Page 34 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

“It is,” he assured her.

“Many ladies wear caps indoors.”

“Only matrons and aged spinsters. Neither of which you are.”

“I am a spinster,” she said. “Technically. And I like the way it looks. I think it’s rather stylish.”

“It’s rather hideous, is what it is,” he replied frankly. “I trust you didn’t pay overmuch for it.”

“I didn’t pay anything for it. I-I borrowed it from Lady Arundell.”

That explained the dour color and the old-fashioned style, but it didn’t explain Stella’s reason for wearing it. The Countess of Arundell was a stately older lady who existed in a perpetual air of mourning. Stella was practically a child by comparison, and not one who had any reason to mourn, not so far as Teddy was aware.

“You’ll have to remove it,” he said. “It’s covering all of your hair.”

She recoiled at the suggestion. “What difference does that make? You don’t approve of my new hair color anyway.”

“No, I don’t. But I’d rather see your hair as not.”

“I’d prefer you didn’t. Unless…” She went paler still. “Must you?”

“If I’m to get this sketch right, yes. There’s a lack of balance and proportion because of it. I couldn’t discern what the issue was until now. I need the whole of you, unaltered by”—he pointed his pencil at her head—“whatever that is.”

Stella bit her lip. Her eyes flicked anxiously to the open door of the parlor. The hall outside was silent. There was no one about. No servants, and certainly no guests. Not in this part of the house. Not unless summoned specifically.

She slowly untied the ribbons of her cap. “Very well,” she said. “But you mustn’t say anything.”

“What else is there to say? I’ve already seen your hair. It isn’t as though—” Teddy broke off as she slipped the crepe-layered atrocity from her head. His jaw threatened to drop.

Bound up in a neatly plaited roll at her nape, her hair was once again the color of fine sterling: beautiful, lustrous, and uniformly gray.

He gaped at her. “When did that—?”

“The night of the dance,” she said shortly. “The auburn dye washed out unexpectedly. That’s why I’ve taken to wearing a cap indoors. It’s the only way to disguise it.”

His mouth went dry. “I see.”

“And if you make a single unkind remark—”

“I wouldn’t,” he said. “I haven’t.”

“No, but I can tell what you’re thinking. You’re thinking—”

“It’s lovely,” he interrupted hoarsely. “Just as it was the first day I saw you.”

She huffed. “Yes, I daresay.”

“I’m not quizzing you, Stella.”

She met his eyes. Whatever she saw there seemed to reassure her. The color gradually returned to her face. “Well…” She folded the cap in her lap with restless fingers. “You’re odd, as we’ve established.”

His mouth pulled into a brief smile. “Would you…?” He motioned to the clock.

She was still visibly flustered. She nevertheless dutifully resumed her pose.

He turned the page of his sketchbook to a blank sheet and started his outline anew. His pulse was racing. This was the shining star he’d seen in the King’s Gallery. The vision that had plagued his every waking hour, and his dreaming hours, too. He felt a decided sense of urgency, afraid the moment would once again slip through his fingers before he’d committed her image to paper.

By God, a sketch wasn’t enough. A single oil portrait wouldn’t be enough. Here was a lady who could inspire a dozen canvases. The Pleiades. The moonlight. The stars over a raging seascape that would put Turner to shame. Teddy wanted to paint her in every light. In every mood.