Page 68 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

“That’s a risk anywhere.” Teddy pressed her hand with a reassuring grip before releasing it. “I survived in Paris, didn’t I? And yes, I realize you stayed there for a time. You needn’t have, you know.”

“There was every need. I’ve seen what people are like to those they deem vulnerable. I feared you would be entirely at the mercy of those around you.”

“When have I ever been at the mercy of anyone?” Teddy asked. “I’m not a child anymore, Laura. I’m a grown man, perfectly capable of looking after myself.” He paused, adding, “So long as I have enough coin to engage the right people.”

“But what if—”

“What if, what if,” Teddy echoed impatiently. “Had you and the others half as much concern when Neville left Greyfriar’s Abbey to strike out on his own? And look how he’s thrived on his farm.”

“Neville isn’t my brother. And he isn’t in a wheeled chair. Besides, he wasn’t alone with only hired servants to depend upon. He is married to Clara.”

“Is that what it would take to set your mind at ease? Me marrying some selfless young lady?”

“I daresay it would do,” she said. “If I knew she would look after you and protect you as fiercely as Clara does Neville. But Clara does that because she loves him. And love matches aren’t easy to come by at the best of times.”

An image of Stella came, unbidden, into Teddy’s mind.

It was that kiss again. That warm, tender, soul-quaking kiss. He’d thought, in the moment, that it was some manner of goodbye. His last chance to touch her—to taste her—before she slipped from his grasp forever. It was that which had prompted him to take such a liberty.

But he’d been wrong.

The kiss they’d shared that night under the Hampshire stars hadn’t been a goodbye. It had been the start of something, not the ending of it.

I can’t stop thinking about you, he’d almost written to her in his letter. It isn’t only because I want to paint you. It’s because—

But he didn’t know the why of it. All he knew was that he must see her again.

“I’m not interested in love matches,” he said brusquely. “Only in art. A canvas, pencils, and paints—that’s all I need.”

Laura shook her head. “Teddy…”

Before she could offer another objection, their conversation was blessedly interrupted by Alex’s return. He entered the drawing room still in his overcoat, a stack of letters in his gloved hand.

Laura was instantly on her feet. “Thank goodness,” she said, crossing the room to meet him. “I feared you might have done yourself an injury.”

Alex circled her waist with his arm as she embraced him. “I’m only muddy, love.” He kissed her. “Now you are, too.”

Drawing back, Laura flicked a rueful glance at her bodice. “What a nuisance. We shall both have to have a bath.”

“A splendid idea,” he murmured.

She rubbed a smudge of dirt from his cheek. “Where’s Justin? You didn’t lose him along the way, I hope.”

“He went straight up to change. He’s muddier than I am.”

Teddy rolled toward them in his chair. “Is that the post?” he interrupted.

“It is,” Alex said. “There’s nothing for you specifically. It’s all perfumery business from France. That, and”—he withdrew a small envelope from the stack—“a letter for Laura from Derbyshire.”

Teddy sat up straight in his chair. He exchanged a sharp look with his sister.

Laura took the letter from her husband. “Don’t tease. You know it’s meant for him.” She passed the letter to Teddy. “Or rather, I assume it is. Unless Miss Hobhouse is writing to reprimand me for aiding and abetting your crime.”

Teddy took the small envelope. The direction was written in black ink, penned (he suspected) in Stella’s own delicate hand. He ran his thumb over the soft indentations left by the nib of her quill. “There’s no crime in wanting to paint her.”

“Is that all there is to it?” Alex asked. “A desire to commit her to canvas?”

“That’s all,” Teddy said.