Page 30 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

He stared at her from across the table. “Another puzzling non sequitur. Am I to conclude that you’re fond of horses? Therefore, an injury caused by a horse would be—”

“Dreadful indeed,” she repeated lamely. She moved to set aside her napkin, leaving her cake and tea unfinished. The best thing she could do now would be to go. She’d already offended him beyond bearing.

But Mr. Hayes’s sharp eyes kept her pinned to her seat. The wry amusement in his face gradually returned. “A horsewoman,” he said. “A real one? Or merely the sort that’s led about on an aged pony by her long-suffering groom?”

Stella relaxed a fraction. She recognized when she was being teased. “I don’t ride an aged pony. I have a mare. A spirited one. Her name is Locket. She’s by Stockwell. You may have heard of him.”

Mr. Hayes regarded her intently. “I haven’t.”

“He was a famous racing stallion. Gray, like Locket. Quite spirited, too. Locket inherited the worst of his temperament, I fear. She can’t be ridden by just anyone.”

“But you can ride her?”

“Oh yes. Some have called her dangerous, but for me, she goes like a dream. The slightest pressure of my leg and she’s off, fast as quicksilver, as though she has the same wings I used to draw on my horses as a girl. I’ve never felt anything like it on this earth. The untrammeled power! The sheer freedom! It makes me want to gallop forever. And Locket never tires. She’d run her heart out if—”

“Do you always sparkle so brilliantly when you talk about your horse?” he interrupted.

Stella broke off, belatedly recalling where she was—and with whom she was speaking. Her cheeks heated. “I don’t know,” she said, abashed. “Probably. Was I rambling?”

“You were glowing.”

“Was I?” She smiled, a little self-conscious. “I daresay I get as exercised about horses as you do about art.”

Mr. Hayes didn’t seem to hear her. His attention was wholly focused on her face, as though he’d been entranced by something he found there. “This is how I would paint you,” he said gruffly.

A rush of heat flooded through her. That a man should look at her so! “Mr. Hayes—”

“Teddy.”

“Teddy, then,” she said. “I’ve already told you it’s impossible. My brother would have an apoplexy. There’s nothing more to say on the subject.”

“Then…may I sketch you, at least?”

She opened her mouth.

He forged ahead before she could offer another objection. “I would use pencil, not paint. And you may keep the sketch afterward. You could tear it up if you like. Burn it. Whatever you will. There’d be no possible danger of it harming your reputation.”

Stella lapsed into uncertain silence. A sketch? Something that would be hers and hers alone?

She was tempted. Dangerously tempted. She longed to see herself as he did. As some brilliant, glowing star that could dazzle a person at first sight.

And it was only a pencil sketch he was proposing. Surely that could do no harm? Not if she burned it after he was finished?

She came to an abrupt decision. “Very well,” she said. “I’ll allow it.”

Teddy’s handsome, clever face spread into a grin. There was relief in his eyes. It was coupled with an unmistakable flash of triumph.

She at once understood why. It wasn’t only a pencil sketch, was it? Indeed, it wasn’t a sketch at all. It was an apple in the proverbial garden. He’d finally coaxed her into taking the first bite. All that remained was for her to devour the rest of it.

And Stella was ravenous.

Nine

Stella was late to her rendezvous with Teddy the following day. It wasn’t because she’d had a change of heart. Despite the doubts that had plagued her through the night, and continued to follow her into the morning, she was keenly aware of the honor he’d bestowed on her by asking her to sit for him.

Altogether too aware.

As a consequence, on returning to her room after a chilly morning ride with Anne and Mr. Hartford, Stella had lingered far too long at her toilette. She’d washed with lilac-scented soap, chosen her gown with care, and spent long minutes in front of her dressing table, carefully concealing her gray hair beneath her borrowed black crepe-and-lace morning cap. It wasn’t every day one posed for a portrait, after all, even if it was only a sketch.