Page 87 of The Siren of Sussex

He caught up with her. “Making a sacrifice of yourself.”

“That implies I’m selfless. Which I’m not. I have my own interests to look after.”

“Such as?”

“Seeing that I’m clothed and fed. My uncle’s generosity has limits. And my aunt isn’t made of money. At some point, her funds will run out, and we girls will have to shift for ourselves. What shall we do then if we haven’t any husbands?”

“You could seek employment.” He expected her to scoff at the prospect. She was a lady, after all.

Miss Maltravers didn’t bat an eye. “Even if we did—if I did—it wouldn’t be enough. Not for my purposes.”

The overgrown path ahead of them came to an end at the garden gate.

She stopped there, resting her hand on the latch. Seeming to come to a decision, she opened the gate and stepped out. “Come and see for yourself.”

He followed after her to the mews and into the stable where her uncle housed his carriage horses. It was empty at the moment, no grooms or stable boys at hand to witness Ahmad in company with Miss Maltravers. No one about except the horses—and one horse in particular.

She approached a loose box in the corner. Her giant blood bay stallion stood inside, munching a serving of sweetly scented clover hay. He greeted her with a soft nicker, swinging his head over the door. Sticks of hay hung from his mouth.

“Here,” she murmured, taking his muzzle in her hands. She pressed a kiss to his nose. “This is my reason.”

Ahmad came to stand beside her. Before now, he’d only seen her stallion at a distance, in the park when she was riding. The great bay beast had looked formidable enough under saddle. Here, he looked even larger and more powerful. He was easily over sixteen hands in height, with a broad, muscular build, a Roman nose, and an abundant black mane and tail. His liquid brown eyes gleamed with intelligence.

“May I?” Ahmad asked.

“Of course. He’s quite gentle.”

Reaching out, Ahmad ran a hand over the stallion’s glossy neck. It was as solid as velvet-covered marble.

“My father was an adventurer,” Miss Maltravers said. “After my mother’s death, he spent the rest of his days traveling. It was during his time in Southern Spain that he bought Hephaestus. He intended to train him in the Spanish fashion, and then send him home to England to be put out to stud.” She scratched the stallion’s long-whiskered chin. “Instead, my father died in Spain after a prolonged fever. His groom brought Hephaestus back to England with the rest of his effects.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I didn’t know my father half as well as I should, and he didn’t know me at all—save one small detail. He knew I was a rider. On his deathbed, he scrawled a note, leaving Hephaestus to me. ‘For my daughter, Evie,’ it said, ‘God willing she can make something of him.’ ”

Evie.

Ahmad added the affectionate diminutive to the private list of things he’d already learned about Evelyn Maltravers. It was a list that was growing by the minute, each new fact registered and cataloged for him to revisit during his long hours in the workroom, or at night when he lay awake, restless and wanting, in his bed. “You trained him yourself?”

“Not right away. Hephaestus was just a two-year-old at the time. Still a baby. He and I spent the whole of that first year getting acquainted. After that, yes, I did train him, with Lewis’s help. He knows the basics of the haute école from traveling with my father, and assisted me on the ground with long lines. But it was I who broke Hephaestus to the saddle and bridle. I who taught him how to listen to my seat and legs and hands. He’s only ever known one rider. If I were forced to sell him—”

“Your family has suggested it?”

“No. They wouldn’t dream of it. But how selfish would I be not to consider it myself? Saddle horses are expensive, and Hephaestus is more valuable still. Were I a man, I’d do as my father wished and offer Hephaestus at stud. But I’m not a man. I’m an unmarried lady in a house full of other unmarried young ladies. Such a scheme would make us notorious.”

“Have you no other alternative?”

“None. Not when all of my family knows that Hephaestus could be sold for a hefty sum.” She dropped her hand from the stallion’s muzzle. “We haven’t sunk that far yet, thank God. But there will come a time when I’ll no longer be able to justify keeping him. Not with the rest of us sliding rapidly toward ruin. When that day arrives, it will break my heart.”

“Does riding mean so much to you?”

“It’s means everything to me. It’s the only thing I’m truly good at. The only thing I love. I can’t envision my life without him in it.” Moving away from the loose box, she removed her spectacles, giving Ahmad her back. “Perhaps you feel the same about dressmaking.”

Ahmad didn’t know that he did.

He was passionate about his designs, certainly. He felt a sense of fulfillment in his work, and in seeing his creations worn by someone like Miss Maltravers. But he’d learned from a young age that there was very little in a man’s life he couldn’t do without.

“It doesn’t compare,” he said. “The fabric I work with isn’t a living creature. I wouldn’t be heartbroken if it was taken from me.”