“He sounds like a wallower.”

A laugh burst forth from D’Arcy. “But he wallowed in all the wrong things.”

They began to eat the fish and Josh said, “So tell me who you think does show compassion in their work,” and D’Arcy was both surprised and pleased that he wanted to keep their earlier discussion going.

The next hour was filled with companionable, lively and stimulating talk and D’Arcy couldn’t remember time ever passing by so quickly and so engagingly. Eventually, she pushed her plate away. “I really can’t eat another thing. Don’t tell me Célie’s made dessert, or is about to appear with artisanal cheeses.”

“If I know Célie—”

“Look!” D’Arcy cut off Josh’s words, jumping up suddenly from her chair and moving over to a stand of lobelia on which was perched the most extraordinary butterfly, as white as a bride waiting on an altar of petals for her beloved. She crouched down to inspect it more carefully, resisting the urge to run the soft film of its wings across her fingers.

Josh appeared at her side. “It’s called a Wood White. I always thought it should have a more extravagant name.”

“It should,” D’Arcy breathed.

The butterfly lifted into the air and she felt the slightest brush as it settled on her hair for an instant so unexpected she almost tipped over. Then it rose again, a wraith-like creature luminous against the darkening sky, as startlingly white as a full moon, fading to the merest streak of stardust before disappearing altogether.

“It’s moments like that…” D’Arcy murmured as she stood. “Impossible to orchestrate. Like the best photographs.”

She looked up at Josh; he was, she realized now that he was so close to her, several inches taller than she and he smelled as if he belonged to this place. Lemon most certainly, and mint too, with a base of cedar or cinnamon or both. And she would be quite happy to stand there for the rest of the night inhaling him, her eyes traveling over the dark shadow of his jaw, the inky hue of his eyes; without the light of the candles or the sun they were more indigo than she’d realized.

Her hand moved, laying itself lightly against his chest, enough to feel that running had certainly given him a very fine body. She tilted her head higher as his eyes darkened to midnight and rested on her lips. She probably shouldn’t kiss him, she knew; she was there to work. But life was about seizing the moment and if a balmy evening in the lush garden of a French chateau with a handsome stranger whose conversation engrossed her wasn’t a moment, then she didn’t know what was. At least this way she’d find out pretty quickly if he had been admiring her or the wine earlier. And she was used enough to flings in foreign countries—in fact, they were her preferred encounters—that she didn’t really mind what happened next; either he’d step away and be exceptionally solemn for the next two weeks and she’d have to find her pleasures in the Buly bath products and the food instead of him, or he’d respond and they’d have a fun night, or a few fun nights together, and that would be that.