Page 109 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

“Just there,” he said. “Three-quarter profile, facing the door. And if— Forgive me. If, ah, you wouldn’t mind loosening your bodice?”

Her lashes lowered, veiling the expression in her eyes as she obediently unfastened the black cord buttons that closed the high neck of her dress. She opened her bodice slowly, inch by inch, first revealing the delicate hollow of her throat and then the elegant bones of her clavicle. Her corset cover was just visible—a delicate glimpse of lace-trimmed cambric—when she stopped.

“Is this enough?” she asked.

“That will do,” Teddy said gruffly. He moved behind his canvas. His palette awaited him, his paints already mixed and ready.

“What now?” Stella asked.

Teddy picked up his brush. “Now the work begins.”

Twenty-Seven

London, England

May 1863

Stella stood still as a marble statue in Teddy’s studio in the house in Maiden Lane, her face turned to stare at an invisible point on the chipped wall to her right.

A large canvas was placed across the room, atop an easel. Teddy worked tirelessly behind it, absent his coat and waistcoat, his sleeves rolled up, and his sensual mouth set in a permanent frown of concentration.

He didn’t talk or tease with her when he was working. Not like he had when he’d sketched her in Hampshire. To be sure, he rarely spoke at all, except to order her to “stop fidgeting,” or to “be still.”

Over the past month Stella had become adept at standing still. She’d spent all of April posing for Teddy, long stretches of motionlessness punctuated by rest periods seated on the new damask-covered settee, watching Teddy with interest as he mixed his colors, adjusted his shading, and—on some occasions—removed a portion of the work he’d just done and started over completely.

Julia and Captain Blunt had returned to Yorkshire last month. Since then, Stella had been staying with Ahmad and Evie at their farmhouse near Hampstead Heath. There was ample room there in the barn for Locket, and for Turvey’s horse, Crab. And the heath provided plenty of space for Locket’s twice-daily gallops.

Evie was a warm hostess, and Ahmad was a kind and welcoming host. They dined each night together at home, and breakfasted together in the mornings. The remainder of Stella’s days were her own. She could do as she liked and go where she chose, and no one required her to have a maid or a chaperone any longer.

“Outside of fashionable society, things are done rather differently,” Evie had confided. “We working people value our independence.”

Stella had quickly come to relish hers. When she wasn’t riding or helping Evie with various tasks related to the household or the dress shop, she was traveling to Covent Garden—either on horseback or by hired hack. There, she posed for Teddy for hours at a time, and then spent an additional hour seated with him as he instructed her in her sketching.

Thus far, he’d helped her perfect her perspective and composition, and had taught her new methods of capturing the changing effect of the light. Under his gentle guidance, she’d learned that art was less about exact replication and more about movement, color, and atmosphere.

Her portfolio had grown significantly. She was particularly proud of a portrait she’d drawn of Locket—a depiction of the mare galloping through the Fostonbury woods, hooves ablur and mane and tail flying. Teddy had guided Stella’s hand for a portion of the sky—shading the clouds in gentle strokes—his callused fingers strong but gentle over hers, making her blood quicken and heat.

Yes, Teddy was a forgiving and patient drawing master.

He was markedly less so as a painter.

“Your riding habit is in the way,” he remarked crossly from behind his canvas.

It was one of his regular complaints on the days that Stella rode Locket to Maiden Lane. She’d begun doing so often. Not only riding, but being conspicuous about it.

She no longer made any effort at concealment—not of her tresses and not of her destination. She boldly rode through fashionable traffic, Turvey trailing behind, past the theatres, the flower market, and the fruit stalls, until she reached Maiden Lane. The coach house at the back had been made habitable. Locket happily munched on fresh hay, along with Samuel and Crab, while Teddy and Stella toiled inside the house.

“There’s no help for that, I’m afraid,” she said.

Teddy emerged from behind his canvas. His hair was wildly disheveled, making him appear as unhinged as he was handsome. “You could take it off. Ahmad’s sent over some fabric drapes we might try.”

“No,” she said. “Not until we’re married.”

“And we can’t be married until the house is fit to live in,” Teddy muttered, returning to his work. “The latest estimate is July.”

July?

Stella’s spirits sank. It didn’t seem fair. Not when one considered that Teddy had already moved into the house a fortnight ago. He was working all hours on his painting now, with Jennings in residence to look after his personal needs, and Mrs. Mukherjee traveling in each day to do the cooking and cleaning.