Page 121 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

She smiled briefly. “The sun is setting, mortal. Hadn’t you better make the most of it?”

It was no easy thing to capture the changing light. An artist had to work quickly. For twilight, Teddy had no more than an hour. His brush moved rapidly, his head ducking repeatedly out from behind his canvas to glance at the river, the fog, the streaks of waning sunlight.

And at her.

He had to make an effort not to gape like a simpleton. He hadn’t the time for it. But she lured him to her just the same, as surely as iron filings to a magnet. And not only because she was beautiful, and dynamic, and shining bright as a star. (Electra, by God!) But because she was fully herself, standing straight and proud, chin high and hair streaming, concealing nothing of her true, magnificent nature.

An ache of emotion infused his work. This was how he’d seen her from the first. How he’d known she would be if ever the ladylike mask was removed completely. This powerful, passionate, regal creature that had, by some miracle, become his wife.

His own insecurities lingered at the edge of his consciousness. Painting held them at bay. With a brush in his hand and his oils at the ready, he was powerful, too.

All too soon it was over. The sun set, and Stella once again donned her cloak, assuming the mantle of humble mortality. Jennings materialized with a lantern. Teddy’s canvas was covered and loaded into the wagonette, and Jennings helped to push Teddy’s chair up the bank, Teddy still in it, rolling the rubber-covered wheels through the mud.

At length, they were all of them in the wagonette. Teddy impulsively caught Stella’s hand and kissed it. She beamed at him—face aglow with radiant happiness.

It was only as Teddy took up Samuel’s reins to drive them home that he realized the damage he’d done, sitting out in the cold and the damp, so close to the river.

The first leg cramp materialized within ten minutes. The second soon after. By the time they’d reached Maiden Lane, he was gritting his teeth.

“What’s wrong?” Stella asked as he brought the wagonette to a clumsy halt in front of their house. A lantern was lit in the front window, illuminating the stone steps that led to the door. Mrs. Mukherjee would have left it before departing for the evening.

“Nothing,” Teddy said tightly.

Jennings jumped down from the wagonette to assist him.

“You look as though something is.” Stella scanned Teddy’s face. “You’re not still cross because of my costume?”

“I was never cross.”

“Is it the painting? Did you not get what you wanted?”

“It’s not the painting,” he gritted out. “It’s…It’s my legs.”

Her brows knit with concern. “I don’t understand. Did you hurt yourself coming up the bank? Or was it—”

“Nothing like that. It happens sometimes. The change in the weather. I can’t—” He broke off as a cramp assailed him. He set a hand on his thigh, squeezing it hard. A groan escaped from between his clenched teeth.

Jennings hurried to lift him down.

“Not me,” Teddy growled. “Help Mrs. Hayes.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Stella said. “I can see to myself well enough.” She suited action to word, leaping out of the wagonette with a recklessness that made Teddy’s heart briefly jump in his throat.

“Good God,” he snapped. “Do you want to break your neck?”

“There was no danger of that.” She turned to Jennings. “What shall I do to help?”

“Do nothing,” Teddy said. “It’s Jennings I require. Not you.”

A glimmer of hurt flickered briefly in her eyes. But it’s our wedding night, she might have said.

As if Teddy didn’t know that to his soul! As if he wasn’t cursing himself for being brought this low. Cursing the scarlet fever. Cursing his dratted legs. Cursing Jennings, too, though the manservant was only attempting to help in his usual ham-fisted way.

“I’ll carry you inside, sir,” Jennings said.

“You bloody well won’t,” Teddy snarled. “Fetch my chair.”

Stella waited, hands clasped in front of her, while Jennings readied Teddy’s wheeled chair and then hoisted Teddy into it.