Under A Dancing Star

by Laura Wood

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The next morning, I wake feeling groggy. When I throw open the shutters I am greeted by another perfect sunny day, and it’s almost hard to believe that the rain really came last night.

  Almost, but not quite, because the air has that sweet, stripped-clean feeling about it, that freshness that only comes after a storm. I take a deep breath of it, enjoying the green smell of the hills. I stand for a moment, looking unseeingly at the view, thinking again of Ben’s lips on mine. I am only brought back to my senses when the sound of birdsong sends me lurching for my binoculars. I am relieved to see that the kiss hasn’t completely scrambled my brain. Again, I fail to catch a glimpse of the bird that’s been eluding me.

  After a quick wash I pull on my trusty trousers and a soft shirt the colour of the bluebells that carpet the woods near Langton each spring. I grab my hat and go downstairs. Everything is quiet and there is no sight of the others. Without really knowing where I am heading I begin to wind through the gardens, following the paths that cut between the yew hedges until I reach the stone fountain in the centre.

  I suppose part of me knew that I would find him there. He is sitting on the broad stone ledge that borders the fountain, a book in his hand. He looks relaxed, rumpled, his long legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. I clear my throat and he glances up.

  “Hello,” I say. He lays down his book and gets to his feet. I recognize the book as a mystery story full of sensational twists and turns – I have read it myself, picked it up from behind Mother’s plant pots in fact.

  “I didn’t have you down for a mystery reader,” I say.

  “It’s one of her best,” he says easily. His voice is warm. It feels intimate, as if the way he speaks to me is different now.

  He drops back on to the stone seat, patting the space beside him companionably, but I remain standing, looking down at him, my hands clasped behind my back so that he can’t see me twisting them anxiously. “About last night…”

  “Ah yes,” he says. “It’s been on my mind as well.”

  “It has?”

  “I’ve thought of nothing else.” The corner of his mouth tugs up. “Klaus really does not have the build to be wearing a toga in public.”

  I bite back a laugh. “I was talking about the kiss.”

  “Mmmmm,” Ben murmurs, his eyes moving to my mouth. “Now that was quite the revelation.” He stretches, looking pleased with himself. “A good introduction to kisses, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

  I feel a flicker of annoyance. After all, I had something to do with it too.

  “Well, yes,” I say briskly. “It was adequate.”

  “Adequate?” His mouth drops open.

  “Yes.” I wave my hand. “I’m sure that next time it will be more…” I pause, pursing my lips, schooling my features into something thoughtful.

  “More what?” he demands icily.

  “I don’t know,” I muse, “just … well, more.”

  He surges to his feet, laughter and outrage writ large on his face and I enjoy a moment of victory before I find myself kissing him. Again.

  I don’t know who kisses who first this time, but it’s as if there was no gap between this kiss and the one last night. His hands cradle my face and just like that, all of the want, all of the blissful, delicious sensation of last night surges instantly through my body at his touch, like a fuse immediately alight.

  When we finally break apart, Ben eyes me with something like reproach. “Adequate, indeed,” he says.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, with a breathless laugh, “but you looked so horribly smug, Ben. I couldn’t resist.”

  He resumes his seat, and I sit beside him, pulling my legs up so that I can cross them. For some reason this second kiss seems to have broken through my nerves. I don’t really understand why because, if anything, the ferocity of it should have been unsettling. Instead, it is as though the ice has been broken. Well, less broken and more completely and utterly melted.

  “A successful result,” I say. “The first time could have been an anomaly, but it seems not.”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” Ben says, looking at me as though he’s not quite sure what I’m going to say next.

  “I’m glad,” I say, pulling a notebook from my pocket and opening it. I pick up his abandoned book to rest it on. “Because I have quite a few questions.”

  Ben looks startled. “Questions?”

  I regard him through narrowed eyes. “You’ve obviously never taken part in an experiment before,” I say. “Collating accurate information is very important.”

  “I can think of more important things,” he says huskily, his hand on my knee.

  “Oh, really?” I ask, producing a pencil from my pocket and holding it over the paper. “And what might they be?”

  There’s a pause and Ben shakes his head in exasperation, removing his hand.

  “Why don’t we just start with your questions?” he says, finally, his tone resigned.

  “All right,” I agree. “First of all. The kiss. We have established that it was somewhat above adequate…”

  “We have.”

  “But it would be helpful if you could provide more detail about your response.”

  “Such as?” Ben raises his eyebrows.

  “Well, you have a much larger sample for comparison. I have only been kissed once before and it was not terribly successful. Our teeth seemed to knock together too much, and it was a bit … wet.”

  “I’m pleased to hear that this experience was an improvement,” Ben says faintly.

  “Significantly.” A look of pride flashes across Ben’s face. “So?” I say, lifting my pencil again in readiness.

  “So what?”

  “So, how was it for you?” I ask. “Purely in the spirit of scientific enquiry, of course.”

  “In the spirit of scientific enquiry…” Ben shakes his head. “It was… I don’t know, Bea! It was … good.”

  “Good?” I make a note. “Could you expand upon that a little?”

  “Very good,” Ben says. “Are you writing that down?”

  “Very good,” I say slowly, and a warm feeling settles in my belly.

  “Yes, Bea.” He throws his hands up in exasperation. “Very good. Excellent, in fact. In the top five of the millions of kisses I have obviously experienced.”

  “Top five?” I pause, my pencil hovering over the page. “How gratifying. And without any practice… That must be a good sign. Perhaps I’m a natural talent.” I look at the next item on my list. “Right. Technique.”

  “Technique?” Ben repeats mechanically.

  “Yes.” I push a stray curl behind my ear. “For example, there was … a thing you did to my neck that I found particularly enjoyable.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes.” I touch the spot just underneath my jaw. “Here.”

  Very slowly, Ben reaches out and brushes his own fingers against my skin, and it’s as if all the blood spontaneously rushes to my cheeks. “Here?’ he asks softly.

  “Y-yes.” I’m surprised to find myself stuttering.

  Ben moves closer, turning towards me. He brushes his lips gently against the place under discussion, feathering light kisses down the side of my neck.

  “Like this?” he asks, pulling back slightly. His face is close to mine, his pupils are wide, turning his eyes a darker, navy blue.

  “Yes,” I say, my hand stealing up to touch the side of his face. “Like that. What about you?” I ask. “What do you like?”

  In answer he leans forward and presses his lips to mine. His mouth is soft and delicious. He trails hundreds of those terribly lovely kisses along my neck, leaving me shivering. We kiss for a long while: slow, drugging kisses that have no beginning or end, that leave me feeling heavy-limbed and dreamy. It’s strange how not-strange it feels, how completely right and good it is.

  When we break apart I am left staring at him wordlessly.

  “Aren’t you go
ing to write that down?” Ben quirks an eyebrow, but his voice betrays a slight tremor.

  “I’m not exactly sure how to write that down,” I admit.

  “Well,” he says, “at least we know the kissing part of the experiment won’t be a chore.”

  “No.” I lift my fingers to my lips which feel tender and swollen. “I suppose not.”

  Ben’s book has dropped to the floor. I look at the notebook in my lap. It’s certainly going to be difficult to keep a level head. “Is it always like this?” I ask.

  “No, Bea.” Ben lets out a slow breath. “It’s not.”

  “Oh.” I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse. “So…” I struggle for a moment, not wanting to push too much, but also interested in the answer. “I’m different?” I ask finally.

  Ben takes my hand in his own, tangling his fingers through mine and squeezing gently. “I actually think you’re sort of … extraordinary.”

  “You do?” I blink.

  “Well, yes,” Ben says. “I mean, you’re completely maddening, of course, but you’re clever and interesting and funny – sometimes even on purpose.”

  “Oh,” I manage, completely reeling from this unexpected barrage of compliments. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t go getting a big head about it,” Ben warns quickly. “After all, compliments are part of the whole wooing thing. I’m contractually obliged to produce them. I’d be more than happy to sit here and list all your flaws, but that wasn’t part of the deal.”

  “The feeling is mutual,” I say, but I’m smiling. Even if the compliments are just part of the experiment, they’re still nice to hear.

  “Good.” Ben clears his throat.

  I am distracted from whatever he is going to say next by the now-familiar song of the hoopoe. Then, suddenly and without ceremony, the bird I’ve been so desperate to see lands on a nearby branch, fluffing out its soft peachy feathers, the long black and white crest fanned out impressively on its head.

  “Look, Ben!” I exclaim, pointing.

  My sudden movement must come as something of a surprise. He tips backwards, there’s a bit of comic arm wheeling as he hangs, suspended for a second on the edge, and then Ben finally goes head over heels, falling into the fountain with an almighty splash.

  I leap to my feet, dodging the tidal wave that his impact sends crashing towards me. Ben emerges from the water, spluttering indignantly, his face a mask of outrage.

  “Oh dear,” I say.

  He stays where he is, sitting in the fountain, blinking at me for a moment. Rivulets of water stream from his hair and he pushes it back and away from his face.

  “Let me guess,” he says finally. “There was a dragonfly?”

  “Oh no,” I say quickly. “A hoopoe, Ben, look!” I turn, but the bird has flown away. “Oh.” I frown. “You must have scared it.”

  “How thoughtless of me,” he mutters.

  “I don’t suppose you did it on purpose, but really, Ben, you are quite clumsy.”

  Ben glares at me. “I wasn’t clumsy before I met you.”

  “I hardly think you can blame that on me,” I say. “But if your balance is off-centre, perhaps there’s something wrong with you, medically speaking. You should get that looked at. Unsteadiness can be a symptom of many different things. How are you feeling?”

  “How am I feeling?” Ben muses, lifting a hand to rub his chin thoughtfully. “How do you think I’m feeling, Bea?”

  “Quite damp, I should imagine,” I say, trying and failing to stifle a laugh.

  Ben pushes himself to his feet in one swift movement and, like a sea creature emerging from the deep, he sends another wave of water crashing against the edge of the fountain.

  “Now, Ben,” I say coaxingly, “don’t be cross. Look, I saved the most important thing.” I hold out my hand to reveal his book, slightly damp but mostly unharmed.

  Ben pauses, looking from my face to the book in my hand. “You,” he says, almost to himself, “are the strangest person.”

  “Extraordinary,” I remind him. “You think I’m extraordinary.”

  “Extraordinarily annoying,” he says acidly.

  “That doesn’t really seem to be in the spirit of our agreement, Ben,” I say sweetly. “And you were doing so well with the compliments.” I’m taunting him now and it’s fun, but the look on his face tells me it’s also possibly dangerous. I absolutely wouldn’t put it past him to throw me in the fountain out of some misplaced idea of vengeance. I edge away. “Well,” I say brightly, “this has all been very enlightening, but I think I’d better be off,” and I turn and stride away, ignoring the spluttered outrage that hangs in the air behind me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The days that follow are dreamy and intoxicating and extremely educational.

  Ben throws himself into the experiment with great enthusiasm, and there have been enough stolen kisses to fill two notebooks with observations. We have not yet tackled the subject of moving beyond kisses, but I have to say my increased awareness of both his body and my own has been rather thrilling.

  It’s late afternoon now and the light is heavy and golden. We’re in the garden and against my better judgement I’m allowing Ben to give love poetry another go.

  “There’s no romance in your soul,” Ben grumbles as I press my lips together, trying and failing to stop the laughter from escaping.

  “I think it’s your reading style, rather than the words,” I point out fairly. Ben is obviously relishing the role of romantic hero, and – as I feared – the overblown, high-drama, “raven-haired beauty” stuff only seems to make me laugh. “I enjoyed Filomena’s poetry at the bonfire the other night.”

  Ben drops down to his knees in the grass in front of me. “Ah yes.” He smiles wolfishly. “Give me a hundred kisses…”

  “A thousand,” I correct him.

  “Honestly, Bea,” he murmurs, leaning in. “You’re insatiable.”

  I am laughing as his lips meet mine.

  There’s a sound nearby, a foot treading heavily on a twig and an elaborate clearing of the throat. By the time Filomena comes into view Ben and I have sprung apart, our clothes still slightly rumpled, the pink stain in our cheeks a dead giveaway.

  From the smirk on Filomena’s face I can see that we’re not fooling anyone.

  “There you are,” she says. “I’ve been trying to track you down.”

  “Have you?” Ben asks, aiming for nonchalance.

  Filomena nods. “I wondered how the painting lessons were coming along?” she looks rather pointedly around us where there is a noticeable absence of art materials.

  “Painting, yes,” I say, still trying to get my brain back in gear.

  “Bea is coming along quite well,” Ben jumps in. He gives me a look filled with mischief. “With a bit more practice I think she might do quite nicely.”

  “It was a shaky start,” I nod, flashing him a dirty look. “Ben’s teaching technique needed some refining. But things are definitely improving.”

  “Wonderful,” says Filomena serenely. “I look forward to seeing the results. Perhaps Bea can contribute to the exhibition.”

  “Exhibition?” I ask weakly, looking between her and Ben.

  “That’s rather a grand description, I suppose,” Filomena says. “Really it will be a big party, where we display some of the work created here over the summer.”

  “Oh yes,” I say. “I think Leo mentioned it when I first arrived.” It feels like a long time ago.

  “I’d half forgotten about it,” Ben says, almost to himself.

  “I thought perhaps you had,” Filomena says gently. “But this could be a good opportunity for you, Ben. Influential people come.”

  “Yes.” Ben rubs his chin distractedly. “I know.”

  “And,” Filomena says, “if Bea contributed as well, then I think Leo would be pleased.” He nods. “I will leave you to it then.”

  She turns and walks away, her hips swaying and her long, dark hair
swishing gently around her waist.

  Ben stares after her.

  “Are you all right?” I ask. He doesn’t reply and I touch his arm.

  “What?” he says, turning. “Oh, yes.” He gives his usual carefree grin.

  “Looks like you’re going to have to produce a work of dazzling talent, so that I can earn my crust around here,” he says.

  “Hope you’re prepared to go hungry,” I grumble.

  An hour later we are both standing before canvases in our – now thankfully flying-ant free – picnic spot. Once again, I am half-heartedly attempting to paint the view in front of me, while Ben gently corrects some of the many mistakes I make.

  I sigh heavily, regarding the mass of marks and splodges on the canvas. “Is this any better?”

  “Let’s try another approach,” Ben says, quite diplomatically for him. “Are there any particular artists that you’re drawn to?”

  I think about this for a moment. “Father used to have a nice Stubbs before we had to sell it,” I say finally. “One of his horse paintings. It was above the mantelpiece in the drawing room. I liked that. It looked like – well, it looked like a real horse.”

  I expect Ben to be dismissive, even I can tell this is not exactly top-notch art critique, but he nods. “That makes sense,” he says. “Stubbs studied anatomy and his paintings are incredibly accurate – scientifically speaking.” He gives me a lop-sided smile. “He actually dissected horse carcasses and hung them from the ceiling of a barn, peeling back the different layers and making sketches of them.”

  “I didn’t know that!” I exclaim. “That is interesting.”

  “You would find the dissected horse flesh interesting.” Ben pauses. “He wrote a book about it, The Anatomy of the Horse,” he continues thoughtfully. “It was quite groundbreaking apparently – the way it brought together art and science.”

  “Rather like us?” I say.

  “Yes.” He drops a quick kiss on the tip of my nose. “Like us. But with more dead horses.”