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His eyes scanned her face and homed in on her mouth. “Are you wearing lipstick?”
Alice felt her cheeks firing up. “Just a touch of gloss.”
Aaron’s gaze stayed fixed on her lips. The heat from her cheeks migrated to a spot much lower down. It made her want to hop from foot to foot.
“It suits you,” he said. “Now, give me your coat.”
Alice resisted the urge to wrap her arms around her midriff. Damn it, Polly was right; it was now or never. She peeled off her coat, handed it to him and then fidgeted with her handbag.
Aaron stepped back, giving her a very obvious once-over.
Her gut contracted. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a dress before, that’s all.” For a beat his gaze rested on her chest, then he snapped his head up. A dull flush suffused his cheeks.
A sudden rush of adrenaline whooshed through her. Nothing at all like a panic attack.
She said, as nonchalantly as she could, “I decided it was time for a change.”
“It’s certainly very different.” A pulse ticked in Aaron’s jaw. She couldn’t resist an internal high five as he turned abruptly and strode over to the cloakroom, shrugged off his jacket and handed both garments to the girl at the counter. Alice watched the girl’s lips lift in a coy smile. No doubt Aaron was flirting outrageously. And just like that, her moment of elation sputtered and snuffed out. Who was she trying to kid here? One glance at her cleavage meant nothing. It was merely a reflex. Aaron loved women’s bodies and Alice guessed hers—being presentable enough—would elicit a reaction when she showed it off. It was no more significant than your pupils dilating when the light changed.
Resisting the urge to rush over and wrestle her coat back, Alice forced herself to go and buy a program instead. When Aaron joined her, she made sure she was engrossed in reading about Dante Gabriel Rossetti and William Holman Hunt.
“I hope you’re going to interpret. You know what a philistine I am.” He grinned. Alice gave an exaggerated eye-roll as they shuffled their way through the crowds into the first room of the exhibition.
Once inside, the problem was there were so many people squishing up to see the paintings that firstly, Alice couldn’t see much from her five foot two height (even though a pair of heels she hadn’t worn since a cousin’s wedding two years ago elevated her another couple of inches), and secondly, she was nudging elbows with Aaron so frequently her body was refusing to behave in any way close to normal.
Aaron leaned closer, his breath warm against her neck. “Do you want me to lift you up so you can see?”
“That’s sizeist.”
“No, it’s realist. Next best thing, then.” His hands landed on her shoulders and he manoeuvred her gently forward. Then didn’t let go. Alice teetered on her heels, which somehow nudged her body against him. She felt the warmth of his chest on her back and his fingers tightened briefly around her shoulders, then loosened.
Quickly, she stepped forward and, scanning the signage, said, “This isBeata Beatrix.”
She knew that, of course.Beata Beatrixwas her favourite of all Rossetti’s works.
“Hmm. So, what’s the story?” Aaron said.
There was no need to flick through her program; she knew everything about the painting, but she did so anyway because her whole body felt like a lit-up Christmas tree. Her nipples tingled as they nudged at the tight fabric of her dress. Was this what wearing a vintage dress did to your libido? No wonder Polly had such a good sex life.
“It’s a portrayal of a thirteenth century poem about lost love,” she explained primly. “Rossetti painted it as a tribute to his partner, Lizzie Siddal, after she died of a laudanum overdose.”
“That’s a bit morbid.”
“I think it was his gift of atonement. Lizzie had a miscarriage and sank into depression. Rossetti left her alone for long periods while he painted and had affairs with other women. Lizzie wanted to be an artist too, but she never got the chance; women didn’t in those days.”
“He sounds like a prize dick.”
Next to them, a bearded man glared. Alice gave him an apologetic smile. “Probably,” she conceded. “Though at least he paid a tribute to Lizzie withBeata Beatrix. Look at her, she’s absolutely divine.”
“She reminds me of Polly.”
“What makes you say that?”
Aaron waved a hand at the painting. “The pouty lips thing. It’s completely over the top.”
Alice pulled her mouth into a tight line. She’d been trying to emulate Polly’s sensational pout. Obviously not the right move. Lip gloss or no lip gloss it wasn’t going to cut it with Aaron. He went for the cool Scandinavian model look. And she was never going to be able to copy that, not with Rowena’s Yorkshire genes and her dad’s… well, god only knew.
