Page 84 of The Siren of Sussex

“Quite so. But if you’d like my advice—”

“I would not.” Evelyn walked to the tasseled bellpull that hung near the fireplace and gave it a firm tug. “Now, unless you have any more intelligence to pass on, I will bid you good day.”

Stephen glowered. He never could stomach being refused the last word. His mouth opened to say something, only to shut again at the prompt arrival of Mrs. Quick.

“Mr. Connaught is leaving,” Evelyn informed the housekeeper.

“Very good, miss.” Mrs. Quick gestured to the door. “This way, sir, if you please.”

“Miss Maltravers.” Stephen bowed stiffly. “If you chance to hear from your sister, you may send a message to me at Brown’s Hotel.”

Evelyn watched him leave, her outrage only increasing as he disappeared from view.

How dare he come here and spoil her plans!

He’d been happy enough to ignore her for three years—to pretend she didn’t exist. What on earth did he mean by turning up now? Telling her that Fenny was here in London, of all places.

Evelyn didn’t know what to do with this information.

The only thing she knew with any degree of certainty was that she must write to Aunt Nora immediately. She’d have to tell Uncle Harris, too. And even Lady Arundell. The last thing any of them wanted was Fenny springing up from out of nowhere and damaging Evelyn’s prospects beyond all hope of recovery.

With that in mind, she descended the stairs, making her way toward Uncle Harris’s study.

Her thoughts were in turmoil. As she passed the morning room, she almost didn’t notice the man inside. She might have walked right by if he hadn’t stepped into the doorway to hail her.

“Miss Maltravers?”

Her footsteps were arrested by the familiar deep voice. “Mr. Malik!” The sunlight from the morning room’s windows shone at his back, temporarily dazzling her. “You and your cousin haven’t been waiting for me?”

“I sent Mira back to King William Street with your ball gown.”

Her brows knit. “But you’re still here.” She searched his face. With his broad shoulders spanning the door frame, Ahmad Malik was all at once more imposing—altogether more formidable—than any other gentleman of her acquaintance.

The effect he had on her was equally powerful.

Her temperature rose and her insides trembled.

Good gracious, only a short time ago she’d been holding her breath while he pinned gauze trimming to the low neckline of her bodice. Suppressing hot blushes every time his fingers brushed the swell of her bosom. If not for the brisk efficiency with which he worked—the stoic professionalism that allowed him to handle her without giving offense—she might very well have burst into flames.

No doubt she shouldn’t think of such things outside of her fittings. But looking at him now, it was impossible not to.

“I was concerned about you,” he said.

“You shouldn’t have been.”

“You nearly fainted.”

She folded her arms, feeling a trifle defensive. “I told you, I was light-headed, that’s all.”

“From not eating.”

“That’s right.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. Lady Arundell’s ball was tomorrow evening and nerves were just beginning to set in. Evelyn’s stomach had been in knots all morning. She’d scarcely had anything at breakfast. “I’ve been so busy—”

“Who is Stephen Connaught?” he asked.

Her gaze jerked to his.

It was an impertinent question. One a tradesman had no business asking a lady customer.