Page 28 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

She finished blotting the spilled tea. “We’ve done nothing worthy of remark. The door is open. So are the curtains. And it’s only tea and sandwiches.”

“And cake,” he added. “Don’t forget the cake.”

She glanced at him with a flash of humor. “Yes, I suspect the cake is taking things rather too far.”

He smiled back at her. The movement lit his face, softening the sharp edges and making him appear at once more handsome and infinitely more dangerous. This was the countenance of a gentleman who could do more than persuade a lady to submit to his painting her. This was the countenance of a man who could persuade a lady to do anything.

Stella had to remind herself to resume her duties as hostess. She reached for the small silver pitcher on the tray. “Do you take milk? Or do you prefer lemon?”

“Milk, if you please,” he said.

She added milk to both of their cups. It seemed a shame to pollute the Darjeeling. Its fragrance was as delicate as the finest perfume. The footman had told them it was the Earl of March’s own special blend, made from the first flush of tea harvested in the spring.

“You needn’t have avoided me, you know,” Mr. Hayes said. “All I did was ask to paint your portrait. I’d never do you actual harm.”

She sat down the pitcher. “The harm is in the temptation. By that measure, it’s already been done.”

“Then you are tempted to sit for me?”

“It makes no difference if I am. I couldn’t possibly submit to such a thing. You must know that. Ladies don’t pose for portraits.”

“Rubbish,” he said. “Loads of ladies do just that. Mrs. Polidori. Mrs. Millais. Not to mention the Queen.”

“Isn’t Mrs. Polidori Mr. Rossetti’s aunt or some such thing? And Mrs. Millais…” Stella helped herself to one of the thinly sliced cheese sandwiches. “Much as I may sympathize with her situation, one can hardly tout her as an example of a respectable lady.”

Mrs. Millais’s marriage to her first husband, the famed art critic Mr. Ruskin, had been annulled eight years ago, creating a shameful scandal. Her subsequent marriage to painter John Everett Millais had done little to quiet society’s outrage, no matter that the pair were now properly settled with five children to their name.

“As for the Queen,” Stella went on. “You can’t compare the actions of the sovereign to that of an ordinary lady in private life.”

“What about Mrs. Bowes? Mrs. Dickens? Mrs. Sutherland?” He rattled off a litany of examples.

Stella didn’t know the half of them, but she recognized what they had in common. “Married ladies all. Their portraits were likely commissioned by their husbands. Or for their husbands.”

“That doesn’t mean young ladies of your class don’t occasionally submit to being painted. Fathers commission portraits of their daughters all the time.” He raised his teacup to his lips. The delicate, controlled movement served to emphasize the unmistakable strength in his hand. There were smudges of paint on his fingers, and calluses that were no doubt from maneuvering his chair. It was the hand of a gentleman who wasn’t a stranger to hard work. One who could be as powerful as he was precise.

Stella’s stomach fluttered. Forcing herself to look away, she ate in silence for a moment. She’d waited too long to sate her hunger. If she didn’t pacify it now, she risked fainting. Such was the danger of corsets these days. Or, in any event, the danger of the new gowns she’d purchased from Mr. Malik before leaving London. They were as graceful as they were unforgiving, requiring that she lace her stays nearly a full two inches tighter.

The one she wore now was made of simple, untrimmed blue wool. But there was never anything simple about Mr. Malik’s designs. They were tailored as artfully as a love letter to the female form, emphasizing every dip and swell with an elegance that bordered on the sensual.

Had Mr. Hayes noticed? But of course, he must have. There was nothing his eyes didn’t see, even if he was only regarding her for artistic purposes.

She took another bite of her sandwich, washing it down with a drink of her tea. The Darjeeling was lighter and more delicate than her usual blend of Assam. Floral and crisp, and wholly unique. It felt decadent to be drinking it.

“I haven’t a father any longer,” she said as she blotted her mouth with her napkin. “I suppose my brother might commission a portrait of me in theory, but he never would in fact. And even if he did for some crack-brained reason, he’d never hire a handsome young painter for the job. Certainly not one with revolutionary ideas about the purpose of art.”

Mr. Hayes’s teacup froze halfway to his mouth. He arched a brow. “Handsome?”

Stella blinked. Good heavens! Had she said that part aloud?

But she wouldn’t be sorry for it. She’d spoken the truth. There was no shame in that.

She lowered her napkin to her lap, carefully smoothing it back into place. “Has no one ever said so before?”

“No one whose opinion mattered.” His smile held a glint of masculine amusement. The expression was at odds with the one in his eyes. His blue-gray gaze was unusually grave. “Thank you for that.”

She shrugged one shoulder in a casual dismissal that she didn’t really feel as she resumed eating.

So, she was the first lady to describe him as handsome. It seemed rather poetic, considering that he was the first gentleman who had ever called her beautiful. Indeed, the first who’d ever professed to notice anything about her at all, other than her one glaring flaw.