Page 115 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

His breath gusted out of him.

Stella was at once at his side. He felt her hands at his back, and then at his waist, attempting to assist him as he edged back into position. A lock of hair had fallen over his forehead. She brushed it back from his face.

“Good heavens!” she said. “That was perilous. Are you all right?”

“I did it,” he said, a trifle stunned.

“Of course you did.” She helped him lower the arm of his new chair. “That was never in question.”

He met her eyes as she leaned over him. For the second time that day, the two of them grinned at each other like children.

And he realized that he wasn’t just in love with Stella Hobhouse—his model, his muse, his shining star.

He loved her.

Twenty-Eight

London, England

June 1863

Stella and Teddy had to wait three consecutive Sundays for the banns to be called. On the third Sunday, she finally worked up the nerve to write to Anne. The letter was posted but a week before Teddy and Stella’s wedding.

It wasn’t the only letter she wrote.

After much thought—and even more second-guessing herself—Stella penned a brief note to her brother in Derbyshire. It contained neither an invitation to her wedding, nor an invitation back into her life. To be sure, it was more in the manner of a goodbye.

Dear Daniel,

By the time you receive this, I shall be married. My husband is Mr. Edward Hayes, a respectable gentleman of good family, good fortune, and immense artistic talent. He sees something beautiful in me, and desires that I live my life without shame or apology. We will be settling in London, and plan to make each other very happy.

Your sister,

Stella

She had no expectation of a reply. Not from her brother. But she did suspect that Anne would have something to say to the news.

Sure enough, despite the lateness of Stella’s letter and the very great distance from Somersetshire to London, when Stella arrived at the small church in Fleet Street for her wedding, she found Anne waiting in the vestry, along with Julia, who had journeyed back from Yorkshire for the ceremony.

“I should have known it would be him,” Anne said, hugging Stella fiercely, as Julia stood by. “Indeed, I would have known had I not been so consumed with my own happiness.”

“Which is exactly as it should have been,” Stella said, pressing a kiss to her friend’s cheek. “You’ve done enough looking after all of us.”

“Rubbish. We look after each other.” Anne stepped back. Some of the glacial hardness in her face—that frosty aristocratic look she’d had ever since Stella had met her—had gone. It was replaced by an expression of relaxed contentment. It appeared that life with Mr. Hartford was agreeing with her. “Why on earth did you delay in writing to me?”

“Because I knew you’d try to rescue me,” Stella answered honestly. “And I didn’t want to be rescued. I wanted to gallop ahead, come what may.”

Anne laughed. “Nonsensical girl. Have you no respect for peril?”

“No, indeed.” Stella smiled back at her. “I find I rather enjoy it.”

“So says the young lady dressed like an angel,” Julia said as she hugged Stella in turn. “You look beautiful, dearest.”

Anne looked Stella up and down with approval. “Did Ahmad design your wedding dress?”

“He did,” Stella said. “And Mira did the embroidery and trimmings.”

The elegant gown was made of white tarlatan muslin, embellished with delicate whitework butterflies, and edged in Valenciennes lace. Ahmad and Mira had helped Stella into it at the Maliks’ house before they’d departed for the church. It only remained for Stella to put on her veil. It had been too fragile for her to wear in the carriage.