Page 25 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

“I’m not the only one. There’s an entire class of artists who believe that art should stand alone. Whistler is among them. He says it’s enough that a painting appeals to the artistic senses. It needn’t be burdened with allusions to morality or politics or religion.”

“Do you believe that?”

“I do. The French call it l’art pour l’art.”

“Art for art’s sake,” she translated. And then she laughed. It was a soft, husky sound. “My old governess would take issue with that idea. She used to say that all of my drawings should glorify God.”

“Was it she who taught you to sketch?” he asked.

“I taught myself. Miss Callis only ever criticized my work. She didn’t like that I gave my horses wings, or that I shaded them in outlandish hues. I keenly remember her rapping my fingers whenever I chose an inappropriate color from my paintbox.”

“An inappropriate color?” He scoffed. “She sounds appalling, as well as ignorant.”

Miss Hobhouse’s smile dimmed. “I would certainly never have chosen her for myself. It was my older brother who employed her.”

Teddy regarded her steadily. “Your brother the clergyman.”

“Yes.”

“What of your parents? Had they no say in your education?”

“My parents died long ago—my mother when I was born, and my father when I was but a child. He perished in a carriage accident traveling home from London. He was a barrister.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.” An eloquent wince flashed across Teddy’s brow. “Not about his profession, I mean, but about—”

“I know what you meant.” She smiled slightly. “Thank you. I’d like to say I remember them, but I suppose I was too young.”

“Your brother has had charge of you ever since?”

“And of my education.” She fidgeted with a crease in her heavy wool skirts. “I had a terrible time being rid of Miss Callis. Indeed, it seems I’ve spent the whole of my life deposing one tyrant after another. First my nurse, then my governess, and now…”

“Now?” he prompted quietly.

She gave him a rueful look. “My brother is contemplating marriage.”

“Ah. His betrothed is of a tyrannical strain, I gather.”

“She isn’t his betrothed. It’s one of the reasons I’m here.”

His brows lifted in inquiry.

She hesitated before explaining, “The young lady is in town for Christmas. My brother had planned to invite her to stay with us. His plan was contingent on my being there. That’s why I accepted Lady Anne’s invitation—to frustrate my brother’s aims. That, and…I’d hoped coming here might provide an opportunity to solve my own wretched problem.”

“What problem is that?”

“The usual one. I’ve failed in my efforts during the London season. Twice failed, for this year was my second attempt at the business. If not for that sad fact, I mayn’t have been so desperate as to color my hair.”

“I see. You hope to marry.” He’d already known that. It was why she’d been in town three months ago. Why every eligible young lady had been in town. Her words nevertheless provoked a pit in Teddy’s stomach. Once she was respectably wed, he’d have no more chance of painting her. Not the way he wanted to. “If that’s your ambition, I don’t wonder that you’d rather I didn’t paint you.”

“I wonder that you’d wish to,” she returned. “Do you mean to depict me like Mr. Whistler’s Woman in White? As some stark, ethereal spirit the critics will write scathing reviews about?”

It was his turn to frown. “I don’t know. I won’t until I start with the preliminary sketches. Even then, my feelings can change. I’ve discarded entire canvases in the past when the piece wasn’t going as I intended.”

“Portraits of ladies?”

“Sometimes.”

“Have you painted many of them?”