Page 11 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

Cheers erupted throughout the room, along with murmurs of appreciative surprise.

Stella took a deep swallow of champagne as guests came forward to congratulate Anne and her betrothed. In the happy commotion, Stella was nudged back by the growing crowd, further and further away from her friend, supplanted by the swell of well-wishers.

It was to be expected. This was Anne’s moment to shine. The moment many a young lady dreamed about all her life.

Not Stella, of course. Not Anne, either, up to now. To be sure, Anne had been the least romantic of all of Stella’s friends, and the least prone to excess sentimentality. But judging by the turn of Anne’s countenance—the shimmer in her eyes and the radiance in her cheeks—those jaded feelings had altered, now she was engaged herself. As for Stella…

Happy as she was for her friend, Stella felt herself as cynical on the subject of romance as ever. Withdrawing from the crowd, she wandered toward the bank of velvet-draped windows that lined the opposite end of the drawing room.

Perhaps it was sour grapes. She hadn’t any prospect of romance in her own life, so she must disdain it in everyone else’s. It was unworthy of her. The action of an embittered spinster, not that of a girl of two-and-twenty. She was meant to be eager and optimistic in the face of her future. If not forever, then at least for now. She should be enjoying her moment of auburn-haired freedom to its fullest.

That’s why she’d colored her hair in the first place. To revel in the attention that would come her way once her silver tresses were temporarily no more.

Tipping her glass, she drained the remainder of her champagne. The vintage was an expensive one. Powerful, too. It fizzed in her veins. Emboldened by the feeling, she scanned the room for prospective suitors.

She was wearing another of Mr. Malik’s creations: a dinner dress of pale violet glacé silk, cut low off her shoulders, with a heart-shaped neckline and double skirts trimmed in Maltese lace. A suave older gentleman, hovering at the fringes of the crowd with his wife, cast Stella an appraising glance as she passed.

Stella stiffened a fraction. She had no interest in married men, and—flattering as it was to be thought alluring—she found it offensive that any of them should be so shameless as to telegraph their interest in her.

She wasn’t seeking a love affair. She wasn’t even looking for love. Not any longer. With two seasons behind her and only five days of the house party remaining, she hadn’t the time for girlish daydreams. On the contrary. Now was the time for ruthless pragmatism.

What she required was an eligible bachelor. Preferably, someone under the age of forty. A handsome face would help, but it wasn’t a necessity. It was a handsome bank balance Stella required. Her future husband must be a man of property. A man with an estate where Stella and—more importantly—Locket could live out their days in peace.

It was that which was essential. Safety and security. Stella was resolved to be realistic about it.

She strolled on, covertly examining every gentleman she passed.

Or perhaps not so covertly.

Her frank perusals were met with varying degrees of interest and alarm. Perchance she was being too bold. But honestly, if a lady must wait for a gentleman to approach her, she could find herself waiting until doomsday. And this dratted Circassian gold dye wouldn’t last forever. At the party’s end, Stella’s hair would revert to gray.

And so would her life.

She wasn’t going to squander her all-too-brief chance, even if she must take the reins herself. She may have to settle for less than love, but she deserved a good man. A decent man. A man who, if she was very lucky, might make her heart beat the tiniest bit faster.

She’d nearly reached the window when she saw him.

Mr. Hayes was seated in an alcove on the opposite side of the Christmas tree, his wheeled chair arranged beneath a patinaed oil painting of a flock of Hampshire sheep dozing under a shade tree. He wasn’t alone. A well-dressed lady and gentleman were with him, talking companionably. But Mr. Hayes wasn’t attending to them. He was looking at Stella.

He met her inquisitive gaze with a slight smile.

Stella’s heart gave a queer double thump.

Thus far, she’d been endeavoring to avoid him. It hadn’t been difficult. Sutton Park was an enormous gothic pile of a house, and the party was a large one. On their first full day in residence, the guests had quickly clustered into factions, disappearing to play games or to conduct horticultural business. They’d only all been in one place at dinner. Stella had been seated near the top of the long, mahogany dining table, and Mr. Hayes at the bottom, her view of him obscured by towering silver candelabras and a long row of elaborate filigree epergnes, filled with exotic flowers cultivated from the earl’s famous greenhouses.

She’d felt his presence nonetheless, on the other side of that sparkling wall of candlelight, silver, and foliage. That same strange crackle of awareness she’d felt when she’d faced him in the anteroom last night.

“You’re a shining star,” he’d said. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you so before?”

The wondrous, bewildering compliment had played over and over in Stella’s mind throughout the day, setting her stomach fluttering and her pulse beating hard at her throat. It was how she knew that she wasn’t offended by his request to paint her. Not entirely. The truth was, she was altogether too intrigued by it.

And by him.

It was an interest she didn’t dare indulge. That was precisely how silly young wallflowers got themselves into trouble—by melting at the first outrageous compliment to come their way. Young ladies who were so starved for masculine attention that they allowed themselves to be persuaded to do all manner of things harmful to their reputations. To cast off their modesty, their virtue. To become artists’ models, for heaven’s sake!

Stella refused to be counted among their number. She may be daring when the occasion called for it, but her reputation was worth more than that. She was worth more than that. It would be demeaning to entertain any sort of connection with a gentleman whose sole interest lay in her artistic possibilities—an interest seemingly fueled by the peculiar color of her hair. She had her pride, after all. It was the very reason she’d been avoiding him.

But there was no avoiding him now.