Page 8 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

Her heart was still fluttering in response to the heated declaration over an hour later, when she was tucked safe in her upstairs room. Her ball gown, petticoats, crinoline, and corset lay on the bed behind her. Clad in her warmest wool dressing gown, she sat by the fire drinking a cup of milky tea.

She felt unmoored. Out of her depth. And it was only partially owing to her unsettling encounter with Mr. Hayes. Much of her uneasiness stemmed from the fact that she was far from home, cut adrift from the things that made her intrinsically who she was. Not only her gray hair, but her beloved horse, Locket, too.

Locket was a spirited mare with wildfire in her veins. Silvery white in color, she possessed the imposing size of her famous Thoroughbred sire, Stockwell, while still blessed with the elegantly contoured face and wide-set eyes of her crossbreed Arabian mother. Not many could ride her, excepting Stella. She was accustomed to exercising her daily—a necessary activity for both of their physical and mental well-beings.

When Stella had departed London, she’d been obliged to send Locket home to Fostonbury in company with her groom, John Turvey. It had been the kindest thing. The most sensible, too. It was Fostonbury, not London, where Stella would return at the close of the house party.

In her mare’s absence, a certain hollowness had taken up residence in Stella’s breast. She and Locket shared a special relationship. It was more than a partnership. More, even, than a friendship. It was a manner of mutual dependence. Stella couldn’t be fully herself—happy, steady, brave—without Locket nearby. And Locket…

Well.

Without Stella’s intervention, Locket wouldn’t have much chance of living at all. Indeed, when Stella had first encountered the flighty mare, Locket had been on the way to the knackers.

“You saved her life,” Anne had observed once when she and Stella had been riding together in the early days of their friendship.

“Rather, she saved mine,” Stella had replied. “I would never have been bold enough to come to London for the season if Locket wasn’t with me.”

Stella certainly didn’t feel bold now, hiding in an upstairs room, nursing her tea while the ball continued below.

It was there Anne found her as the small, arch-top clock on the mantelshelf struck eleven.

“At last!” Anne entered, closing the door behind her. “I’ve had the devil of a time finding you.”

She was still wearing her ball gown—a masterpiece of rich crimson velvet trimmed with black floral embroidery and red velvet roses. It had been commissioned from court dressmaker Ahmad Malik on the same occasion that Stella had ordered her own ball gown. Mr. Malik was known for his daring, yet intrinsically elegant, creations. It was how their dear friend, fellow horsewoman Evelyn Maltravers, had first met and fallen in love with him.

Auburn-haired, bespectacled Evie was a valued member of their small band of equestriennes. Mrs. Julia Blunt—formerly Julia Wychwood—was another. They were all of them horse lovers, and all of them excellent riders. They’d bonded together during the course of several unsuccessful London seasons, forming an unbreakable bond of friendship.

Stella hadn’t seen Anne since they’d entered the ballroom this evening. Then, Hartford had promised to find Stella a suitable partner. Perhaps he would have done, too, if Stella had remained.

It was all beginning to sink in now. All this effort on her hair and her gown and she hadn’t even danced one dance. What an extraordinary waste.

Though her heart wouldn’t know it.

The single encounter with Mr. Hayes had fired her blood more effectively than a dozen waltzes with a dozen nameless, faceless gentlemen.

“I’ve been all over the house,” Anne said, brushing a stray golden blonde lock from her brow. “First the ballroom, then the conservatory, and even the rose garden.”

“I’m here, as you see,” Stella replied.

Anne came to sit in the chair beside her. Her form-fitting velvet bodice was cut low off the shoulders. The crackling flames in the hearth cast shadows over the alabaster curve of her bosom and throat. “Are you ill?”

“No, no. Only tired.” Stella gave her friend a brief, rueful smile. “I’m sorry I ran away.”

“I should think so,” Anne said with mock severity. “It isn’t like you to shrink from a challenge.”

“I suppose I wasn’t feeling myself.”

“Undoubtedly.” Anne cast a speaking look at Stella’s hair. She hadn’t approved of Stella purchasing the Circassian dye, let alone using it. “I thought this masquerade was meant to make you more daring?”

“It isn’t only the dye. You know how restless I get when I’m too long from Locket.”

“Is that what’s troubling you? Surely you have confidence in your groom.”

“Oh, Turvey will feed her and water her well enough. But it’s me Locket will be wanting. We’ve not been apart since I accompanied my brother to that dratted ecumenical conference in Exeter during the summer. And that was only a few days. I can’t help but worry over how she’ll manage now that I’ll be gone a full week.”

The house party extended through Christmas. Lady Arundell, Anne, and Stella wouldn’t be departing until the following Monday.

“Dancing might have taken your mind off things,” Anne said.