Page 42 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

“Your cap,” he reminded her.

“Oh yes. I’d nearly forgotten.” She swiftly removed the black monstrosity, revealing her neatly coiffed silver hair. It was arranged in a large roll at her neck, secured with a heavy plait. A fashionable style, but not an ostentatious one. Not a seductive one, certainly.

A simmering heat nevertheless pooled low in Teddy’s belly. He ignored it. Picking up his pencil, he returned to his sketch.

Intense artistic inspiration could often be mistaken for another kind of attraction. It wasn’t unusual to feel it. As a consequence, many artists became involved with their female subjects. Emotionally. Physically.

It didn’t necessarily detract from their work. On the contrary, the intimacy of the connection often added additional depth to a portrait. If an artist knew his subject—truly knew her—he could depict her with a sensitivity that was otherwise lacking.

Joanna Hiffernan was currently Whistler’s mistress. Rossetti had wed his primary model, Elizabeth Siddal, after a long and passionate affair. And there was Millais, of course, who had famously married his muse, the former Mrs. Ruskin.

But Stella wasn’t Teddy’s wife. She wasn’t his mistress. She was an unmarried young lady who should be treated with respect. A clergyman’s sister, by God. And one who hadn’t even agreed to let him paint her portrait.

This sketch was merely a consolation prize. It wasn’t the beginning of anything. It was the ending.

Furrowing his brow, he focused his attention on shading in the delicate shell of her ear with his pencil. It was all light and shadow. An impression of her, not an exact duplicate. A sketch that would, when it was finished, evoke the same feelings that Teddy had whenever he looked at her.

He was nearly done with it. A few finishing touches were all that remained. And then this brief, blissful interlude would be over. In the morning, they would go their separate ways—her with his sketch, and he with nothing of her at all.

It wouldn’t do.

He needed to paint her in oils. To depict her standing over a shimmering, twilight sea, her hair unbound, with a glittering gauze shift skimming the curves of her body. The human embodiment of the Pleiades.

But it was never going to happen. Not if she wouldn’t allow it. And not if she was permanently retiring to some remote bloody village in Derbyshire.

“Will you never return to London?” he asked abruptly.

She turned her head, briefly meeting his eyes. “It’s odd you should ask.”

“Why odd?”

“I learned this morning that Lady Anne and Mr. Hartford’s wedding will be in March. They plan to marry in London, at St. George’s Hanover Square, on the first day of spring. I’ll be expected to attend.” She paused. “I want to attend.”

Teddy’s pulse quickened. March was a long way away yet. Still…it was a vast improvement from never. “What’s stopping you?”

“Nothing yet. I’ve only to persuade my brother to bring me.” She resumed her pose. “Where will you go after the house party? The night of the ball, you mentioned us crossing paths again in London. Will you be stopping there before returning to France?”

Teddy’s fingers tightened reflexively on his pencil. He had to force them to loosen. “I’m not returning to France. I mean to find lodgings in town.”

“With your sister and brother-in-law?”

His pencil stopped on his sketch pad, frozen on the shadows he was creating along the length of Stella’s neck. A troubled frown creased his brow.

She again turned to look at him. Her silver-blue gaze was steady and grave. “Forgive me, I seem to have misspoken.”

“Not at all.” He used a stump to blur out his shading, still frowning. “My sister and brother-in-law will be returning to Grasse in the spring. I’ll remain in London.”

“Alone?”

His muscles tensed. Was his independence so outlandish of a proposition? “I’ll naturally have Jennings to assist me.”

“The large man I’ve seen following you about?”

“The very one.” Teddy scowled at his sketch pad, muttering, “For the time being.”

She continued gazing at him, her face possessed of the same tender gravity. It was the exact expression she’d worn when studying the van Dyck drawing in the King’s Gallery so many months ago. The very expression Teddy longed to paint.

Putting aside the stump, he again picked up his pencil.