Page 78 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

With the assistance of her maid and her friends, Anne changed into a heavy silk cord traveling dress. Stella, Evie, and Julia—still in their fluffy bridesmaids’ gowns—followed her downstairs to the hall where Mr. Hartford awaited her. Like Anne, he’d changed into traveling clothes—an eyebrow-raising pair of blue-and-green-plaid trousers and a matching plaid coat.

Anne took his arm, her face aglow with unfiltered love for him. Hartford gazed down at her in return, a foolish, lopsided smile at his lips, as though there was no one else in the entry hall but the two of them.

The majority of the guests had already gone. Only Lady Arundell, Lord March, Mr. Fielding (Evelyn’s uncle), and Evelyn’s and Julia’s husbands remained.

Mr. Malik stood back against one of the silk-paneled walls, looking striking in an exquisitely cut, black three-piece suit. He’d no doubt tailored the dashing ensemble himself. Straightening to his full height, he extended his hand to Evie. She took it, allowing him to draw her close.

At the same time, the soberly clad Captain Blunt slid a protective arm around Julia’s midsection. He seemed to be aware that she’d had a trifle too much to drink. Julia leaned back against him gratefully, covering his arm with her own.

Stella lingered at the bottom of the stairs, wistfully observing her friends as they returned to their husbands. A hollow ache filled her chest. She felt, all at once, how utterly alone she was. Not friendless, no, but forever standing on the outskirts, with no partner to beckon her close—to shield her and protect her.

To love her.

Seeing Anne, Julia, and Evie so happy and fulfilled—so thoroughly accepted and looked after—Stella’s own romantic future appeared bleak in comparison.

She’d told herself that love didn’t matter. That it would be enough to find a husband who could support her. Respect her. But perhaps it wasn’t true. Perhaps she’d always be alone, even in marriage, so long as that union was lacking in love.

Lady Arundell came to join the newlyweds. Her expensive silk dress was black in color, but softened with ruffles and lace, it bore no similarity to her typical mourning garb. A dazzling diamond necklace and matching drop earrings illuminated her face. “Do you have everything you require, my dear?” she asked her daughter. “An extra handkerchief for the journey? And your shawl?”

“I have everything I need, Mama.” Anne briefly stepped away from Mr. Hartford to enfold her mother in an embrace.

Lady Arundell hugged her daughter fiercely. She had tears in her eyes. “Enjoy yourself,” she commanded, releasing Anne. “And don’t dare waste a thought for me. Fielding and I have a full diary of spiritualist business slated for the weeks ahead. I shall be well entertained.”

“I leave my mother in your hands, sir,” Anne said to Mr. Fielding.

Mr. Fielding was an older gentleman. Rather an eccentric, with a perpetual air of preoccupation about him. He and Lady Arundell had a longstanding friendship. “They are good hands, my lady,” he replied. “You may rest assured.”

There were more embraces, interspersed with handshakes and well wishes. Calls of “Good luck!” and “Bon voyage!” filled the air as Anne and Mr. Hartford exited the house.

Along with the others, Stella followed the happy couple outside to their waiting carriage. She waved them off, ignoring her feelings about her own desperate situation. This was Anne’s day, not hers.

She was still smiling, a bit painfully, eyes clouding with tears, when she felt a slim arm circle her shoulders.

It was Evie, bless her. She drew Stella close. “Tomorrow morning, we ride,” she said bracingly. “A good gallop will clear your head.”

Stella wrapped an arm around her friend’s waist, wordlessly conveying her gratitude for her support. Evie was right, of course. A gallop always put things in perspective.

Today may be bleak, but tomorrow Stella would be back in her sidesaddle. She’d have the wind in her face and the unstoppable power of Locket beneath her.

Yes. Galloping was something to look forward to.

And not only galloping.

Teddy would be there in the afternoon when Stella embarked on her second ride of the day. There, during the fashionable hour, waiting to see her.

It may not be a romance, but it was something.

Twenty

Teddy had lied to Stella. He wasn’t waiting along the rail at five o’clock in the afternoon on the second day of spring, watching the fashionable equestrian throng trot by. It would have been impossible to do so.

For one thing, he’d underestimated the difficulty in getting there in his chair. The ground was still saturated from yesterday morning’s rain, with patches of ankle-deep mud that would have played havoc with his wheels. For another, the crowds were such that navigating through them would have taken more time and effort than he had to spare.

Instead, he’d arrived in his new wagonette, with both his wheeled chair and Jennings disposed in the back of the vehicle, at the ready should Teddy require them.

He gripped the reins hard as he entered the South Carriage Drive of Rotten Row, ably steering the placid Samuel through the growing traffic. He was no amateur when it came to handling the ribbons. It nevertheless took the whole of his attention. He was acutely conscious of his limitations—the fact that all of his control derived from the strength of his upper body. He was equally conscious of the obtrusiveness of his chair, strapped down in the back of the wagonette. It was a glaring announcement of Teddy’s condition to everyone he passed.

He wasn’t ashamed of it—neither his chair nor his disability. But the fact that he must give over his sense of privacy in his own body never failed to rub him on the raw. His health was no one’s business but his own. And yet, the presence of his chair made it everyone’s business. Strangers felt at complete liberty to gawk at him. Or worse. Over the past several years, some had the audacity to interrogate him about his condition or to offer their unsolicited advice.