Page 91 of A Shore Thing

“I’ve no doubt of that.”

The silence between them felt warm and comfortable.

“The Pre-Raphaelites,” she ventured. “I’ve heard of them.”

“From people telling you that you look like you belong in one of their paintings?”

That was it, exactly.

She flushed. “Also, I’ve seen Ophelia, by Millais. He’s a Pre-Raphaelite, isn’t he?”

“One of the founders of the Brotherhood.”

“It’s an extraordinary picture, botanically speaking. I could have looked at the riverbank all day. The plant life seemed infinitely detailed.” Her brow puckered. “Of course, there was death at the center of the thing. Another floating woman. Do I detect a theme?” She paused. “And does something about me suggest a watery grave?”

“It’s your hair.” He slanted a gaze at her. “The women in their paintings have long, thick, wavy hair, often red.”

“My hair isn’t red,” she sputtered. “Have you ever looked at me?” She shut her eyes. “What color are my eyes?”

“Your hair gives off a reddish glimmer.”

“My eyes.”

“Brown. With a belligerent glimmer.”

She opened them and blinked away the sparkles. The afternoon air had a dazzling clarity.

“What about my eyes?” He bent over her, batting his lashes. She laughed and was still laughing when she intercepted his kiss.

How did he know how to kiss like that? Like casting a spell and issuing an invitation. The buzzing was in her ears, not bees—every particle of her being, rearranging.

“Your eyes are also brown, are they not?” Her breath hitched as they stepped apart, ruining her delivery.

He raised an ironic brow. “It seems you are no close observer of my person. Shall I come closer still?” He moved toward her.

She skipped back, scandalized, and as happy as she’d ever been. “We’re abroad, in daylight.”

“We are,” he conceded, glancing about the deserted shore. “Quite correct.” He halted on the approach and held out his arm.

They began to walk again toward the castle.

“It occurs to me,” he said. “You can see my Lady of Shalott, if you’re inclined. Several of my Arthurian paintings sold to an American dry goods magnate with a private gallery on Fifth Avenue. I’ve heard he puts on excellent exhibitions.”

She felt a bittersweet rush of emotion. Months from now, she might stand in a great gilded room, surrounded by strangers, and look upon pictures that recalled her to this golden afternoon.

“I’ll make it a point to attend.”

“How long will you stay in New York?” He sounded nonchalant.

“Indefinitely.” She gave him a bright smile. “I’m going to teach botany at an academy for women.”

“Wonderful,” he murmured, with undoubtable sincerity. “And you have friends there?”

She looked away. Friends overstated it. “Fellow botanists. We write to each other and exchange our findings. I became friendly with the Satterlee sisters when they were researching in England. They founded the academy. They’re the ones who arranged for my position.” She looked back at him. “And the ones who set up my original lecture at Clinton Hall.”

He nodded slowly. “What do they think of that fellow’s meddling?”

Good question.