British Bachelors: Tempting & New

‘Nothing of the kind,’ Tavy said quickly. ‘It was just a remark.’

‘On the contrary,’ he said, leaning back in his chair. ‘I see it as a great leap forward. Now it’s my turn.’ He paused. ‘I read some of your father’s book this afternoon. The Manor seems to have had a pretty chequered history, hacked about by succeeding generations.’

‘I believe so.’

‘But it’s in safe hands now.’ As her lips tightened, he added quietly, ‘I wish you’d believe that, Octavia.’

‘It’s really none of my concern,’ she said stiffly. ‘And I had no right to speak as I did earlier. I—I’m sorry.’ And you have no right to call me Octavia...

‘But you still wish you hadn’t been cornered into coming here tonight.’

‘Well—naturally.’

‘Because you’d hoped you’d never set eyes on me again.’

She flushed. ‘That too.’

‘And you’d like very much for us both to forget our first encounter ever happened.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I would.’

‘Very understandable. And for me, anyway, quite impossible. The vision of you rising like Venus from the waves will always be a treasured memory.’ He paused. ‘And I like your hair loose.’

She was burning all over now. It wasn’t just what he’d said, but the way he’d looked at her across the table, as if her dress—her underwear—had ceased to exist under his gaze. As if her hair tumbling around her shoulders was her only covering. And as if he knew that her nipples in some damnable way were hardening into aching peaks inside the lacy confines of her bra.

But if her skin was fire, her voice was ice. ‘Fortunately, your preferences are immaterial to me.’

‘At present anyway.’ He signalled to a waiter. ‘Would you like to have coffee here or in the drawing room?’

She bit her lip. ‘Here, perhaps. Wherever we go, there’ll be people staring at you. Watching every move you make.’

‘Waiting for me to start breaking the place up, I suppose. They’ll be sadly disappointed. Besides, I’m not the only one attracting attention. There’s a trio on the other side of the room who can’t take their eyes off you.’

She glanced round and stiffened, her lips parting in a gasp of sheer incredulity.

Patrick, she thought. And his mother. With Fiona Culham, of all people. But it isn’t—it can’t be possible. He couldn’t possibly afford these prices—I’ve heard him say so. And Mrs Wilding simply wouldn’t pay them. So what on earth is going on? And why is Fiona with them?

As her astonished gaze met theirs, they all turned away, and began to talk. And no prizes for guessing the main topic of conversation, Tavy thought grimly.

‘Friends of yours?’

‘My employer,’ she said briefly. ‘Her son. A neighbour’s daughter.’

‘They seem in no hurry to come over,’ he commented. ‘They’ve been here for over half an hour.’

‘I see.’ Her voice sounded hollow. ‘It looks as if I could well find myself out of a job on Monday.’

His brows lifted. ‘Why?’

‘I think it’s called fraternising with the enemy,’ she said tautly. ‘Because that’s how the local people regard you.’

‘Some perhaps,’ he said. ‘But not all. Ted Jackson, for one, thinks I’m God’s gift to landscape gardening.’

‘I’m sure you’ll find that comforting.’ She reached for her bag. ‘I think I won’t have coffee, after all. I’d like to leave, please, if reception will get me a taxi.’

‘No need. Charlie is standing by to take you home.’

She said quickly, ‘I’d rather make my own arrangements.’

‘Even if I tell you I have work to do, and I won’t be coming with you?’ There was overt mockery in his voice.

Her hesitation was fatal, and he nodded as if she’d spoken, producing his mobile phone from his pocket.

‘Charlie, Miss Denison is ready to go.’

She walked beside him, blisteringly aware of the looks following her as they left the dining room and crossed the foyer. The car was already outside, with Charlie holding open the rear passenger door.

She paused, shivering a little as a sudden cool breeze caught her. She glanced up at the sky and saw ragged clouds hurrying, suggesting the weather was about to change. Like everything else.

She turned reluctantly to the silent man at her side, fixing her gaze on one of the pearl buttons that fastened his shirt. Drew a breath.

‘That was an amazing meal,’ she said politely. ‘Thank you.’

‘I suspect the pleasure was all mine,’ he said. ‘But it won’t always be that way, Octavia.’

She could have sworn he hadn’t moved, yet suddenly he seemed altogether too close, not even a hand’s breadth dividing them. She was burningly aware of the scent of his skin, enhanced by the warm musky fragrance he was wearing. She wanted to step back, but she was rooted to the spot, looking up into the narrow dark face, marking the intensity of his gaze and the firm line of his thin lips.

Wondering—dreading—what he might do next.

He said softly, ‘No, my sweet, I’m not going to kiss you. That’s a delight I shall defer until you’re in a more receptive mood.’

She said in a voice she hardly recognised, ‘Then you’ll wait for ever.’

‘If that’s what it takes,’ he said. ‘I will.’ He lifted a hand, touched one of the jade drops hanging from her ear. Nothing more, but she felt a quiver of sharp sensation as if his fingers had brushed—cupped—her breast. As if she would know exactly how that might feel. And want it...

He said, ‘Goodnight, Octavia.’ And left her.

* * *

She sat, huddled into the corner of the rear seat, as the car powered its way smoothly back to the village. Beyond the darkened windows, it was still almost light. It was less than a month to midsummer and, as everyone kept saying, the days were drawing out. Becoming longer. Soon to seem endless.

You’ll wait for ever...

She shouldn’t have said that, she thought shivering. She knew that now. It was too much like a challenge.

Yet all she’d wanted to do was make it clear that whatever game he was playing must end. That from now on she planned to keep her distance, whatever spurious relationship he tried to hatch with her father.

Who was, of course, the next hurdle she had to negotiate. Just as soon as she got home.

Somehow she had to convince the Vicar that the evening had been a dismal failure.

‘Great food,’ she could say. ‘Shame about the company. Because if he’s lonely, Dad, I can quite understand why.’ Keeping it light, even faintly rueful, but adamant all the same.

And there, hopefully, it would end.

Mrs Wilding, however, might be a totally different matter, she thought, groaning inwardly. The ghastly mischance that had prompted them to choose Barkland Grange tonight matched up with the way her luck was generally going. While Fiona’s presence was the cherry on the cake.

So that was something else not to tell Dad—that she might soon be out of work. Which she couldn’t afford to be.

Plus the likelihood that the Manor’s new owner’s query about ‘the gorgeous redhead’ would soon be all round the village, lighting its own blue touchpaper.

All in all, the tally of her misfortunes seemed to be on an upward spiral since Jago Marsh’s arrival.

I hit the nail on the head when I called him the Dark Lord, she thought, biting her lip savagely.

When they got to the Vicarage, Charlie insisted on easing the limo carefully up the narrow drive.

‘You don’t know who might be lurking in those shrubs, miss,’ he informed her darkly. ‘I’m dropping you at the door.’

‘We don’t actually have many lurkers in Hazelton Magna,’ she told him, adding silently, ‘Apart from your boss.’ But she thanked him all the same, and even managed a wave as he drove off.

But when she tried the door, it was locked, and it was then she noticed that the whole house seemed to be in darkness. Perhaps there’d been an emergency—someone seriously ill—and her father had been sent for, as often happened with the older parishioners, and sometimes with the younger ones too.

Or more prosaically, perhaps Mr Denison, not expecting her home so soon, had simply decided to have an early night.

She let herself in quietly, slipped off her sandals and trod upstairs barefoot to investigate, and offer a cup of hot chocolate if her father was still awake.

But his door was open and the bed unoccupied.

Ah, well, a sick visit it is, she decided as she returned downstairs. And quite some time ago, because when she took the milk from the fridge, she noticed the cold chicken was still there under its cling-film cover.

He’ll be starving when he comes in, she thought, mentally reviewing the cartons of homemade soup waiting in the freezer, and deciding on minestrone.

But as she went to retrieve it, a key rattled in the back door lock, and Mr Denison came in, not with the withdrawn, strained look he wore after visiting people in trouble, but appearing positively cheerful.

‘Hello, darling. Foraging for food? Was the Barkland Grange catering that bad?’

‘No, I saw you’d had no supper, so I was getting something for you.’

‘Oh, I’ve been dining out too,’ he said. ‘Geoff Layton phoned to say his son had sent him a birthday hamper from Fortnum’s. So we had chess and the most wonderful pork pie.’ He patted his midriff. ‘Quite amazing.’

‘Oh.’ She closed the freezer door. ‘How lovely.’

‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘How did your evening go?’

‘It went,’ Tavy said crisply, pouring milk into a pan and setting it to heat. ‘For which I was truly thankful. Jago Marsh and I have absolutely nothing in common, and the less I see of him the better.’

‘Ah,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘So no attraction of opposites in this case.’

‘No attraction at all,’ Tavy returned, firmly quashing the memory of the way he’d looked at her—that light touch on her earring and their admittedly tumultuous effect. It was stress, she told herself, induced by a truly horrible evening. Nothing more.

She poured the hot milk into their cups, and stirred in the chocolate. The usual bedtime ritual.

Which is how I want things, she thought. The everyday, normal way they were forty-eight hours ago.

And that’s what I’m going to get back. Whatever it takes. And no intrusive newcomer is going to stop me.

* * *

‘I still can’t believe it,’ said Patrick. ‘I thought—I hoped I was seeing things. What the hell did you think you were doing?’

‘Having dinner,’ Tavy retorted, rolling out pastry as if she was attacking it, which did not bode well for the steak and kidney pie they were having for Sunday lunch. ‘But maybe it’s a trick question.’

She added, ‘If it comes to that, I wasn’t expecting to see you.’ She paused. ‘Or Fiona.’

‘Her mother called mine,’ he said defensively. ‘Said she was feeling a bit down over the divorce. So Mother thought it would be nice for her.’

‘Very,’ said Tavy, reflecting that during their earlier encounter, Fiona seemed to be firing on all cylinders.

‘Besides,’ he went on. ‘In the old days, she was one of the gang.’

Not any gang that I ever belonged to, thought Tavy.

‘Anyway,’ he added. ‘That’s not important. Do you realise that Mother was absolutely furious about last night. And that I’ve had to do some fast talking to stop her from sacking you.’

Or it might also have occurred to her that she’d get no one else to do everything I do for the money, thought Tavy with sudden cynicism. Thought it, but didn’t say it.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘But it shouldn’t have been necessary. For one thing, she doesn’t exercise any jurisdiction over how I spend my time outside school hours. Maybe you should have mentioned that.

‘For another, I should have been with you last night, and not him. So why wasn’t I, Patrick? When are you going to tell her about us?’

‘I was about to,’ he said defensively. ‘But you’ve knocked that right on the head. Now, I’ll just have to wait until she cools down over this entire Jago Marsh business, and it won’t be any time soon, I can tell you.’

He shook his head. ‘What on earth does your father have to say about all this?’

‘Not a great deal,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t seem to share your low opinion of Mr Marsh.’ She added stonily, ‘And he was also invited last night, but had—other things to do.’

He sighed. ‘Tavy, your father’s a great chap—one of the best—but not very streetwise. He could get taken in quite badly over all this.’

The fact that this echoed her own thinking did not improve her temper.

‘Thank you for your concern,’ she said shortly. ‘But I don’t think he’s going to change very much at this stage. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get this pie in the oven. Dad will be in at any moment, and he has a christening this afternoon.’

‘Tavy,’ he said. ‘Darling—I don’t want us to fall out over this. Jago Marsh simply isn’t worth it.’

‘I agree.’ She banged the oven door. ‘Perhaps you could also persuade your mother to that way of thinking, so we can all move on.’

She took carrots from the vegetable rack and began to scrape them to within an inch of their lives.

‘But you must realise,’ he persisted, ‘that it’s—well—inappropriate behaviour for you to consort with someone like that.’

‘Consort?’ she repeated. ‘That’s a very pompous word. But if you’re saying you’d rather I didn’t have dinner with him again, then you needn’t worry, because I haven’t the least intention of doing so. Will that satisfy you? And your mother?’

She added coolly, ‘Besides, inappropriate behaviour doesn’t enter into it. Jago Marsh just isn’t my type.’

‘While I’ve been stupid and tactless and made you cross,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m sorry, Tavy. Why don’t we draw a line under the whole business and go out for a drink tonight?’

For a moment, she was sorely tempted, even if he had ticked all the boxes he’d mentioned and more.

She tried to smile. ‘Can we make it another time? Actually, I’ve promised myself a quiet night at home after Evensong.’

I feel as if I need it, she thought when she was alone. Which isn’t me at all. In fact, I feel as if I’m starting to learn about myself all over again. And I don’t like it.

* * *

It was clear when she reported for duty on Monday morning that her fall from grace had not been forgiven or forgotten.

Mrs Wilding was chilly to the nth degree.

‘I have to say, Octavia, that I thought your father would share my concerns about this new addition to the neighbourhood. But I gather he seems prepared to accept him at face value, which in my opinion shows very poor judgement.’

Tavy remembered just in time that Mrs Wilding was a prominent member of the parochial church council, which her father chaired as Vicar, and bit her tongue hard.

Fortunately, she did not have to see very much of her employer who departed mid-morning on some unexplained errand, and returned late in the afternoon, tight-lipped and silent.

As soon as she’d signed her letters, she told Tavy she could go home after she’d taken them to catch the post.

Something’s going on, Tavy thought as she cycled to the village. But she’s hardly likely to confide in me, especially now.

As she was putting the letters into the mail box, June Jackson emerged from the post office.

‘Afternoon, Miss Denison.’ She lowered her voice, her smile sly. ‘I hear you’ve got yourself an admirer up at the Manor.’

‘Then you know more than I do, Mrs Jackson,’ Tavy returned coolly. ‘It’s extraordinary how these silly stories get about,’ she added for good measure.

‘Just a story, is it?’ The smile hardened. ‘But there aren’t any others with your shade of hair in the village, not that I can call to mind. And I also hear that he didn’t waste any time calling at the Vicarage either.’

Tavy climbed back on her bicycle. ‘My father has a lot of visitors, Mrs Jackson. It comes with the territory.’

And imagining that anyone could keep anything quiet in this village was too good to be true, Tavy thought as she pedalled home.

As she walked into the house, she could hear him talking on the phone in his study, sounding tired.

‘Yes, I understand. I’ve been expecting something of the kind.’ A pause. ‘Tomorrow morning then. Thank you.’

For a moment, she hesitated, tempted to go into the study and ask what was going on.

Instead, she called, ‘I’m home,’ and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

She was pouring the tea when her father appeared, leaning a shoulder wearily against the door frame.

He said, ‘Someone’s coming from the diocesan surveyor’s office to look at the church, and prepare a report.’

‘But they did that before, surely. Isn’t that why you launched the restoration fund?’

‘I gather the surveyor’s visit is to check what further deterioration there’s been in the stonework of the tower, and to carry out a detailed examination of the roof. Apparently they’ve heard we have to put buckets in the chancel when it rains.’

‘Then that must mean they’re going to do the repairs,’ Tavy said, handing him a mug of tea. ‘Which is great news.’

‘Well,’ he said. ‘We can always hope.’ He made an effort to smile. ‘And pray.’ He turned away. ‘Now, I’d better find the estimates we had last time.’

Tavy felt uneasy as she watched him go. Surely there wasn’t too much to worry about. Holy Trinity’s congregation might not be huge but it was loyal. And if the response to the original appeal had tapered off, the prospect of restoration work actually beginning might kick-start it all over again.

I’ll talk to Patrick about it this evening, she thought. He’d texted her at lunchtime to suggest they met for a drink that evening at the Willow Tree, a fifteenth century pub on the outskirts of Market Tranton that was one of their favourite haunts.

And while she was glad that she was going to see him, because it was an opportunity to put things completely right between them again, it also meant she had to get there under her own steam, also known as the local bus which luckily stopped a few yards from the pub door.

But presumably, after Saturday evening’s debacle, Patrick was even more wary about openly picking her up in his car in case his mother got to hear of it.

Oh, damn Jago Marsh, she muttered under her breath, taking an overly hasty slurp of tea and burning her tongue.

After all, if she hadn’t been pushed into spending the evening with him, there would have been no trouble with Mrs Wilding and her relationship with Patrick might no longer have to be the best-kept secret in the universe.

To add to her woes, it also looked as if June Jackson had been right about the weather. Raindrops were already spattering the kitchen window, so the other new dress she planned to wear would now have to be covered by her waterproof, and her sandals exchanged for navy loafers. Same old, same old, she thought resignedly.

On the other hand, the price of petrol forbade her from asking Dad if she could borrow the Peugeot. That was one of the economies they had to make, and it was important to do so cheerfully.

Which was why it was going to be poached eggs on toast for the evening meal, as her father had finished off yesterday’s steak and kidney pie for lunch, without a word about the pastry, which could easily have been used to mend one of the holes in the church roof.

But as her mother had always said, for pastry you needed a light hand and a tranquil heart. And at the moment, she possessed neither.

And said again, this time aloud and with feeling, ‘Oh, damn Jago Marsh.’

CHAPTER FIVE

THE PUB WAS busy when Tavy walked in, but she immediately spotted Patrick standing at the bar, and slipped off her raincoat to display the full charm of the indigo dress as she went, smiling, to join him.

‘What a hell of a day,’ was his greeting. ‘I’ve got you a Chardonnay. Hope that’s all right.’

‘Fine,’ she said untruthfully, telling herself he must have forgotten she much preferred Sauvignon Blanc, and faintly piqued because he hadn’t noticed the new dress. ‘What’s been the matter?’

He shrugged. ‘Oh, just another bloody Monday, I suppose. Look, those people are going. Grab their table while I get another pint.’

Bad-tempered Mondays seemed to be a family trait, thought Tavy ruefully as she sat down. Something, perhaps, to bear in mind for the future. Or devise some way of omitting Monday altogether and starting the week on Tuesday instead.

When he joined her, she said, ‘It seems to have been one of those days all round. The diocesan surveyor is going to take another look at the church. I think my father’s worried about it.’

‘I’m not surprised.’

Tavy bit her lip. ‘I was hoping for some positive thinking,’ she said quietly.

‘Not much of that around where money’s concerned, I’m afraid.’ His tone was blunt. ‘And Mother’s always said Holy Trinity would cost a fortune to put right. It’s been neglected for too long.’

‘But not by Dad,’ she protested. ‘The problems started before he came, and he’s done his utmost to get the diocese to take action. Your mother must know that.’

‘At the moment, she has her own troubles,’ he said stiffly. ‘As you of all people must be aware.’

Tavy sighed under her breath and took an unenthusiastic sip of her wine. It was clear that getting back on terms with Patrick, currently staring moodily into his beer, wasn’t going to be as simple as she’d first hoped. Because she could never explain how the thing with Jago Marsh had begun or why she’d been pressured into accepting his invitation to dinner.

On the whole, it was best to keep quiet and hope that Jago Marsh would do the same, if not for her sake, then out of what appeared to be genuine respect for her father.

She leaned back in her chair, listening to the ebb and flow of conversation around her, the buzz of people letting their hair down after a working day, the squeak of the door as customers came and went, and, underlying it all, the soft throb of music from the digital jukebox.

She began, almost in spite of herself, to feel soothed and waited to feel that special lift of the heart that being with Patrick usually produced.

The door hinges protested again, accompanied by a draught of cold, damp air, and then, as if a switch had suddenly been thrown, there was silence.

She glanced up in surprise, and saw that everyone was looking towards the door, standing on tiptoe, craning their necks, exchanging looks and comments. And knew, in one heart-stopping instant, exactly who the newcomer must be to be so immediately and universally recognised.

He was wearing his signature black—this time jeans and a T-shirt—smiling and exchanging greetings with people in the crowd that was parting for him, giving him access to the bar. Acknowledging the star in their midst.

Fiona Culham walked beside him in a dress the colour of mulberries, very cool, very chic, very much in command of the situation. Possibly even revelling in it.

Tavy saw Jago glance round. Felt him fleetingly register her presence, then, thankfully, move on.

‘Oh, God,’ Patrick muttered. ‘This is all I need.’

But just what I need, Tavy told herself resolutely. Jago and Fiona, the perfect pairing. So, no repetition of the other night’s nonsense. No waiting, dreading the moment when I’d see him again, because whatever game he’s been playing is now over, and there’ll be no more...anything between us.

So I can quit worrying and get on with my life. Just as I wanted.

‘Hi,’ said Fiona. ‘I see it’s the usual scrum in here tonight. Mind if we join you?’

There was certainly room enough at the table. Stunned, Tavy glanced at Patrick, waiting for him to say something. Make some excuse. Preferably that they were just leaving.

Only to hear him say stiffly, ‘Of course, no problem.’

‘Thanks.’ Fiona sank gracefully down on to the chair next to him, then laughed as a blast of raw rhythmic frenzy surged into the room, amid applause. ‘Oh, someone’s put on Easy, Easy. How very sweet.’