But then she remembered she wasn’t alone in this.
She had Mr. Eversham.
A sense of relief filled her. Yes, she would leave the choice of the cloth for her new dress to Mr. Eversham. He would know what a man like Horace would prefer. He would know what she must wear to win his heart.
Tina was just gathering the samples the shop assistant had prepared for her when a church clock struck the hour. She was late! With a gasp she flew out of the shop and set off along Bond Street, clutching her bonnet to her head with one hand and holding her parcel close with the other, avoiding the people strolling along the exclusive thoroughfare. By the time she reached Jasmine Square, she was out of breath and had to recover herself a moment before using the knocker.
“Miss Smythe?”
Mr. Eversham’s man answered so promptly she gave a start of surprise. She watched him for some knowing glance or smirk, which would show he was in his master’s confidence, but he was perfectly polite as he showed her up the stairs.
“Should I take your parcel, miss?” he asked her, as they paused on the threshold of the sitting room.
Tina glanced down at her samples, wrapped in brown paper, once more caught in a maelstrom of indecision, and then shook her head. “No. I need to ask Mr. Eversham’s opinion, thank you.”
He showed no surprise and immediately tapped on the door and then opened it for her.
Tina found that today the blinds were drawn down and the sun did not beam into her eyes. In fact the room was much tidier, and so was Mr. Eversham. He wore a brown jacket and trousers, his waistcoat a bright teal color. There was a watch chain dangling from one pocket, and his necktie was neatly arranged above a pristine white shirt. His face was closely shaved, his brows dark slashes above his gray eyes, and his brown hair brushed becomingly.
He looked like a gentleman.
She was somewhat relieved—secretly she’d half expected him to be lounging shirtless, smoking a hookah. But of course that was ridiculous. He was a gentleman, just one who’d lost his way.
Tina sat down.
So did he.
He watched her a moment, observing her posture, the way she held herself. “You went to a finishing school,” he guessed. “Which one?”
“Miss Debenham’s.”
“Ah. Yes, you have the Debenham look.”
Tina preened a little, but his next words dented her pleasure in his praise.
“The neatly-folded-hands-and-knees-together look.”
He was blunt. Tina wasn’t used to men who were blunt—apart from her brother Charles, and he didn’t count.
“Is there something wrong with folding my hands and holding my, uh, knees, together?”
“Not at all. If you are in church or attending a vicarage tea party. But you, my dear Miss Smythe, are seducing a gentleman.”
She gave him her direct look and considered the matter. “Yes, I can see that might be different. What should I do differently?”
It was his turn to consider. He let his gaze travel over her in a manner she would have thought insulting and disturbing in other circumstances, but now, alone with Mr. Eversham’s expertise, she felt neither. His manner was so unfamiliar she found herself captivated, constantly wondering what he would say next.
“I think if you reach up and brush that lock of hair back, perhaps tuck it behind your ear . . . Yes, that’s it.”
Tina complied.
“Slowly, slowly, as if you enjoy the sensation.”
Again Tina did as he asked, this time winding a tendril of hair about her fingertip, smiling at him shyly through her lashes. His face stilled, and for a moment she feared she’d done something wrong.
“I feel a little foolish,” she admitted.
“You shouldn’t.” He leaned forward, his gray eyes alight. “You are trying to attract the attention of the man you want to marry. There is nothing foolish about that. Not if you’re certain this is what you want.”