Page 67 of Under a Dancing Star

I turn to look at him, and for some reason there are tears prickling at my eyes. “I love them,” I say simply. “Thank you for painting them.”

Ben swallows. “It looks like the great experiment has helped us both. I think it’s some of my best work.”

“I’m glad,” I say, forcing myself to sound cheerful. “I wouldn’t want to think that I was the only one who experienced positive results.”

I think he’s going to make a joke, something sly about the “positive results”, but instead he smiles, a slow sweet smile.

“No,” he says. “You’re not the only one.”

My heart thumps irregularly in my chest. “You’re being very romantic now.”

“I suppose you bring it out of me,” Ben replies, and his face is difficult to read.

I clear my throat. There’s a strange tension building up between us. I think it’s because there is so much unsaid.

I know that there are lots of things I want to say, but for some reason it is proving difficult. Ever since Florence, things have been different between us. It’s not just what happened physically; something else is happening here – something messy that has to do with feelings. Something that is very much supposed to be outside the scope of our experiment. I don’t usually have a problem with sharing my opinions but in this case I feel incredibly vulnerable – like my emotions are something tender and new.

“So,” I say finally. Unfortunately, I don’t seem to have any more of the words in that sentence to hand.

“Bea,” Ben begins. He takes a step towards me.

“Ah, here you are!” a hearty voice exclaims. It’s my uncle, and Sir Hugh and Lady Bowling are with him. As they walk into the glade, his eyes dart between me and Ben and a look of displeasure crosses his face. “Beatrice, you mustn’t be out here unchaperoned; it’s most improper.”

“Is it?” I ask blankly, thrown by this sudden intrusion into what was a very private moment. I feel as though I had been running at great speed, only to be pulled up short, and I am struggling to catch my breath.

“You must know it.” Leo sounds impatient now. “Ben is hardly a proper escort for a young lady.”

Ben turns. “Aren’t I?” he asks, his voice flat.

Leo looks uncomfortable for a moment. “Well, I didn’t mean…” he trails off. “That is to say, of course there’s nothing untoward going on. Just that appearances are important, aren’t they? We can’t be too careful when it comes to a young lady’s reputation, particularly a young lady of Beatrice’s social standing. After all, Beatrice’s parents expect us to, to…”

“Naturally Beatrice’s parents expect her to maintain a certain standard,” Frances says. Her eyes are on Ben, her disdain obvious.

“And what sort of standard is that?” I ask, matching her icy tones. “Because as far as I can see they entrusted my care to my uncle and I am merely socializing with his invited guests.” I fix her with a level stare. “Not all of whom are being as polite as Ben.”

“Beatrice!” Leo stares at me, aghast. “I’m sure Benedick here understands what we’re saying. He knows the way the world works. A young man of his … background is hardly a suitable chaperone for a girl like you. Art lessons are all right, on the grounds, but this…”

“I was just showing Bea the work,” Ben says, and his tone is expressionless.

“And very interesting it is,” Sir Hugh breaks in here. While we have been talking, he has been examining Ben’s paintings closely. “Quite a fresh approach, Benedick. This is promising.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ben says quietly.

“Well,” Uncle Leo says, looking around anxiously. It strikes me that he enjoys pleasing people, and that in our current group there is no possible response that will appease everyone. “Perhaps we should return to the party.”

But as he speaks we are joined by other guests and one draws Ben aside to talk about his work. Leo takes the opportunity to pull my hand through the crook of his arm. I am still frozen, barely able to take in what has just happened – the way a perfect golden scene has been so shattered.

I look back at Ben, and it’s as if a door has closed.

“Ben—” I start to say.

“You should go, Beatrice,” he says, and I think only I hear the harsh note in his voice. “I wouldn’t want to do anything to further compromise your reputation.”

His face is a smiling mask, as he turns to speak to the newcomers, answering their questions and accepting their enthusiastic praise, and I am left reeling by his coldness.

“It looks as though Ben is getting on very well,” my uncle says, in what I think is supposed to be a comforting tone. He pats my hand. “Best for everyone that he focuses on his work, eh?”

By now we’re back at the centre of the party, and the music is still skittering through the air, its cheerfulness at odds with my own emotional turmoil.