Page 14 of Things We Do for Love and Science
Her breath hitched. Those blue eyes were as unsettling as ever. “Baroque music?” She steadied. “Bach?”
“Yes.” He scrolled through the music on his phone.
“Bach is such an anarchist,” she said, her voice rushed and high-pitched. “It mostly starts off lovely and melodic before he goes off-piste, and it gets a bit crazy only to eventually return to a recognizable pattern. It’s what makes his music all the more powerful.”
“If I’m honest, where Baroque music is concerned, I prefer Telemann.”
“Amateur.” She smirked. “Telemann’s sugar-coated Bach.”
He chuckled. “Very well, then, here are the Brandenburg Concertos for you.” He connected his phone to the Bluetooth speaker, and the room filled with an intricate tapestry of sound.
He returned to the canvas and took up brush and palette.
She closed her eyes for a mere second and soaked up the music. Her shoulders dropped and her breath deepened.
“It’s funny,” he peeked past the canvas and smiled at her, “you resemble one of those Pre-Raphaelite maidens, stretching her swan-like neck to inhale the scent of a rose, but you’re such a level-headed, no-nonsense scientist.”
She gave a small puff of protest. “But what do we know of those Pre-Raphaelite maidens other than what we see in the paintings? What were their passions, and how were they to even find out since they, unlike their brothers, weren’t sent to posh, expensive schools let alone universities?” She lifted her face in a show of dreamy sensuality, her voice climbing an octave higher. “Let me wander around this garden, picturesque and demure, until my dad marries me off to some man he deems suitable, whose property I’ll then become, and who can cheat on me like a rabbit. If I ever so much as raise my eyelids to gaze at another man, I’ll be hung, drawn, and quartered. Ahh, but this rose sure is nice.”
He laughed. “Now you’ve single-handedly ruined the Pre-Raphaelites for me.”
She glanced at him from the corner of her eyes. He was playful again. What a relief. “Did you not already consider them pretty kitsch before? You, the artist?”
He beamed at her. “Yes, I did, but I’m also a man and not unreceptive to beautifully painted women. Sorry. That sounded stupid.”
She chuckled. “Just basic biology.”
“But I think your view of the past is a little bleak. Surely some Victorian women must have loved their husbands and been loved in return.”
“I don’t know. How can you properly love a person who holds such sway over you? As for the husband, power corrupts, and if youownyour wife, you’d have to be a bloody saint to not abuse that fact every now and then.”
“So, no love ever between man and woman until recently?”
“Maybe sometimes, but that would’ve been pot luck because in those days you had to get married before you could even discover whether your betrothed was any good in bed, or, come to think of it, a decent human being. Lovely gowns and roses notwithstanding, I’d much rather live in the present day, thanks.”
His laugh turned into a cough, and he had to wipe tears from his eyes. “Oh, man, this is so much fun. Delia, thank you.”
“I love our chats,” she replied.
Painting and conversation went on for another hour before the fading light and her aching neck muscles put an end to the day’s session.
The zip was uncooperative again, but their new-found easy companionship made the whole procedure of getting out of the dress a lot less awkward.
