Page 13 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

“Pity,” Anne said. “Mr. Hayes arrived within seconds of your leaving. He remained at table for over a half hour with his sister and brother-in-law. That’s them, standing next to him—Mr. and Mrs. Archer. Hartford introduced them to me.”

Stella chanced another look in Mr. Hayes’s direction. The pretty lady standing beside him was flanked by a tall, dashing gentleman with a roguish smile. They were both beautifully clad—she in an exquisite blue dinner dress, and he in an elegantly tailored black suit.

“They seemed pleasant enough people,” Anne remarked. “Not at all vulgar.”

“I shouldn’t imagine they would be,” Stella said. “Not even if they are in trade.”

Anne’s gaze drifted back in Mr. Hartford’s direction. Her mouth curved in a mysterious half smile. “Indeed. Tradespeople can be quite congenial, I find.”

Mr. Hartford emerged from the crowd to join them, a grin still on his face as he tossed a reply over his shoulder to another back-slapping well-wisher. “Thank you. We shall.” His voice dropped to an amused murmur as he approached Anne. “Engaged less than twenty-four hours, and you’ve already abandoned me to the masses.”

“You handle the masses beautifully,” she replied. “I have complete faith in you.”

“The congratulations are meant for both of us,” he said. “Tedious, admittedly, but one must tolerate the formalities.”

“Never mind all that.” Anne took his arm. “You must introduce Mr. Hayes to Miss Hobhouse.”

Stella flushed. “Really, Anne, it isn’t necessary.”

“It’s necessary,” Anne said firmly. “Our first meeting with him wasn’t auspicious. There’s bound to be awkwardness. An introduction will lessen it, and make your stay more enjoyable.”

“An introduction, then, by all means,” Mr. Hartford said. “Miss Hobhouse?” He proffered his free arm to Stella.

Stella moved to take it. She was grateful, at least, that he’d offered. Most newly engaged gentlemen wouldn’t be so obliging to the spinster friends of their betrothed. “Thank you.”

“Pray don’t mention it.” A gleam of kindhearted humor twinkled in his eyes. “Now I’m engaged to Lady Anne, I count the Furies as good as family.”

Stella managed a distracted smile. It was impossible to give her full attention to Mr. Hartford or Anne when Mr. Hayes was gazing at her so steadily from his place across the room. She swallowed hard as they approached.

Mrs. Archer stepped forward to meet them, her husband at her side. She had the same ebony hair, straight ebony brows, and intelligent slate-blue eyes as Mr. Hayes. Not a traditional beauty, but lovely, nonetheless. There was an understated confidence in the way she carried herself, and a sympathetic softness in the curve of her quiet smile.

“Miss Hobhouse,” Mr. Hartford said. “May I present Mr. and Mrs. Archer of Hayes’s Perfumes? And this is Mrs. Archer’s brother, Mr. Hayes.”

Stella inclined her head. “Mr. Archer. Mrs. Archer.” Her eyes briefly met Mr. Hayes’s. Warmth suffused her midsection. “Mr. Hayes.”

“Miss Hobhouse,” Mr. Hayes said gravely.

It took an effort to avert her gaze from his. There was something fever bright in the way he looked at her.

Was it akin to an illness, she wondered, to want to paint a certain subject so badly? A sort of madness, as Mr. Hayes had claimed? One that obsessed the mind and riveted the senses, to the exclusion of everything—and everyone—else?

Stella didn’t know. Though she enjoyed sketching herself, she’d never yet fixated on a single subject. Certainly not on a person. Her own sketches were largely limited to depictions of horses, or to simple country landscapes, not vastly dissimilar from the aged pastoral that hung above Mr. Hayes’s head.

“Miss Hobhouse,” Mr. Archer said, bowing. “You’ve already met my brother-in-law, I take it.”

“I—” Stella stopped herself only to start again. “We, er, crossed paths at the British Museum some months ago.”

Mrs. Archer smiled. “My brother no doubt importuned you with ravings about Turner.”

Stella couldn’t help but smile in return. “I believe Turner may have been mentioned.”

“I should be surprised if he hadn’t been,” Mrs. Archer said. “There’s no artist Teddy admires more.”

“My brother-in-law is a painter,” Mr. Archer explained. “A good one.”

Stella had no choice but to look at Mr. Hayes again. It would have been impolite not to. Her heart once more lost its rhythm. “Oh?”

His gaze held hers. “A very good one,” he said, without an ounce of humility.