Chapter Four

Four

Stella’s dilemma was resolved by the timely arrival of Anne.

“There you are!” She materialized at Stella’s side. “You’re becoming as difficult to keep track of as Eris. Every time I avert my gaze, you disappear. I feared you’d gone back to your room.”

Stella turned to face her friend, at once relieved and—to her shame—a bit annoyed. She nevertheless smiled at the comparison. Anne’s adopted feral kitten—recently given over into Mr. Hartford’s custody—was known for slipping into forbidden rooms, shredding the wall coverings, and climbing the draperies.

“Not so unpredictable as that,” Stella said. “I only wanted a bit of air. It was becoming rather close.”

“Don’t think for a moment that you can fob me off with that nonsense,” Anne replied. “You forget that I stood exactly where you are while Evie and Julia married. It’s dreadful to be the odd person out when all of one’s friends are pairing off.” She took hold of Stella’s gloved hand in a firm grip. “But I won’t let you drift away. I mean to hold on to you, tight as ever.”

Stella squeezed Anne’s hand in return. “And I to you.”

“One wouldn’t know it by the way you keep vanishing.”

“Hardly vanishing. I merely know when I’m surplus to requirements.”

“You’re nothing of the sort. This is a house party, not a honeymoon cottage. We Furies are meant to stick together.”

Stella laughed despite herself. They had often been called that during her first season, when she, Anne, and Julia had ridden together in Rotten Row.

The next year, when Evie had joined their small band of equestriennes, the name had sometimes been changed to the Four Horsewomen. Though coined in a spirit of good-natured jest, both labels had ultimately served to single them out as oddities. But Stella and her friends hadn’t received the appellations as such. The Furies were formidable women. And the Four Horsemen were a quartet to be reckoned with. In the end, as Anne often said, it was better to be powerful than to be popular.

“Only one Fury now,” Stella said. “I shall be on my own.”

“Rubbish. Furies are forever. And who says they can’t be married? Marriage doesn’t change a lady’s identity—only her name.”

Stella wouldn’t know anything about that. She doubted she ever would. Chances were, she’d be taking the name of Hobhouse to her grave. It was either that or Smalljoy.

An involuntary shudder coursed through her.

Stella Smalljoy? Never. Not for any inducement. She would die, rather.

“Speaking of names…” Anne cast a discreet glance at the alcove. “I see you’ve found Mr. Hayes.”

“I have.”

“Have you spoken with him?”

Stella didn’t answer. Not directly. She hadn’t yet told Anne about Mr. Hayes’s unseemly proposition. She was uncertain if she would. It was still too fresh. Too private. “I can hardly do so. We’ve yet to be introduced.”

“That would have been easily remedied had you lingered a trifle longer at breakfast,” Anne said.

“I never linger over breakfast. You know that.”

Stella was accustomed to rising early in order to take Locket out for the first of the mare’s twice-daily gallops. Intensive exercise was necessary to keep a horse of Locket’s temperament in check. Stella often rode off in the mornings, with nothing but a cup of tea to sustain her.

It hadn’t occurred to her to alter her habit while she was at Sutton Park. Breakfasts at country house parties were informal affairs, with the various dishes arrayed in warming trays on a server, and guests coming and going as they pleased. They filled their own plates and sat where they liked, unconstrained by the order of precedence.

Stella had joined Anne, Mr. Hartford, and Lady Arundell only briefly before marching off to the earl’s stables, sketch pad in hand, to visit the horses. Their warm, snuffling breaths against her cheek had served to dull the ache of emptiness she always felt when she passed too many days out of Locket’s company.

She’d remained for nearly two hours, first at the loose boxes and then at the rails of the paddocks, committing her impressions of the horses to paper with broad strokes of her pencil.

“Pity,” Anne said. “Mr. Hayes arrived within seconds of your leaving. He remained at table for over a half hour with his sister and brother-in-law. That’s them, standing next to him—Mr. and Mrs. Archer. Hartford introduced them to me.”

Stella chanced another look in Mr. Hayes’s direction. The pretty lady standing beside him was flanked by a tall, dashing gentleman with a roguish smile. They were both beautifully clad—she in an exquisite blue dinner dress, and he in an elegantly tailored black suit.

“They seemed pleasant enough people,” Anne remarked. “Not at all vulgar.”

“I shouldn’t imagine they would be,” Stella said. “Not even if they are in trade.”

Anne’s gaze drifted back in Mr. Hartford’s direction. Her mouth curved in a mysterious half smile. “Indeed. Tradespeople can be quite congenial, I find.”

Mr. Hartford emerged from the crowd to join them, a grin still on his face as he tossed a reply over his shoulder to another back-slapping well-wisher. “Thank you. We shall.” His voice dropped to an amused murmur as he approached Anne. “Engaged less than twenty-four hours, and you’ve already abandoned me to the masses.”

“You handle the masses beautifully,” she replied. “I have complete faith in you.”

“The congratulations are meant for both of us,” he said. “Tedious, admittedly, but one must tolerate the formalities.”

“Never mind all that.” Anne took his arm. “You must introduce Mr. Hayes to Miss Hobhouse.”

Stella flushed. “Really, Anne, it isn’t necessary.”

“It’s necessary,” Anne said firmly. “Our first meeting with him wasn’t auspicious. There’s bound to be awkwardness. An introduction will lessen it, and make your stay more enjoyable.”

“An introduction, then, by all means,” Mr. Hartford said. “Miss Hobhouse?” He proffered his free arm to Stella.

Stella moved to take it. She was grateful, at least, that he’d offered. Most newly engaged gentlemen wouldn’t be so obliging to the spinster friends of their betrothed. “Thank you.”

“Pray don’t mention it.” A gleam of kindhearted humor twinkled in his eyes. “Now I’m engaged to Lady Anne, I count the Furies as good as family.”

Stella managed a distracted smile. It was impossible to give her full attention to Mr. Hartford or Anne when Mr. Hayes was gazing at her so steadily from his place across the room. She swallowed hard as they approached.

Mrs. Archer stepped forward to meet them, her husband at her side. She had the same ebony hair, straight ebony brows, and intelligent slate-blue eyes as Mr. Hayes. Not a traditional beauty, but lovely, nonetheless. There was an understated confidence in the way she carried herself, and a sympathetic softness in the curve of her quiet smile.

“Miss Hobhouse,” Mr. Hartford said. “May I present Mr. and Mrs. Archer of Hayes’s Perfumes? And this is Mrs. Archer’s brother, Mr. Hayes.”

Stella inclined her head. “Mr. Archer. Mrs. Archer.” Her eyes briefly met Mr. Hayes’s. Warmth suffused her midsection. “Mr. Hayes.”

“Miss Hobhouse,” Mr. Hayes said gravely.

It took an effort to avert her gaze from his. There was something fever bright in the way he looked at her.

Was it akin to an illness, she wondered, to want to paint a certain subject so badly? A sort of madness, as Mr. Hayes had claimed? One that obsessed the mind and riveted the senses, to the exclusion of everything—and everyone—else?

Stella didn’t know. Though she enjoyed sketching herself, she’d never yet fixated on a single subject. Certainly not on a person. Her own sketches were largely limited to depictions of horses, or to simple country landscapes, not vastly dissimilar from the aged pastoral that hung above Mr. Hayes’s head.

“Miss Hobhouse,” Mr. Archer said, bowing. “You’ve already met my brother-in-law, I take it.”

“I—” Stella stopped herself only to start again. “We, er, crossed paths at the British Museum some months ago.”

Mrs. Archer smiled. “My brother no doubt importuned you with ravings about Turner.”

Stella couldn’t help but smile in return. “I believe Turner may have been mentioned.”

“I should be surprised if he hadn’t been,” Mrs. Archer said. “There’s no artist Teddy admires more.”

“My brother-in-law is a painter,” Mr. Archer explained. “A good one.”

Stella had no choice but to look at Mr. Hayes again. It would have been impolite not to. Her heart once more lost its rhythm. “Oh?”

His gaze held hers. “A very good one,” he said, without an ounce of humility.

Mr. and Mrs. Archer laughed. “It’s true,” Mrs. Archer said. “We’re forever singing his praises.”

“Miss Hobhouse is something of an artist as well,” Anne volunteered.

Mr. Hayes’s attention sharpened. “Is that so?”

Stella reflexively demurred. She wasn’t in the habit of boasting about her accomplishments. “I only sketch a little.”

“Beautiful sketches,” Anne said. “As good as anything in a museum.”

“ Anne ,” Stella murmured, abashed.

“Well, it’s true,” Anne whispered back.

Seeing Stella’s discomfiture, Mr. Archer was chivalrous enough to turn the subject. “Allow us to offer our congratulations on your engagement,” he said to Anne and Mr. Hartford.

“Oh yes,” Mrs. Archer agreed. “Such joyful news. We wish you every happiness together.”

As Mr. and Mrs. Archer conveyed their good wishes, and Anne and Mr. Hartford received them, Mr. Hayes continued to command Stella’s gaze.

“I’d like to see your sketches,” he said.

Stella didn’t doubt it. Most men who considered themselves experts in a field took great pleasure in offering unsolicited opinions on a lady’s humble efforts. But Stella’s efforts were far from humble. She may not have studied in Paris, but she was good at sketching. She required no man to validate her skill.

“I’m not inclined to share my work with strangers,” she said.

“I’m not a stranger. We’ve met before, if you recall.” A wry smile edged his mouth. “And not only in the King’s Gallery.”

Her cheeks heated, remembering their scandalous encounter in the anteroom last night. A swift glance in the direction of Mr. and Mrs. Archer confirmed they hadn’t overheard. The two of them were still conversing with Anne and Mr. Hartford.

Stella sunk her voice. “That’s hardly a character recommendation.”

Mr. Hayes shrugged. “I’m an artist. An extraordinary one. Character doesn’t come into it.”

She gave an involuntary huff of amusement at his unapologetic air of self-regard. “You were certainly extraordinary last night,” she said. “Extraordinarily impertinent.”

“Is that why you didn’t return to the ballroom? Because of my extraordinary impertinence?”

“I needn’t account to you for my whereabouts.” The retort emerged more tartly than Stella had intended. She felt a twinge of conscience. She was rarely provoked into incivility. Altering her tone, she added, “I was tired.”

“You’d only just arrived,” he said. “You’d yet to dance a single dance.”

“What’s this about dancing?” Mrs. Archer asked as she and the others broke off from their conversation.

“We were speaking about the ball last night,” Stella answered. It wasn’t entirely a lie. “Such a pity it’s over.”

“Don’t despair just yet,” Mr. Hartford said. “My grandfather has called the village musicians back to Sutton Park for another evening of dancing tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Anne’s face lit with delight. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve. “I thought the opening ball was the only dance Lord March had planned for the party?”

Mr. Hartford set a hand at Anne’s waist. “That was before the announcement of our engagement. Now the news has been made public, Grandfather means us to celebrate to the fullest. The village musicians are in complete accord. They’ve agreed to forgo the warmth of their hearths on Christmas Eve in favor of the mulled wine and merriment on offer at ours.”

Stella cast a sidelong look at Mr. Hayes as the conversation continued. Her pulse quivered. Another dance? That didn’t trouble her. Dancing was a necessary precursor to meeting eligible gentlemen. She was eager for the opportunity. It was the whole reason she’d come.

No. What troubled her was the prospect of another encounter with Mr. Hayes.

Would he attend the Christmas Eve dance tomorrow just as he’d attended the opening ball? Would he sit in his wheeled chair at the edge of the ballroom, watching her? Judging her? Recognizing her as no better than what she was: a gaudily plumed ladybird soliciting a mate?

Tricking a mate, more like. For unlike the other young ladies in attendance, Stella’s plumage was dyed. And Mr. Hayes knew it.

She had the sinking feeling that his unlucky presence at the house party was going to have a decidedly adverse effect on her future.