Page 79 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

“Have you tried an electricity machine?” a matron lady had once asked him at a shop. “It did my invalid mother’s withered leg a world of good.”

“See Dr. Fairbank in Blackheath,” a gentleman stranger had recommended. “He’ll have you out of that chair in no time.”

“Simple exercises, performed daily, are the thing,” another man had declared when encountering Teddy at a gallery. “Have you ever tried stretching?”

As though Teddy hadn’t been to every doctor and performed every exercise. Had he ever tried stretching? Had he, hell.

Regrettably, there was no avoiding the stares and the remarks. Not unless Teddy became a complete recluse. And that wasn’t an option anymore. Not now he had his artistic future to contemplate and his muse to secure.

But nearly twenty minutes later, there was still no sign of Stella Hobhouse and her famous gray mare.

A leaden weight settled in Teddy’s gut. She’d told him, in her last letter, that she hadn’t yet persuaded her brother to bring her to town. He’d nonetheless expected her to be here. Lady Anne had been married yesterday. Teddy had seen mention of it in the papers this morning.

Had Stella missed the ceremony? Was she, even now, in Fostonbury, still practicing being small and quiet?

He brought Samuel around a bend. The gelding jogged gamely forward as Teddy scanned the crush of riders for any sign of his muse. He’d almost given up hope when he saw her.

Stella emerged from the crowd, trotting forward on a striking, pale gray mare. The horse’s coat shimmered like silvery vapor in the sunlight. So, too, had Stella’s hair shimmered in the parlor at Sutton Park as Teddy had sketched her, shining pearly bright in the cold winter light that had poured through the windows.

But Stella’s hair color wasn’t visible now. Her tresses were covered in a close-woven net and topped by a jaunty plum riding hat. Her habit was made in a similar hue—that deep shade of purple that appeared almost magical when fitted to her figure. Its skirts draped gracefully over her legs, rippling provocatively against her mount’s side as Stella picked up speed.

Teddy saw her before she saw him. She was gazing out toward the rail as she breezed by, looking for him, perhaps, or for someone else of interest. Her groom followed close behind on a stocky chestnut gelding.

She’d almost passed Teddy when he finally brought himself to speak.

“I thought you’d be galloping for certain,” he said loud enough for her to hear over the drumbeat of hooves.

Her head jerked in his direction. A smile spread over her face. “Mr. Hayes!” She slowed her mare. “I didn’t know you’d be driving.”

“Nor did I.” Teddy shortened his reins, easing Samuel out of the way of traffic, as Stella turned her horse to ride up alongside his wagonette. “I only bought it a few days ago. What do you think?”

“It’s very smart.” She glanced at the back, taking in the presence of both Jennings and Teddy’s wheeled chair. “Practical, too, I see.”

“Naturally,” he said. “I’m the soul of practicality.”

Her eyes twinkled with laughter.

His mouth pulled into a foolish grin in return. By God, but it was good to see her again.

During their months apart, he’d begun to wonder if he’d imagined how beautiful she was—how very perfect she was for his painting. But he hadn’t imagined anything, had he? Indeed, it was possible that his memory had blunted the effect of her.

He felt that effect now at full force. It seemed to be magnified on her mare—the two silver figures amplifying each other with the brilliance of twin stars.

“Your mare is excessively energetic,” he said.

“You should have seen her this morning, when I was galloping with Mrs. Malik and Mrs. Blunt. Locket had far more energy then. Now, she’s actually quite manageable.”

Teddy arched a brow at the mare’s dancing legs and trembling nostrils. If this was manageable, he couldn’t imagine what the horse was like when she was unmanageable. “I thought she would be darker for some reason,” he remarked.

“She was when she was a filly.” Stella patted her mare’s shoulder with a slim, gloved hand. “Gray horses fade as they get older, but her mane is still silver and she has dappling on her legs, as you see.”

“She’s nearly white everywhere else.”

“A white horse. How appropriate.” She let the mare prance alongside the wagonette for a few steps as they drifted further from afternoon traffic. “My friends and I have often been called the Four Horsewomen. Either that or the Furies.”

“There were only three Furies.”

“We were three to begin with. Then, when Mrs. Malik arrived last season, we were four. Now, regrettably, there’s only one of us left. Just me, a gray lady on my white horse. An ominous figure, I daresay, if one countenances the biblical symbolism.”