Page 111 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

“We could marry while the renovations are being done.”

“They’ve just ripped out half the walls in the upstairs bedrooms because of rot. Where do you propose to sleep?”

“I could stay downstairs,” she said.

Teddy’s brushstrokes went quiet on the canvas. There was a weighted silence.

Stella fidgeted where she stood, suddenly uncomfortable. One would think she’d just proposed they do something obscene.

“Downstairs,” he repeated.

“Would that be so objectionable?”

“It isn’t the arrangement we agreed to.”

“I thought you offered that arrangement for my benefit,” she said, breaking her pose. “You don’t mean to tell me that it was for yours? That you’d prefer I stay away from you except when you’re painting me?”

“It was for both our benefits.” He resumed painting, his brush working on his canvas with unusual force. “You don’t want to witness all the indignities I must put up with on account of being in this chair. And unless I roomed with Jennings and gave you Jennings’s chamber in exchange, you’d be present for all of them.”

“Don’t be absurd. Of course I’m not going to stay in Mr. Jennings’s room.”

“I thought not,” he said grimly.

“I’ll sleep in your room with you.”

Again, his brushstrokes stopped.

She exhaled an impatient breath. “You forget that I’ve spent most of my life in visiting the sick with my brother. There’s little left that can shock me.”

Her words were met with silence.

“That isn’t to say that I equate you with the village sick,” she added, in case he’d taken offense. “I only mean that I’m not apt to swoon at the sight of an injured limb.”

“Two injured limbs,” he said peevishly. “And no ability to move them.”

“I’m well aware.”

“Jennings must come and go at all hours to assist me. I won’t have him barging in when you’re in dishabille. I’d have to sack him for impertinence. And, much as I’d like to be rid of him, I rather rely on the insufferable fellow.”

“You won’t require Mr. Jennings to help you when I’m in the room with you. I’ll help you myself, obviously. That’s what married people do.”

“I don’t need a nurse, Stella.”

“You’re not getting a nurse. You’re getting a wife.” She felt the silence as well as heard it this time—an oppressive, throbbing thing. It was too much. She blurted out: “Unless you’ve changed your mind.”

He stuck his head out from behind his canvas again to scowl at her. “Is that what you think?”

“I don’t know.” She was no longer teasing. “You have what you wanted—me as your model. Why bother with the rest of it?”

“I hope you’re jesting.”

“I’m not. From the beginning, you only ever wanted to paint me. It was I who wanted something more. Not you. Never you.”

Teddy threw down his paintbrush. Before she realized what he was about, he’d wheeled his chair across the room. There was paint on his hands and on his shirt, and a smudge of French ultramarine across his brow. He reached for her arm.

Stella made no move to evade him.

He pulled her to him. All the way to him. Tripping over her skirts, she tumbled straight into his lap with a disgruntled laugh. “Teddy! This isn’t funny.” She moved to stand. “I don’t want to hurt you.”