Page 32 of Under a Dancing Star

CHAPTER TWENTY

As I make my way through the gardens back towards the terrace and my appointment with Ben, I have to confess to feeling a little nervous. It’s silly, I tell myself; after all it’s only Ben and it’s not like any of this is real – it’s an experiment, a dare, an arrangement. Call it what you like, there’s no reason for my heart to be thumping the way it is.

I have just convinced myself of this when I spot Ben. In my current mental state his handsomeness feels like an attack. His tall, muscular frame is sprawled in one of the chairs and the sun catches his golden hair and falls across his perfect face.

“You’re late,” he barks when he sees me.

I come to a halt. “I think you’ll find I’m extremely punctual.”

With perfect timing the faint but carrying sound of the grandfather clock in the living room begins to chime three.

He looks a little sheepish then. “That clock is slow.” There’s a pause. “I thought maybe you’d changed your mind.”

“Oh no,” I say lightly. “I intend to follow this through.”

“In the spirit of scientific inquiry?” he asks, and smiles. “On that note, here. You look lovely, by the way.”

He hands me a small bouquet of flowers, tied with a blue ribbon.

“Thank you.” I bury my face in them to hide the slight flush on my cheeks, inhaling their sweet scent.

“All part of the service.” He stands. “Since you’re always to be found outdoors, I thought that we might have a picnic.”

I notice a wicker basket at his feet. “That sounds perfect.”

“Let’s go, then.”

The spot he has chosen is deep into the grounds and up a hillside. There’s a bit of clambering to get there, and I am once again grateful for my trousers which allow me to stride and scramble about just as easily as Ben does. I stop occasionally to catch my breath, and to enjoy the changing scenery: the orderly rows of vines and the cypress trees with their military bearing set against the gently undulating rise and fall of the hills.

“Here we are,” he says at last.

We’re in a meadow high on top of one of the hills with far-reaching views. He lays the blanket down in the shade of a very ancient-looking oak tree and begins unpacking the parcels of food from the hamper.

I take a moment to enjoy the view laid out before us, and the gentle tickle of a cool breeze on my neck before I sit, pulling my knees up to my chest. “It’s beautiful,” I say.

Ben’s dimples appear. “I thought you’d like it. I come up here to paint sometimes.”

“I can see why,” I say. A flash of yellow has me turning my head. “Oh!” I exclaim. “Ben, look!”

Perched on a branch beside us is a butterfly the colour of sun-kissed Italian lemons. On its forewings is a perfect orange blaze that looks almost like a setting sun.

“Gonepteryx cleopatra,” I breathe, getting silently to my feet and edging over.

“I don’t know what you just said,” says Ben, following my gaze. “But the colours are incredible.” He comes over to join me.

“It’s a Cleopatra butterfly, a male,” I explain in a low voice. “You can tell because of his colouring. The males are much more flashy than the females.”

Ben chuckles at that. With a faint trembling of its wings the butterfly takes to the sky again, drifting quickly out of view, like a dream. When I straighten up I realize that Ben and I are standing very close together. I can feel the warmth from his arm against my own.

“Hungry?” Ben asks, holding my gaze for a long moment.

“Starving,” I agree firmly, dropping back down on to the rug where Ben joins me. He reaches into the picnic basket and passes me a wax-paper-wrapped parcel. Our hands touch, and I feel a zing of awareness run up my arm; my cheeks flush with heat.

These involuntary physical responses that I have around him are really very interesting, I tell myself, trying to steady my breathing.

“What are you thinking about?” Ben asks, his voice a little husky.

“I was thinking that the physiological and psychological causes of blushing are deeply fascinating,” I say, wrestling with the wax paper around my sandwich.