Page 20 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

Stella shook her head. “I used the entire bottle. I’d no notion I’d require another application.”

“I wouldn’t advise one anyway,” Anne said. “Not after this debacle. Who knows but that it might not make your hair fall out entirely.”

Stella emitted a strangled moan.

Anne grimaced. “Sorry. I’m not helping, am I?”

Stella dropped her face into her hands. “I shall have to hide for the rest of the house party. You shall have to tell everyone I died.”

“We needn’t go that far. There are caps and bonnets, after all. We’ll simply disguise your hair, just as you do when you’re riding in Rotten Row.”

“I can’t wear a cap at dinner. I can’t wear a bonnet in the ballroom.”

“Regrettably, no. You’ll have to forgo those events.” Anne set a consoling hand on Stella’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, dearest. I know you’d hoped to meet someone during your stay.”

Stella bleakly lifted her head. She was suddenly very tired. “It was a stupid plan, anyway, coming here in disguise. There’s no way to hide who I really am. Not for long. Any gentlemen who thought me worth courting would find out the truth eventually.”

“There’s nothing wrong with who you are.”

“What I am,” Stella said, “is unmarriageable.”

Anne pressed Stella’s shoulder in a reassuring squeeze. “These are not subjects to contemplate when one’s hair is green,” she said wisely. “Let me first restore your beautiful gray, and then we shall discuss them.”

“What if you can’t?”

“Oh, ye of little faith.” Anne gave her a bracing look in the mirror. “Don’t you know by now? There’s nothing I can’t do.”

On Christmas morning, Teddy awakened to find the windows of his room frozen over with a thick sheet of ice. The temperature had dropped dramatically during the night, and outside the grounds were blanketed in a pristine layer of snow. It covered the hills and pastures and clung to the branches of the majestic wych elm trees that flanked the house, sparkling like fine crystal in the cold winter sun.

It was too great an artistic opportunity to miss.

After spending a few brief moments with Alex and Laura, exchanging gifts and sharing a pot of chocolate in the privacy of their bedchamber, Teddy dressed, gathered his art supplies, and—with the aid of his manservant—took himself off to the secluded upstairs parlor the earl had given leave for him to use as a temporary studio.

There, Teddy set up his easel in front of a tall sash window. It gave him an unimpeded view of an aged oak sitting atop a snow-covered hill some distance away. A stark subject, with a hint of melancholy about it. The snow below the tree was bathed in a dazzling array of changing light.

Within two hours, Teddy’s oil-painted depiction was well under way.

He’d cut his teeth on landscapes as a boy, forever painting some tree or bush or wildflower-blanketed meadow. After that, he’d graduated to birds. And then, eventually, to the sea. It was more satisfying to commit life to canvas, whether it was the raging waves or a song thrush in flight. A swirling snowscape was but a distant alternative, but it still had its lure.

Of course, it was nothing compared to a beautiful woman. To the elegant curve of a feminine cheek, the swell of a voluptuous hip, or the shimmer of sensual mystery in an otherwise ladylike gaze. It was that which most captivated Teddy’s artistic attention now.

Regrettably, Miss Hobhouse had so far eluded him.

She hadn’t been at dinner last night. And she hadn’t attended the Christmas Eve dance, much to his irritation. He’d watched for her for nearly two hours before Laura had reported that she’d heard—via Lady Anne—that Miss Hobhouse had retired to bed with a nameless indisposition.

“Don’t be cast down,” Laura had said to him. “You’re bound to see her tomorrow. Lord March will be hosting a grand Christmas tea in the drawing room. Miss Hobhouse is sure to attend.”

Teddy doubted whether she would. His elusive silver star appeared a resourceful sort of girl. If she was set on avoiding him for the remainder of the house party, she’d likely succeed in her goal.

Drat it altogether.

He laid on a brushstroke with unneeded force. The thick layer of flake white paint globbed on the canvas, marring the careful shadowing he’d created on the snowbank. It was an amateurish mistake, completely unworthy of an artist of Teddy’s skill. He uttered an eloquent French curse as he corrected his error.

“You’ll be needing your tea, sir,” Jennings said from his place near the fire.

Teddy continued painting, ignoring him.

But Jennings could never be ignored for long. He rose from his chair and crossed the length of the small parlor.