Page 3 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

“You dyed it, I suppose.” He frowned. “I wish you wouldn’t have.”

“How dare you, sir? To presume to make personal remarks about my—” She broke off. “Is this how you address ladies of your acquaintance?”

“With honesty and candor? Indeed, it is how I address ladies. It’s the same way I address gentlemen. I see no need to insult you by dancing about with euphemisms.”

“It’s not an insult. It’s decorum. Politeness. There are rules—”

“Yes, I’ve heard of them. I suppose that’s how it must be in London. But we’re not in London any longer. We’re in Hampshire.” His smile returned. “And house parties are wild places, I’m told.”

She stared at him, the expression in her silvery blue eyes both intrigued and appalled. “How is it that you come to be here at Sutton Park? Do you know Lord March?”

“I don’t,” he admitted.

“Then what are you doing at his house party?”

“I’m not here by choice,” he said. “My sister and brother-in-law were invited. As I traveled with them from France, they thought it best I accompany them.”

It had been the only way to set Laura’s mind at ease. He’d been in his chair for nearly five years, the first several of which she’d been his caregiver. It was a difficult role for her to relinquish. Never mind that Teddy was better now than he’d been in ages. She still worried about him to an excessive degree.

“They told me there would be great opportunities for sketching.” He cast a grim glance at the rain beating down upon the windows. “I’m reserving judgment.”

She inched toward the door. “Your relations are acquainted with Lord March?”

“Only slightly. My brother-in-law is arranging to purchase a new strain of the earl’s roses for our perfumery in Grasse. Hayes’s Perfumes. Perhaps you’ve heard of us?”

Again, she stilled, her curiosity seeming to get the better of her. “Hayes’s Lavender Water?” She brightened with recognition. “Is that you?”

For once, Teddy was grateful for the negligible fame that his late father’s perfume business brought to the family name. “It’s partly me. I inherited half of the company when my father died. But it’s my sister and brother-in-law who run it. My interests lie elsewhere.”

“You’re an artist,” she said.

“I am.” He paused. “May I ask you an impertinent question?”

She huffed a reluctant laugh. “Haven’t you already?”

His smile broadened. “Tell me, Stella—”

Her chin dipped. She shook her head. “Please don’t call me that.”

“Tell me, Miss Hobhouse,” he amended. “Would you object to my painting you?”

Two

Stella had thought herself beyond shock. However, at the gentleman’s outlandish request, she was scandalized anew. “Paint me?” She stared at him. “In a portrait, do you mean?”

“Yes, exactly that.” He sat across from her in his wheeled chair, just as strikingly handsome as she recalled him being during their brief encounter at the museum.

More striking now, owing to the elegance of his dress.

His eveningwear was impeccably cut. And his gleaming black hair, formerly rumpled, was combed and pomaded into perfect order. It framed a lean face, characterized by high cheekbones, a firmly chiseled jaw, and clever blue-gray eyes set beneath a pair of uncompromisingly straight ebony brows. An austere face, softened only a fraction by a disturbingly sensual mouth.

Mr. Hayes, or Teddy Hayes as he’d so boldly introduced himself, was without a doubt the most singular man Stella had ever encountered. And it wasn’t because he was in a wheeled chair—though that was rare enough in fashionable society. Most people had a fear of illness and infirmity. Invalids were meant to hide themselves away, to be coddled and cared for, their physical frailties kept firmly out of sight of able-bodied strangers. Unless, of course, the invalid was taking the waters in Bath or Harrogate, or out for an airing in the park.

No. Mr. Hayes’s singularity wasn’t on account of his chair. It was entirely owing to his manner.

He was both unrepentantly cheerful and remorselessly direct. It was a quality she’d first observed when they’d met in the King’s Gallery. That earnest demeanor. That blunt way of speaking. One would think he saw nothing at all wrong in cornering an unmarried young lady in a darkened room and shamelessly propositioning her.

Had he no scruples? No decorum?