“You needn’t go elsewhere. Madame Lorraine should be able to amend your order, provided she hasn’t started cutting the fabric.” Ahmad doubted she had. During the season, a London modiste prioritized orders from her most distinguished clients—ladies of wealth and rank. Miss Maltravers was neither. “I’ll write up a list of suitable colors for you to give her.”

Miss Maltravers was visibly relieved. “I’m obliged to you.”

“Not at all,” he said. “Do you need help undressing?”

A delicate blush suffused her cheeks. “The fastenings at the back are a little difficult to reach. If you wouldn’t mind?”

“Turn around.”

She promptly did as he asked. Her voice held a note of apology. “It’s just the first five hooks.”

He stepped up behind her. Close. So close, he could smell her orange blossom perfume, a faint whisper-soft fragrance that set his heart to thumping. He unfastened the first of the small metal hooks that secured the neck of her bodice. It was something he’d done countless times while making alterations—helping women to dress and undress—his assistance rendered with dispassionate efficiency. It was the veriest commonplace for a man of his trade. But this time . . .

This time he felt neither dispassionate nor particularly efficient.

There was something warmly seductive about being this close to Evelyn Maltravers. Something about her scent, and her posture. The way her neck was curved so elegantly before him, her bodice opening hook by hook to reveal the creamy expanse of bare skin just above the line of her lace-trimmed chemise. It was a soft, secret place. A place that beckoned to be touched. To be kissed.

Naturally, he took no such liberties.

He never had done, not even when altering gowns for the women at Mrs. Pritchard’s. It was only the thought of it that plagued him now. The sort of thought that had never before entered his head while he was working, no matter how alluring his client.

Did she feel it, too?

If so, she gave no indication. Nothing save the ordinary blushes one might expect of a modest, respectable young lady being unclothed by a man.

“Perhaps this is something I should have mentioned,” she said. “The importance of being able to dress and undress myself. Will the habit require the assistance of a lady’s maid?”

“No.” As he unfastened the final hooks, his fingers brushed against the silken thickness of her hair. A jolt of awareness went through him.

Damnation.

He backed away from her.

She cast him an uncertain look over her shoulder. “Is anything wrong?”

“Nothing.” He cleared his throat. “Can you reach the rest yourself?”

“I believe so.”

“Then I’ll give you a moment of privacy.” He withdrew, swiftly returning to the safety of his workroom.

Evelyn slipped off her gown and stepped out of her crinoline and petticoats, folding each item meticulously before stacking it on the fitting room chair. Perhaps it would have been wiser to bring a maid. It would certainly have made undressing easier. Unfortunately, in this case, propriety had had to give way to expediency.

When it came to getting herself outfitted for the season, she hadn’t a second to spare. One season, that was all that had been granted to her. A period of less than five months in which to make a suitable marriage. A brilliant marriage. One that would secure her future, and that of her sisters. And that season couldn’t start—not for her—until she had her wardrobe in order.