Page 43 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

“London surely can’t be as pleasant a place to live as Paris,” she said. “Not for an artist.”

“Funnily enough, you’re not the first to say so.”

“But it’s true, isn’t it? Why remain in England if you can return to France?”

“Turner painted in England.”

A smile crept into Stella’s voice. “Ah yes. Turner. Your idol.”

“I’m not ashamed to say so.”

“Why should you be? Though…” Her brows notched. “His paintings of the sea are rather volatile. The sky and the clouds are all storming color and light, and the water is a frightening tumult.”

“Exactly,” Teddy said. “It’s why I take inspiration from him. So do many painters of the new age. Turner’s seascapes are unparalleled. Had I a fraction of his talent, I would count myself a lucky man.” He finished shading the curve of her throat, warming to the subject. “He was born in London, you know. He lived above his father’s barbershop in Maiden Lane.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“It’s true.”

“That doesn’t make the subject matter in England any more compelling.”

Teddy glanced up from his work to find her still looking at him. It did odd things to him, that look. Some of the tension in his expression softened. A smile edged his mouth, even as his heart skipped a beat. “The subject matter satisfies me very well at present.”

Stella’s soft, voluptuous mouth ticked up at one corner in reluctant reply. “You’re absurd.”

“What I am is pressed for time.” He pointed his pencil at the mantel clock in an unspoken command for her to return to her pose. “If you would be so good?”

Stella suppressed a smile as she resumed staring at the clock. He meant her, of course, the rogue. She was, for the moment, more appealing to him than all the beauties of France.

It was utter rubbish. Shameless, self-serving flattery to persuade her to continue posing for him. The sentiment nevertheless provoked a delicious warmth in her veins.

“Who inspires your sketches?” he inquired as he resumed his work. “Any particular artists?”

“I’m fond of Mr. Landseer’s paintings,” she answered. “He portrays horses so beautifully.”

It was a simple answer. Edwin Henry Landseer was one of England’s foremost animal painters and sculptors. Anyone drawing horses would naturally look to him for inspiration. Either that or to the paintings of the late Mr. Stubbs.

“Do you use his work as a guide for proportions?” Teddy asked.

“But rarely. My sketches are from life. And since I have a horse with me at most times, I have no need to look elsewhere to find the harmony of equine proportion. The breadth of Locket’s wither and the length of her hock are written on my soul.”

“A fine way of putting it.”

“It’s what I feel.”

“I’d be honored to see your work sometime,” he said. “Unless, that is, you still consider me too much a stranger.”

She recalled her words to him in the drawing room on the second night of the house party. Then, she’d dismissed his desire to see her sketches as a pedantic masculine impulse. She knew now that she’d been wrong. Teddy’s interest in her work didn’t stem from a need to put her in her place. He was genuinely interested in her talent.

“Must I?” she quizzed him. “I thought you disapproved of collaboration?”

“For works in progress, yes. Have you no finished sketches you could share?”

“A few,” she said.

Her portfolio at home was filled with sketches of Locket, and of Anne’s golden stallion, Saffron; Julia’s black gelding, Cossack; and Evie’s blood bay Andalusian, Hephaestus. Stella had drawn them in every gait and every mood, to the very best of her ability. Indeed, she sketched the way other ladies of her acquaintance practiced the piano or labored over their needlework. It was her only true accomplishment outside of riding.

“Regrettably, I don’t have them with me. I have only the half dozen or so sketches I’ve made of the earl’s horses since I’ve been here in Hampshire.”