Page 4 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

Stella’s older brother, Daniel, would be outraged by the man’s impertinence. So would Anne, come to that. Stella herself was somewhat less offended. Stunned, yes, but not at all inclined to swoon.

Mr. Hayes wasn’t, after all, a complete stranger anymore. And not only because he’d introduced himself, but because he’d admitted to being part owner of Hayes’s Lavender Water. The famous British brand was one of the most respectable scents a lady could wear. In her younger days, when her meager funds had stretched to affording her the little luxuries of life, it was the very fragrance Stella had often used to splash her unclothed body after a bath.

Good gracious. The very thought!

It was that which made her cheeks heat with uncontrollable warmth.

As for his suggestion that he paint her…

“On no account,” she said. “I’m no artist’s model.”

Mr. Hayes was undeterred. “All the better. I’ve no use for an experienced model to pose for me. I require a particular look. A certain unique quality. Until I saw you at the museum, I despaired of finding it.”

In other words, he wanted an oddity.

A knot twisted in Stella’s stomach. No lady enjoyed being thought unique because of her most damning flaw.

“You wish to paint a lady with gray hair,” she said flatly. “There are hundreds about. Thousands, even. You can take your pick.”

“There are none like you.” His keen gaze swept over her, from the spun-glass aigrette she wore in her hair to the hem of her white silk-and-crepe skirts. “None that I’ve seen.”

She made a scornful sound. “That I can well believe. It isn’t often a lady of my age—” She stopped herself.

What in heaven was she doing engaging with him on the topic of her hair? She should have left the instant he first remarked on it, not lingered to indulge his prurient interest! Not even an artist could be forgiven for discussing a lady’s person in such candid terms.

“It isn’t your youth.” He rolled his chair another turn of the wheels toward her. “It’s not even the color of your hair, though it is stunning.”

Stunning.

The word reverberated in the shadowed anteroom. It echoed back at Stella, both in her ears and in her heart, a balm to her injured pride. She knew she shouldn’t encourage him, but…

“What, then?” she asked.

“Why, you’re a shining star, Stella,” he said. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you so before? It’s that quality I need to paint.”

Stella’s breath caught at the compliment. She’d been praised so rarely in her life, and never for her beauty. And to be called a shining star, of all things!

Mr. Hayes had uttered the words effortlessly, but not at all frivolously. There was a seriousness behind his eyes at odds with his easy demeanor. Need to paint, he’d said. Not want. This endeavor meant something to him. A great deal, unless she was mistaken.

He rolled closer to her. “I have a fascination with light, you see. There’s an art to translating it to canvas. It’s present in the works of Turner and Constable. And in modern pieces, like Whistler’s. I can show you, if you like, when we return to London.”

Her heart quivered in unwilling anticipation. “You presume we’ll see each other again.”

“Naturally.” He smiled, revealing a brief flash of even white teeth. “It’s taken me three months to find you. I’m not likely to let you go.”

Heat crept up her throat. She should be offended. But it was difficult to summon outrage when Mr. Hayes was so earnest.

She couldn’t stop herself from blurting out the first thought in her head: “How peculiar you are.”

His smile spread into a fleeting grin. “I shall take that as a compliment.”

“You may take it how you like. But I shan’t agree to your painting me, sir. My brother is a clergyman.”

This time, Mr. Hayes’s eyes smiled, too. “That’s an odd non sequitur.”

“It isn’t. Not if you knew my brother. And if he knew of this—”

“Need he know of it?”