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F OR MADDIE, FINDING a husband during the next London Season was as probable as the members of the Lord Byron’s Society remaining celibate. She couldn’t endure another dull series of balls and dreadful conversations about the weather.

Not that she didn’t take the pursuit of finding a suitable husband seriously but.

..actually, she didn’t. Not anymore. Because she’d just received the letter that was going to change the course of her life forever.

Who needed to secure her future with a marriage when she had the chance to receive a fellowship to attend the Royal Women’s Art Academy and become the painter she’d always wanted to be?

A husband could wait. Her biggest dream couldn’t.

Maddie clenched the letter against her chest, twirling around her room as she imagined her paintings being displayed at the National Gallery and admired by the most prominent art critics.

She fell over the four-poster bed in her enthusiasm thanks to her skirts wrapping around her legs.

Her chest heaved as if after a long horse-riding session in the park.

With happy tears brimming in her eyes, she read the magical letter again.

Mrs. Bridget Blanchet, the most acclaimed female artist in the world, would soon be in London for an exhibition of her work and wanted to meet Maddie!

All those months spent corresponding with Bridget had brought fruit.

She would never complain again about painful writer’s calluses or long waits for a reply.

A knot of anxiety tightening in her belly doused her enthusiasm.

Maybe it was too soon to celebrate. If Bridget found Maddie’s work impressive, she would help Maddie receive a full fellowship for the academy.

Six thousand pounds per year. The sum would cover everything from the lessons and the material for painting to the accommodation.

Painting. All day. Every day. Surrounded by other artists.

The room tilted as Maddie contemplated the enormity of the sum and how her life might change.

She could focus on painting, learn about the latest techniques, be in contact with other artists, and plan for her future as an independent professional.

A future of canvases to be filled with colours and emotions.

Speaking of which. She put the letter on the vanity, shoving aside her jars of rouge and face powder mingled with bottles of turpentine, and wiped the drops of burnt sienna from her fingers with a cloth, lest she stain her precious letter.

As she cleaned her hands from the stubborn dark-red pigment, an unbidden sob tore out of her.

Not many unknown artists could claim to have attracted the attention of a famous painter like Mrs. Blanchet.

But Maddie had. She wasn’t sure how it’d happened.

Well, she’d sent many letters to Mrs. Blanchet to Paris, writing how inspiring her work was after having seen an exhibition of her portraits.

But she hadn’t believed Mrs. Blanchet would have replied.

But Mrs. Blanchet hadn’t simply replied.

She’d started a regular correspondence with Maddie, asking for samples of her sketches, encouraging her, and giving her suggestions for the sfumato—it was difficult to paint in soft tones by blurring the edges without making the painting looking as if created by a drunken artist—and the colour mixing.

And now Maddie would meet her. She wasn’t deluded.

Mrs. Blanchet was going to judge her work, and if she wasn’t impressed, Maddie would need to swallow her pride and reconsider her plans for the Season.

Oh, Lord. Her stomach churned at the thought. Not only because she would renounce her dream, or at the very least postpone it, but because her mother would never stop telling her, ‘I told you so.’

No proper lady should ever earn her living from painting scandalous portraits—Mother’s words. Not hers.

But if Maddie succeeded...Her legs grew weak, and she plopped down onto the stuffed stool in front of the mirror, inhaling the scent of her lavender perfume and that of her colours and oils.

Tears blotched her emerald skirt. She, Madeline Josephine Debenham, was going to study at the prestigious academy—perhaps she should rein in her imagination and focus on producing a painting so stunning that Mrs. Blanchet could do nothing but be impressed.

Wiping her tears, Maddie folded the letter and put it in her pocket. Dreams and plans were two different things. She preferred the latter.

There was also another problem to deal with, and it’d be better if she dealt with it now.

After all, creativity required courage, and courage required.

..she didn’t know what. Desperation, perhaps?

Or maybe simply a tad of madness. She had a lot of desperation and certainly more than a tad of madness.

So she stood up and patted her chignon. Determination, that was what courage required, and she was determined to talk to her mother. Yes, sir, she was. Of course she was. Right now. Immediately. Perhaps after a fortifying cup of tea. No, now.

Still, it took her two attempts to open the door and step into the hallway.

The smell of freshly baked scones wafting from the kitchen downstairs was refreshing compared to that of paint and turpentine oil in her bedroom.

She didn’t mind the smell though, and when she painted, she barely noticed it so focused she was. ..and she was stalling.

Right. Determination.

She lifted her chin and gathered her courage, marching towards her mother’s parlour on wobbly legs.

“Mother?” She knocked and held her breath, half-wishing Mother had gone out for an early call.

“Come in.” Her mother’s voice carried a hint of annoyance. Or maybe Maddie was nervous on top of determined and desperate.

Pulse spiking, she inched the door open, and her resolve dithered at the sight of her mother’s scowl. They shared the same raven hair, too-pale complexion, and green eyes, but Maddie wondered if she looked as menacing as her mother did when she frowned.

She cleared her throat. “Good morning, Mother. I’m here because I wish to talk to you.”

“Obviously.” Mother lowered her embroidery and waved Maddie in.

The long string of pearls around Mother’s neck clinked when she shifted in the armchair. Those pearls would likely pay Maddie’s fee at the academy if her mother wanted to.

“What did you wish to talk to me about?” Mother asked.

Keeping her gaze on the intricate pattern on the carpet, Maddie sat in front of her mother.

The roaring fire in the hearth didn’t seem to shed any ounce of warmth, and the sunlight filtering through the voile curtains dimmed as if scared.

She tugged at the hem of her shirt and reminded herself six thousand pounds were a good argument.

“I’ve received a letter.” Goodness, what a clumsy start.

“See, you don’t know, but I’ve been writing to Mrs. Bridget Blanchet regularly.

She’s the artist who painted The Witches’ Night .

” And many other scandalous paintings Maddie wasn’t going to mention like The Naked Goddess .

“Mrs. Blanchet lives in Paris with her husband and…” She closed her fists not to show how much her hands trembled.

“I thought that, if she met me and if she liked…” Tarnation.

She wasn’t making any sense at all. She chanced a glance up and regretted it, seeing her mother’s icy expression.

She’d catch a cold from it. “Six thousand pounds,” she whispered so low she doubted her mother had heard her.

Mother’s gaze was ablaze with green fire. Her lips were pursed into a severe expression Maddie hoped she hadn’t inherited.

The silence was so thick Maddie could grow potatoes in it. Her tongue knotted. As much as she wanted to talk about the darn six thousand pounds, she could only stare at her mother. Drops of perspiration dampened her back, and her heartbeat drummed in her ears.

“Let me help you.” Mother put the embroidery on the low table in front of her and sighed heavily.

“If you think I wasn’t aware of your little…

” She flourished a hand dismissively. “Friendship with that woman, you’re sorely mistaken.

Nothing happens in my house without my knowledge.

I’m aware of what that woman wrote to you and you to her, including all those inappropriate details on how to draw naked male bodies. ” Her voice rose.

A chill crawled down Maddie’s spine. “Did you read my letters?”

Mother pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’re as gullible as your father. I wonder if you and your sister took after me at all.”

“You read my letters.” Maddie’s voice hardened. All that time, Mother had been reading Maddie’s correspondence and knowing what she’d been planning. “But the envelopes were sealed when I received the letters.”

Mother’s gaze travelled skywards. “Oh, dear child.”

Honestly, Maddie didn’t know if she should be furious or impressed by her mother’s Machiavellian skills. Right now, she leant towards furious. “Those letters were private.”

Mother thumped a fist on the armrest. “Not as long as you live under my roof. I pay for your food, clothes, coal, and even for your books and painting supplies. I have the right to know what you’re doing.”

Maddie gnashed her teeth. “Why didn’t you say anything then?”