Page 2 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

The young lady stood with her back to the wall. Her white pearl- and-crepe-festooned skirts bowed out in front of her in an arc of petticoats and crinoline. “I did no such thing,” she said stiffly.

It was the first she’d spoken since he’d entered the room. She had a soft, even voice, with a hint of velvet at the back of it. The kind of voice that could soothe as easily as it could seduce.

Teddy’s blood thrummed with an unexpected pulse of heat.

He instantly dismissed the feeling. He hadn’t gone after her because he was attracted to her. Not as a man, anyway. His interest was purely artistic. “You did,” he said.

The same moment he’d clapped eyes on her from across the crowded ballroom, she’d spun on her heel and disappeared out the doors in a flurry of glittering skirts. He’d been left staring after her in dismay as the orchestra struck up the opening waltz, wondering for all of fifteen seconds whether he’d been mistaken.

“I felt a little faint,” she replied, a trifle defensively. “I needed air.”

“And you’re taking it here?” He cast a dubious glance around the anteroom as he wheeled himself to the nearest lamp. It sat upon a low inlaid walnut table beside one of the damask-upholstered settees. Striking a friction match, he lit the wick. The room was at once bathed in a soft halo of light. “You might at least have opened a window.”

“It’s storming outside,” she replied as he turned his chair to face her. “In case you hadn’t noticed.”

Teddy examined her in the glow of the lamp. She looked different than she had that day at the British Museum. He should know. The memory of her had been etched into his brain for months.

It wasn’t because she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen—though she was beautiful. It was because she was different. And not just an oddity in her manner, or in the style of her dress or coiffure. She was strikingly different.

When he’d encountered her that day in the King’s Gallery, her hair had been uniformly silver—the color of fine platinum or sterling. When coupled with her silver-blue eyes and the tender gravity of her manner, it had given her the look of a shimmering, vaporous spirit, newly alighted from the heavens to engage with lowly humankind.

She’d reminded him of one of the mythological Pleiades—the seven sisters the Greek god Zeus had famously transformed into stars to grace the night sky. Teddy had never in his life seen a woman who better embodied the myth. As an artist, the sight hadn’t failed to make an impression on him.

“I notice everything,” he said.

The young lady’s throat worked on a delicate swallow. She edged toward the door. “I beg your pardon. I must return to the ballroom. My friends will be wondering—”

“I trust you’re not afraid of me?”

She stilled. Her lips compressed in a vaguely affronted line. “Indeed, I am not.”

“You appear so.”

“If I do, it’s only because I don’t know you.”

“We’ve met before,” he reminded her. “It was some months ago. You were in the King’s Gallery of the British Museum admiring a Van Dyck drawing.”

“I remember,” she said frostily.

His mouth quirked. Naturally, she did. He’d offended her then. Been too blunt. Too free with his opinions. It was a failing of his, one made worse by the virulent strain of scarlet fever he’d contracted in his youth. The illness had left his legs partially paralyzed, but had done nothing to curb the sharpness of his mind. Indeed, his sister often remarked that the more Teddy felt constrained by his disability, the less of a guard he was willing to set on his tongue.

It wasn’t deliberate. He didn’t mean to be rude or unkind. But he knew firsthand how short life could be, and how suddenly it might all come to an end. The time one had left was too precious to squander. He had no patience for mincing words.

“I recommended a painting to you,” he said. “Mr. Whistler’s new piece—The Woman in White. It was on display at the Berners Street Gallery at the time.”

She blushed to the roots of her hair. Her auburn hair. It was now the same shade as the titian-haired lady depicted in Whistler’s painting. “I could hardly forget,” she said. “It doesn’t follow that I know you. We haven’t been introduced. Not properly.”

“That’s easily remedied.” He wheeled a half turn closer to her. “My name is Edward Hayes. Most everyone calls me Teddy. And you are?”

“Stella Hobhouse,” she blurted out, “but that isn’t the point—”

“Stella,” he repeated. A pleased smile tugged at his mouth. “Like a star.” Surely it was a sign? He was meant to find her again.

She drew herself up with offended dignity. “I did not give you permission to use my Christian name.”

“Why shouldn’t I when it’s so beautiful?” He wheeled nearer. “By the by…what happened to your silver hair, Stella?”

Her mouth fell open. “Why that’s…that’s none of your business!”