Page 5 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

Her spine went rigid with reflexive indignation. “Do you suppose I go about deceiving the people I love?”

His smile faded, his expression becoming unsettlingly serious as he studied her face. “No. I don’t suppose you do,” he mused. “I expect you’re loyal to a fault. Another reason you shine so very brightly.”

She ducked her head, refusing to tolerate any more of his flattery. “Really, sir, this is all too much. You shouldn’t opportune me so.”

“I haven’t a choice. You eluded me once. I can’t risk you doing so again.”

“This isn’t the British Museum. This is a winter house party. We’re both of us stuck indoors for the duration. I couldn’t elude you if I wanted to.”

“I’ll wager you’re capable of anything you set your mind to,” he said. “I only ask that—”

“No,” she repeated. “I could never.”

He wheeled toward her. “But I must paint you. I shall run mad if I don’t.”

Stella couldn’t suppress a flare of guilt. What could it really hurt to sit for a portrait?

But no.

She may be rebellious enough to color her hair, but that rebellion had to stop somewhere. Circassian dye was temporary. A painting would be forever.

“I am very sorry for it,” she said. And before she could give in to temptation, before she could ask him anything else about his work (or worse, himself), she caught up her skirts and darted from the room.

This time, Teddy made no move to follow her. He remained in the shadowy anteroom, privately cursing himself for being so bloody eager.

Of all the offensive masculine qualities that ladies detested, eagerness was one of the worst. That’s what Alex said. A gentleman was never supposed to reveal his hand. Never supposed to admit to wanting a lady’s company more than a lady desired his. To do so was to put oneself in an immediate position of weakness. And ladies loathed weakness in a man, almost as much as they abhorred eagerness.

Teddy scrubbed his jaw in frustration. Unlike his brother-in-law, who had spent his early years earning his bread as a European sharper, Teddy was no cardplayer. He’d thought he could persuade Miss Hobhouse by conveying to her the simple truth. He’d dealt with her openly and honestly. He hadn’t minced words about her loveliness or about his desperation to commit that loveliness to canvas. He’d laid himself bare.

Which was precisely why he was sitting here alone.

“Damn it all to hell,” he muttered.

He wasn’t accustomed to persuading gently bred ladies to sit for him. In the past, his portraits had been confined to his sister and aunt, and then, in time, to the wives of his friends. He’d painted other women, too. Though, not ladies, precisely.

During his years studying in Paris, an earnest young student at the renowned Montparnasse atelier of artist and teacher Charles Gleyre, many a prostitute had been willing to pose for a few sous. Teddy’s portfolio was bursting with sketches of them. His fellow students could boast the same. Indeed, the professions of prostitute and artist’s model were often interchangeable.

Such women were generally relegated to French brothels, but one could find them elsewhere on occasion, lingering in the streets or strolling through one of the newly completed public parks. Teddy had spent countless hours seated alongside the fashionable walks of the Bois de Boulogne, waiting for his muse to appear.

But when she finally had, it hadn’t been in some Parisian park or brothel. It had been in London, in a stuffy gallery at the British Museum. A meeting that had arisen entirely by chance, when Teddy had least expected it.

And this time, the muse who had sparked his attention had been a true one. Not a passing fancy, sufficient to stimulate a sketch or two, but an out-and-out, flesh-and-blood Calliope, Clio, or Erato. A muse to inspire a masterwork.

He’d spent the past three months convinced that he’d never find her again.

“Teddy?” His sister’s voice drifted from the hall. “Are you there?”

He sighed. Of course Laura would come after him. No doubt she thought he’d fallen victim to some mischief or other. “In here!” he called back.

Seconds later, Laura appeared in the doorway. She wore a ball gown of celestial blue figured silk, trimmed with goffered ribbons and blonde lace. A scrap of similarly trimmed blonde, in the guise of a matron’s evening cap, was pinned atop her plaited coil of ebony hair.

At seven-and-twenty, she was only three years older than him. A negligible number, silently multiplied by the weight of Teddy’s disability—and her own. Laura had contracted scarlet fever at the same time as he had. It had affected her lungs and had, initially, made breathing a struggle whenever she’d overexerted herself. She’d nursed Teddy through his illness, nonetheless. Indeed, she’d looked after him for so long, she couldn’t help but think of herself as more akin to a mother than a sister.

Teddy loved her for it, even as he bridled under her concern. “I’m fine, before you ask,” he said. “I was talking to a young lady.”

Laura smiled as she came to join him. Her skirts rustled softly in a whisper of expensive French silk over sensibly starched petticoats. Years spent living on the continent had improved the quality of the fashions she wore, but her essential, no-nonsense British nature remained unaltered. “The auburn-haired girl I just saw racing down the corridor?”

“Yes.” He scowled. “That is, no. She isn’t auburn haired. She’s the lady from the King’s Gallery.”