Page 29 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

Unlike her friends, Stella had never before been the object of masculine interest. She’d garnered no offers during her seasons in London. No attention—at least, none of the positive kind. Her sole moment of notoriety had arisen, not from her beauty, her wit, or even her riding skills, but from the anonymous rude verse a gentleman had penned about her hair.

Behold the Gray Lady as she enters the room;

A husband-seeking specter who’ll lead you to your doom.

Pallid face, pallid charms, and your grandmother’s hair;

Neither suitable for marriage or a fleeting affair.

What man will she catch in her silvery net?

No chap exists who is that desperate yet!

It had gone on from there, with increasing ribaldry.

A mortifying recollection. Stella had laughed at it at the time, recognizing that there were many in society who mistook cruelty for cleverness. What else could one do but laugh? She wasn’t the sort to weep, or to hide, or to indulge in excessive episodes of self-pity. But by God, it had hurt. She’d been humiliated. Disappointed. Heartbroken, in truth, for that thoughtless verse had destroyed all hopes of romance during her first season. It had confirmed what she’d always feared—that no gentleman was capable of seeing past the alarming prospect of her hair.

Not until now.

And Mr. Hayes wasn’t just any gentleman. He was well traveled. He was clever. And he was talented. Alarmingly talented, if his current painting was to judge.

Her curiosity about him grew by the minute.

How was it that he found himself confined to a chair at his age? Had he taken a fall from his horse? Suffered a carriage accident? Or had he always been in this chair? Was it as much a part of him as the clothes he wore?

It didn’t matter.

It shouldn’t matter.

Nevertheless…

She helped herself to a slice of cake. “May I ask how you—”

“Scarlet fever,” he said brusquely.

She inwardly winced. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to—”

“You weren’t going to ask me how I ended up in this chair?” His smile remained, but it was no longer edged with amusement. “It’s no matter. I’ve nothing to hide.” He sat down his teacup. “I took a fever four and a half years ago. In the aftermath, my spine was affected, and then, ultimately, the muscles in my legs. They weakened considerably, so much so that they’re all but useless to me now.”

Stella felt like an absolute monster for having broached the subject. Drat her curiosity! “I’m sorry,” she said again, chastened. “It’s none of my business.”

It was his turn to shrug. The movement was as unpersuasive in its dismissal as her own shrug had been. “I told you,” he said. “I have nothing to hide. My condition is plain for anyone to see.”

There was nothing plain about it. Even his explanation was, Stella suspected, a vast understatement of the events that had left him reliant on a wheeled chair. Only the severest of fevers could affect the use of one’s limbs. She had seen that firsthand during her many years of accompanying her brother as he ministered to the sick.

“Yes, of course,” she said. “I only asked because I feared…”

Mr. Hayes’s jaw tensed almost imperceptibly. There was an expression in his eyes that was hard to read. “What?”

“I feared it had been caused by a horse,” she blurted out. “Which would have been dreadful indeed.”

A bewildered look crossed his face. “Worse than scarlet fever?”

“Yes.” She briefly closed her eyes on a silent groan. “I mean, no. Obviously.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m a horsewoman,” she said.