Page 108 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

She returned, cheeks slightly pinker than they’d been before. “Should I stand, or—”

“Not yet,” he said. “First…I need you to take down your hair.”

An unreadable emotion flashed in her eyes. It may have been anxiety.

Or possibly excitement.

Whatever it was, it didn’t prevent her from complying. She reached back to remove her hairpins. There appeared to be a great many of them.

“Mrs. Blunt lent me the services of her maid this morning,” she said apologetically. “I fear the girl was a bit overzealous.”

Teddy motioned to the window seat. The glass behind it was newly draped with sheer curtains, just thick enough to give them privacy without obscuring the light. “If I may?”

Stella bit the edge of her lower lip. After a moment’s hesitation, she crossed to the window and sank down, her silk skirts billowing around her legs.

Teddy rolled his chair up next to her. She gave him her back, bending her head so he could help her. When seated, he was taller than she was. It subtly changed the dynamic between them. Made it that much more apparent that he was a man and she was a woman. His woman.

There was no other reason he’d be unpinning her hair. It was an intimate task. One that held a distinctly domestic connotation. That didn’t stop his blood from heating and his chest from tightening with emotion.

He removed the first deeply anchored pin with a matter-of-fact efficiency that was only surface deep. He’d felt her hair before, touching it briefly as he’d kissed her.

But not like this.

As he loosened her coiffure, unraveling its rolls and plaits, the heavy strands sprang free, thick and lustrous, under his fingers. Her hair may have been gray, but it wasn’t coarse. It wasn’t brittle. It was as soft and glossy as spun silk.

His heart was hammering so, it took an effort to continue. By the time he’d finished, he could scarcely remember his own name.

Stella glanced back at him. “You have an excellent touch,” she said. “Strong but sensitive. Mrs. Blunt’s maid wasn’t half so good.”

“High praise.” Teddy’s voice had deepened to a rasp. “It’s beautiful, you know.”

“I would thank you for the compliment, but I have the distinct impression that you’re biased when it comes to my hair.”

“It’s not bias. It’s an empirical truth.” He tipped his head to hers. His nose brushed the curve of her ear. “I could paint you a thousand times and still never manage to do you justice.”

She inhaled an unsteady breath. “I’ve never heard you concede defeat before. Certainly not before you’ve begun.”

“Even I know my limits.”

“Limitations? You? What a strange conceit.” She leaned into him as he nuzzled her cheek. He felt her smile again. “Apparently, I’ve come to the wrong house. This is Maiden Lane, isn’t it?”

“The very place,” he assured her. “Soon to be your permanent home.”

If the repairs could be completed in a timely manner. If the house could be made fit for a lady, and the stable made comfortable for her beloved mare. A month, at most. If Stella hadn’t changed her mind by then.

So many ifs. It served no purpose to dwell on them.

With an effort, Teddy drew back from her. It was either that or kiss her, and that wasn’t why she’d come today. He returned to his canvas, resolved to focus on the task at hand.

“You’ll be standing for this one,” he said. “It won’t be easy, holding the pose, but I shall give you rests as often as you require them.”

Stella stood from the window seat. Her hair fell in loose waves down her back, reaching nearly to her waist. She no longer looked a proper, starchy young lady. She looked like a goddess inexplicably garbed in modern clothes.

Teddy could only imagine how she’d look when she was draped in glittering, diaphanous net.

She crossed to the opposite side of the room, instinctively finding the best light. “Where would you like me? Here?”

He rolled back, partially behind his canvas, so he could get a better view of the wall where she stood. The paint was chipped and peeling. There had been no time to repair it. But the backdrop didn’t matter. It was the light, just as she’d intuited—the way it streamed from the newly curtained window to filter over the cracked moldings and the slatted floor.