Chapter Eight

Eight

Stella sat across from Mr. Hayes at the small table the footman had prepared for them by the parlor window. He and a maid had brought in a steaming pot of tea, a small plate of sandwiches, and slices of iced gingerbread and brandy-soaked fruitcake. After a bow and a curtsy, and a murmured “Will there be anything else, miss?” both servants had departed. Neither had batted an eye at leaving Stella alone, unchaperoned, with a young man. They hadn’t regarded Mr. Hayes as a threat.

Stella wished she could feel the same. She’d been avoiding Teddy Hayes all morning. Indeed, she’d been avoiding everyone.

Anne had succeeded in washing the green out of Stella’s hair last night. It had taken countless applications of borax and olive oil solution, and an equal number of rinses, before Stella had at last lifted her head from the wash basin to find her hair returned to its natural silver gray. Anne had promptly darted off to find Stella a suitable cap.

Alas, the sort of old-fashioned matron’s cap that covered the whole of one’s hair hadn’t been easy to come by, especially not when they were attempting to keep Stella’s altered hair color a secret from the other guests in attendance. The only one in possession of such an antiquated article had been Anne’s mother. A black cap, naturally, given Lady Arundell’s proclivities. It was more suited to an aged relic in deep mourning than to a young lady of Stella’s tender years.

Stella had donned the cap this morning, nonetheless. She was grateful for it, but she knew full well how it made her look, and the questions it would engender. Only one gentleman would be bold enough to ask them. It had seemed imperative that she evade that gentleman’s scrutiny.

In the end, all she’d done was delay the inevitable. Her very attempts at avoiding Mr. Hayes had led her straight to his door.

And then his painting had lured her inside.

It was unlike any landscape Stella had ever seen. Not an exact rendering, by any stretch of the imagination. It contained only the barest impression of the form of a tree, set against a snowbank of gleaming white. A blurred depiction, composed of small, unblended brushstrokes that rather miraculously managed to capture the changing effect of the morning light on the bark and across the expanse of the snow.

Some might call it an unfinished effort. A work unworthy of even a novice artist. But the whole of it inspired an odd ache in Stella’s breast.

Was that how Mr. Hayes meant to depict her? Not as a duplicate of herself, but as an indistinct figure who would provoke that same queer feeling in others?

It was unnerving to think of.

It was also rather exciting.

He’d spoken of light and movement. Of paintings that served no purpose other than to stimulate the artistic sensibilities. “ Who’s to say that strange is bad? ” he’d asked her.

Only everyone she’d ever met in her village in Derbyshire. Only the whole of fashionable London.

But Mr. Hayes didn’t seem to care about any of them. He didn’t appear to be influenced by anyone’s opinions but his own.

“I intended to have my tea here alone,” she informed him after the servants had gone. “Mr. Hartford said that no one ever came into this wing of the house. He said this parlor was private.”

“Lord March assured me of the same,” Mr. Hayes said. “He offered the room to serve as my studio for the remainder of my stay, so I might have a place to work in peace.” He studied her face. “Why alone?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why not join the others in the drawing room for Christmas tea?”

Stella reached for the silver teapot to fill their cups. She would have liked to join the others, but there was no way to show herself in the drawing room without causing comment. With her cap on, she looked an absolute quiz. Everyone would know something was amiss.

It was a small miracle that Mr. Hayes had yet to remark on it. He’d glanced at the awful head covering often enough, and with a slight notch between his black brows, too, as though he couldn’t quite discern what she was about in wearing it. It was only a matter of time before he broached the subject.

She’d hoped to get through the remaining three days of the party without encountering him—or any of the guests—in the house. Far better to see them out of doors, where she could justifiably cover her newly restored gray hair with a combination of a silken net and a bonnet.

As for the fact that today was Christmas, it would have to be enough that she’d honored the day with Anne and Lady Arundell earlier this morning. The three of them had shared a private breakfast in the small sitting room attached to the countess’s bedchamber. Anne had surprised Stella with a ribbon-wrapped pair of new worsted riding gloves, and Stella had given Anne a framed sketch she’d drawn of Anne’s golden stallion, Saffron.

“Sometimes I prefer being on my own,” Stella said as she poured Mr. Hayes’s tea. “What about you? Why aren’t you celebrating with the others?”

“You weren’t at breakfast yesterday, either, I observed,” he said, not allowing Stella to turn the subject away from herself. “Nor at dinner last night. Nor at the dance.” He paused. “You haven’t, by any chance, been avoiding me?”

Her ungloved fingers slipped on the handle of the teapot. A gush of tea streamed from the spout, missing Mr. Hayes’s cup and splashing onto the table. It soaked into the linen tablecloth in a swiftly expanding dark ring of Darjeeling.

Stella hurriedly sat down the pot. “Oh, how clumsy I am!”

Mr. Hayes seemed to take the spilled tea as confirmation. “So, you were avoiding me.”

She exhaled a frustrated breath as she dabbed at the wet spot with her napkin. “Well, if I was,” she muttered, “I’ve done an abysmal job of it. Rather than sharing a breakfast table together with dozens of other people, we’re taking tea, just the two of us, in an otherwise empty room.”

His mouth quirked. “Scandalous.”

It was. Oh, but it was. Stella’s thumping heart told her so.

That didn’t mean she wished to draw attention to the fact. The less fuss they made over this situation, the better. And in the end, what damage could it really do? They were merely two guests at a respectable house party. Cordial and indifferent acquaintances brought together by chance. Surely any danger in their being of the opposite sex was outweighed by the obligations of civility?

He’d said he was on his own and desirous of company. It would have been churlish for Stella to dart off and leave him here, absent the assistance of a companion or servant.

But she recognized the danger. And not only the danger posed by his offer to paint her, but the very real danger posed by the mere fact of being in his presence.

It was too easy to talk with him. Too easy to share things she oughtn’t. Good Lord, she’d already discussed coloring her hair, and told him about her old governess, and about her brother and Miss Trent. Heaven only knew what else Stella would confide if she remained in his company much longer.

She finished blotting the spilled tea. “We’ve done nothing worthy of remark. The door is open. So are the curtains. And it’s only tea and sandwiches.”

“And cake,” he added. “Don’t forget the cake.”

She glanced at him with a flash of humor. “Yes, I suspect the cake is taking things rather too far.”

He smiled back at her. The movement lit his face, softening the sharp edges and making him appear at once more handsome and infinitely more dangerous. This was the countenance of a gentleman who could do more than persuade a lady to submit to his painting her. This was the countenance of a man who could persuade a lady to do anything .

Stella had to remind herself to resume her duties as hostess. She reached for the small silver pitcher on the tray. “Do you take milk? Or do you prefer lemon?”

“Milk, if you please,” he said.

She added milk to both of their cups. It seemed a shame to pollute the Darjeeling. Its fragrance was as delicate as the finest perfume. The footman had told them it was the Earl of March’s own special blend, made from the first flush of tea harvested in the spring.

“You needn’t have avoided me, you know,” Mr. Hayes said. “All I did was ask to paint your portrait. I’d never do you actual harm.”

She sat down the pitcher. “The harm is in the temptation. By that measure, it’s already been done.”

“Then you are tempted to sit for me?”

“It makes no difference if I am. I couldn’t possibly submit to such a thing. You must know that. Ladies don’t pose for portraits.”

“Rubbish,” he said. “Loads of ladies do just that. Mrs. Polidori. Mrs. Millais. Not to mention the Queen.”

“Isn’t Mrs. Polidori Mr. Rossetti’s aunt or some such thing? And Mrs. Millais…” Stella helped herself to one of the thinly sliced cheese sandwiches. “Much as I may sympathize with her situation, one can hardly tout her as an example of a respectable lady.”

Mrs. Millais’s marriage to her first husband, the famed art critic Mr. Ruskin, had been annulled eight years ago, creating a shameful scandal. Her subsequent marriage to painter John Everett Millais had done little to quiet society’s outrage, no matter that the pair were now properly settled with five children to their name.

“As for the Queen,” Stella went on. “You can’t compare the actions of the sovereign to that of an ordinary lady in private life.”

“What about Mrs. Bowes? Mrs. Dickens? Mrs. Sutherland?” He rattled off a litany of examples.

Stella didn’t know the half of them, but she recognized what they had in common. “Married ladies all. Their portraits were likely commissioned by their husbands. Or for their husbands.”

“That doesn’t mean young ladies of your class don’t occasionally submit to being painted. Fathers commission portraits of their daughters all the time.” He raised his teacup to his lips. The delicate, controlled movement served to emphasize the unmistakable strength in his hand. There were smudges of paint on his fingers, and calluses that were no doubt from maneuvering his chair. It was the hand of a gentleman who wasn’t a stranger to hard work. One who could be as powerful as he was precise.

Stella’s stomach fluttered. Forcing herself to look away, she ate in silence for a moment. She’d waited too long to sate her hunger. If she didn’t pacify it now, she risked fainting. Such was the danger of corsets these days. Or, in any event, the danger of the new gowns she’d purchased from Mr. Malik before leaving London. They were as graceful as they were unforgiving, requiring that she lace her stays nearly a full two inches tighter.

The one she wore now was made of simple, untrimmed blue wool. But there was never anything simple about Mr. Malik’s designs. They were tailored as artfully as a love letter to the female form, emphasizing every dip and swell with an elegance that bordered on the sensual.

Had Mr. Hayes noticed? But of course, he must have. There was nothing his eyes didn’t see, even if he was only regarding her for artistic purposes.

She took another bite of her sandwich, washing it down with a drink of her tea. The Darjeeling was lighter and more delicate than her usual blend of Assam. Floral and crisp, and wholly unique. It felt decadent to be drinking it.

“I haven’t a father any longer,” she said as she blotted her mouth with her napkin. “I suppose my brother might commission a portrait of me in theory, but he never would in fact. And even if he did for some crack-brained reason, he’d never hire a handsome young painter for the job. Certainly not one with revolutionary ideas about the purpose of art.”

Mr. Hayes’s teacup froze halfway to his mouth. He arched a brow. “ Handsome? ”

Stella blinked. Good heavens! Had she said that part aloud?

But she wouldn’t be sorry for it. She’d spoken the truth. There was no shame in that.

She lowered her napkin to her lap, carefully smoothing it back into place. “Has no one ever said so before?”

“No one whose opinion mattered.” His smile held a glint of masculine amusement. The expression was at odds with the one in his eyes. His blue-gray gaze was unusually grave. “Thank you for that.”

She shrugged one shoulder in a casual dismissal that she didn’t really feel as she resumed eating.

So, she was the first lady to describe him as handsome. It seemed rather poetic, considering that he was the first gentleman who had ever called her beautiful. Indeed, the first who’d ever professed to notice anything about her at all, other than her one glaring flaw.

Unlike her friends, Stella had never before been the object of masculine interest. She’d garnered no offers during her seasons in London. No attention—at least, none of the positive kind. Her sole moment of notoriety had arisen, not from her beauty, her wit, or even her riding skills, but from the anonymous rude verse a gentleman had penned about her hair.

Behold the Gray Lady as she enters the room;

A husband-seeking specter who’ll lead you to your doom.

Pallid face, pallid charms, and your grandmother’s hair;

Neither suitable for marriage or a fleeting affair.

What man will she catch in her silvery net?

No chap exists who is that desperate yet!

It had gone on from there, with increasing ribaldry.

A mortifying recollection. Stella had laughed at it at the time, recognizing that there were many in society who mistook cruelty for cleverness. What else could one do but laugh? She wasn’t the sort to weep, or to hide, or to indulge in excessive episodes of self-pity. But by God, it had hurt . She’d been humiliated. Disappointed. Heartbroken, in truth, for that thoughtless verse had destroyed all hopes of romance during her first season. It had confirmed what she’d always feared—that no gentleman was capable of seeing past the alarming prospect of her hair.

Not until now.

And Mr. Hayes wasn’t just any gentleman. He was well traveled. He was clever. And he was talented. Alarmingly talented, if his current painting was to judge.

Her curiosity about him grew by the minute.

How was it that he found himself confined to a chair at his age? Had he taken a fall from his horse? Suffered a carriage accident? Or had he always been in this chair? Was it as much a part of him as the clothes he wore?

It didn’t matter.

It shouldn’t matter.

Nevertheless…

She helped herself to a slice of cake. “May I ask how you—”

“Scarlet fever,” he said brusquely.

She inwardly winced. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to—”

“You weren’t going to ask me how I ended up in this chair?” His smile remained, but it was no longer edged with amusement. “It’s no matter. I’ve nothing to hide.” He sat down his teacup. “I took a fever four and a half years ago. In the aftermath, my spine was affected, and then, ultimately, the muscles in my legs. They weakened considerably, so much so that they’re all but useless to me now.”

Stella felt like an absolute monster for having broached the subject. Drat her curiosity! “I’m sorry,” she said again, chastened. “It’s none of my business.”

It was his turn to shrug. The movement was as unpersuasive in its dismissal as her own shrug had been. “I told you,” he said. “I have nothing to hide. My condition is plain for anyone to see.”

There was nothing plain about it. Even his explanation was, Stella suspected, a vast understatement of the events that had left him reliant on a wheeled chair. Only the severest of fevers could affect the use of one’s limbs. She had seen that firsthand during her many years of accompanying her brother as he ministered to the sick.

“Yes, of course,” she said. “I only asked because I feared…”

Mr. Hayes’s jaw tensed almost imperceptibly. There was an expression in his eyes that was hard to read. “What?”

“I feared it had been caused by a horse,” she blurted out. “Which would have been dreadful indeed.”

A bewildered look crossed his face. “Worse than scarlet fever?”

“Yes.” She briefly closed her eyes on a silent groan. “I mean, no. Obviously.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m a horsewoman,” she said.

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.