British Bachelors: Tempting & New

Patrick, she whispered under her breath. Patrick.

Did he know what his mother was planning? Was that the reason behind this week of silence? No, she couldn’t—wouldn’t—believe it. If he’d been aware of what was happening, she was sure he’d have warned her.

Or would he? She just didn’t know any more.

It occurred to her too that if she suddenly showed up at the Vicarage at this hour, her father, immersed as usual in his sermon, would know something was wrong.

And, remembering Mrs Wilding’s silky comments about her conversation with the Archdeacon, Tavy flinched at telling him that all the news was bad.

He has enough on his plate just now, she told herself defensively. I won’t even mention that I’ve been sacked. I’ll wait and choose a more appropriate time—for preference when I have the prospect of other work. I’ll go over to Market Tranton on Monday morning and see what the Job Centre has to offer—waitressing, shelf-stacking, anything.

But for now, she needed a bolt-hole, and the church was the only place she could think of where she could be seen without arousing comment.

She parked her bicycle in the porch, and opened the door, thankful that the building was never locked in the daytime, and discovering to her relief that she had it to herself, offering her a brief respite in order to calm down and gather her thoughts.

She chose a side pew in the shelter of a pillar, and sat, staring into space, breathing in the pleasant odours of candle wax and furniture polish, waiting for some of the icy chill inside her to disperse. Although the glorious blast of crimson from each end of the altar did nothing to help, showing her that her unwanted roses were still in full bloom when she’d hoped they’d be long gone.

That would have been one positive step, she thought and felt the acrid taste of tears in her throat.

She leaned a shoulder against the pillar, eyes closed, struggling desperately for control, and heard someone ask, ‘Are you all right?’

Only it wasn’t just ‘someone’ but the last person in the world she wanted to see or hear.

Reluctantly, she straightened and forced herself to look up at Jago Marsh. No black today, she noticed, but a pair of pale chinos topped by a white shirt. To show off his tan presumably, she thought, her mouth drying.

‘What are you doing here?’ Her voice sounded strained and husky.

‘I arrived earlier,’ he said. ‘I wanted to sketch that rather nice pulpit. And do some quiet thinking.’

‘Sketching?’ she repeated. ‘You?’ Then paused. ‘Oh—you went to art school. I’d forgotten.’

He grinned. ‘I’m flattered you bothered to find out.’ He paused. ‘But let’s get back to you, my fellow refugee. Why are you here?’

‘My father said some of the kneelers needed mending,’ Tavy improvised swiftly. ‘I came in to collect them.’

‘I saw you creep in,’ he said. ‘You didn’t look like a woman with a mission. More as if you wanted somewhere to hide.’

She said shortly, ‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’ And rose to her feet, thankful that she hadn’t allowed her feelings of pain and insecurity to cause her to break down altogether.

‘Well, I must be getting on,’ she added with a kind of insane brightness, unhooking the kneeler from the pew in front.

‘Are you intending to repair them here?’

‘No, I’ll take them back to the Vicarage,’ said Tavy, wishing now that she’d picked some other—any other—excuse for her presence.

‘I have the car outside. I’ll give you a hand.’

‘That won’t be necessary.’

The tawny eyes glinted. ‘Planning on transporting them one at a time?’ he enquired affably.

‘No,’ she said, tautly. ‘Deciding the repairs can wait.’

‘Very wise,’ he said. ‘You can show me round the church instead.’

‘It’s hardly big enough to merit a guided tour.’ She gestured round her. ‘What you see is what you get. Plain and simple.’ She paused. ‘And I’m sure there’s a whole section about it in the book Dad lent you.’

‘Indeed there was,’ he said. ‘For instance, I know it was built by Henry Manning, the owner of Ladysmere just after Queen Victoria came to the throne. He gave the land and paid for the work, also adding a peal of bells to the tower in memory of his eldest son who was killed at Balaclava.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘William Manning. There’s a plaque on the wall over there. But now there’s only one bell, rung before services. The others were removed several years ago.’

‘People objected to the noise?’

‘No, nothing like that. As a matter of fact, everyone was very sad about it. But it turned out the tower just wasn’t strong enough to support them any longer.’

He frowned. ‘That sounds serious.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It is. Very. But it’s not your problem. Now, if you’ll excuse me...’

‘To do what? Count the hymn books?’ He paused. ‘Or change the altar flowers, perhaps.’ His faint smile did not reach his eyes. ‘They must be past their best by now.’

Tavy’s face warmed. ‘The flowers aren’t my responsibility,’ she said, replacing the kneeler.

‘Tell me, do you recycle all your unwanted bouquets in this way?’

‘I don’t get flowers as a rule.’ She gave him a defiant look. ‘As I said—I assumed it was a mistake.’

He said silkily, ‘But one that won’t be repeated, if that’s any reassurance.’

‘And now I’ll go,’ she went on. ‘And let you return to sketching.’

‘I’ve done enough for one morning. I’ll drive you back to the Vicarage instead.’

Oh, no, she fretted silently. It was still much too early for that.

‘Thanks, but I’m not going straight home.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Could I be interrupting some assignation?’

Her breath caught. ‘Please don’t be absurd.’

He said slowly, brows lifting, ‘Anyway, you work on Saturday mornings. Is that why you’re lurking in here—hiding away—because you’re skiving off? Playing truant from school?’ He tutted. ‘What would your father say?’

She said hoarsely, ‘I’m more concerned about how he’ll react when he hears I’ve been fired. Thrown out on my ear.’ Her voice cracked suddenly. ‘Just as if things weren’t bad enough already.’

And, all her good intentions suddenly blown, she sank down on to the pew and began to cry. Not just a flurry of tears but harsh, racking sobs that burnt her throat, and which she could not control.

And in front of him. Of all people.

She would never recover from the shame of it. Or from the knowledge that he was now sitting beside her. That his arm was round her, pulling her to him so that her wet face was buried against his shoulder. So that she was inhaling the warm musk of his skin through the fabric of his shirt with every uneven gasping breath, as she struggled for composure, and for a semblance of sanity, as she realised his free hand was stroking her hair, gently and rhythmically.

When the sobs eventually choked into silence, she drew away, and he released her instantly, passing her an immaculate linen handkerchief.

Sitting rigidly upright, she blotted her face, and blew her nose, trying to think of something to say.

But all that she could come up with was a mumbled, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘What do you have to apologise for? I’d have thought the boot was on quite a different foot.’

‘I mean I’m sorry for making such a fool of myself.’

‘You’ve had a shock.’ His tone was matter-of-fact. ‘Under the circumstances, I’d say tears were a normal human reaction.’ He paused. ‘So what were the grounds for your dismissal? Have you had the usual verbal and written warnings?’

Tavy shook her head. ‘Nothing like that. She just told me I wasn’t up to the job as she saw it, handed me a cheque and told me to go.’ She swallowed another sob. ‘But what’s going to happen to the office? She has no idea about the computer. I don’t think she even knows how to switch it on.’

‘I wouldn’t worry. I’m sure she has your successor already in place.’ He watched her absorb that, and nodded. ‘However she’s driven a horse and cart through your statutory rights. You could take her to a tribunal.’

Tavy shuddered. ‘No—I really couldn’t. I simply want to find another job and get on with my life.’

He was silent for a moment, then: ‘So what else has gone wrong?’

She looked around her. ‘It’s this,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Dad’s church. It needs thousands of pounds in repairs, and the diocese can’t afford it. We were hoping for a reprieve but it’s going to be closed. So we’ll be leaving.’

She swallowed. ‘She—Mrs Wilding—told me so, as part of her justification for getting rid of me. She knows the Archdeacon.’

There was a silence, then Jago said softly, ‘She’s a real piece of work, your ex-boss. I wouldn’t want a daughter of mine to go to her school.’

A daughter of mine...

Something that was almost pain twisted deep inside her, as she tried to imagine him as a father—and, of course, a husband, which was ludicrous with his track record. He could never settle for anything so conventional, she told herself vehemently. And heaven help anyone who hoped he’d change.

‘Well, there’s no chance of that,’ she said with sudden crispness, as she rallied herself. ‘She thinks you’re Satan’s less nice brother.’

‘Then maybe I should immediately withdraw from this sacred place to more appropriate surroundings,’ he drawled. ‘Come with me to the pub and have a drink. I think you could use one.’

‘No,’ she said, too quickly. ‘Thank you, but I really should get back and talk to Dad. It won’t help to delay things.’

He walked beside her as she wheeled her bike down to the gate.

‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘What does your boyfriend think of his mother’s decision?’

Tavy bit her lip. ‘I—I don’t think he knows.’

‘How convenient.’

The note of contempt in his voice stung.

She turned on him. ‘Patrick will be devastated when he hears,’ she said hotly. ‘And, anyway, just what business is it of yours? How dare you walk into this village, making assumptions, passing judgements on people you barely know?’

‘Because outsiders can often see the whole picture,’ Jago returned, unruffled. ‘Whereas you, my sweet, are incapable of looking further than the end of your charming nose.’

‘You know nothing,’ she hurled back at him, her voice shaking. ‘Nothing at all. You’ve mixed in dirt for so long, you can’t recognise or appreciate decency.’

‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘Back to that, are we? If that’s the case, what do I have to lose?’

One stride brought him within touching distance, his fingers gripping her slender shoulders, rendering her immobile. He bent his head and his mouth took hers in a long hard kiss that sent strange echoes reverberating through every nerve of her body, and sent the world spinning helplessly out of synch.

His lips urged hers apart, allowing his tongue to invade her mouth’s inner sweetness and explore it with a fierce and sensual insistence totally unlike his previous gentleness. It was impossible to breathe—to think. Or, even, to resist...

At the same time, his hands slid down to her hips, jerking her forward, grinding her slender body against his. Making her shockingly aware that he was passionately and shamelessly aroused.

And, worse still, making her want to press even closer to him. To wind her arms round his neck and feel the silky gloss of his hair under her fingers. To make the kiss last for ever...

When he finally released her, she was trembling inside, with fury that she had not been the one to step back first, and disbelief at her body’s own reaction to this stark introduction to desire.

She wanted to call him a brute and a bastard, but somehow her voice wouldn’t work.

He, of course, had no such problem. He said harshly, the tawny gaze scorching her, ‘A word of advice. Open your eyes, Octavia, before it’s too late.’

Then he turned and crossed the road to where a Jeep was parked under a chestnut tree, swung himself into the driver’s seat, and roared off without a backward glance.

Leaving her staring after him, a shaking hand pressed to her swollen mouth.

CHAPTER EIGHT

IT WAS A subdued afternoon. Lloyd Denison listened gravely to everything Tavy had to say, although she kept back her encounter with Jago and its shameful aftermath, then retired to his study with the comment, ‘She does not deserve you, my dear, and never did.’

He was distressed for her, thought Tavy, but not particularly surprised.

She did her best to be upbeat, checking online that she had the requisite qualifications to train for a B.Ed, although she found with dismay that she’d have to wait until September to apply for the following year.

Which meant she had to find some way to support herself in the interim period.

And, to her bewilderment, there was still no word from Patrick, making it difficult to altogether dismiss Jago’s unpleasant comments.

I’ll just have to tackle him myself, she thought.

Accordingly, after breakfast the following morning, she asked if she might absent herself from Morning Prayer and borrow the Peugeot. ‘There’s something I need to do.’

‘Yes, of course you may.’ Mr Denison studied her for a moment. ‘Want to tell me about it?’

She forced a smile. ‘Not right now.’

Market Tranton’s streets were quiet as Tavy made her way across town to the modern block where Patrick had his flat. She was just about to turn into the parking lot when a car pulled out in front of her, forcing her to brake sharply.

It was a convertible with the hood up, but she recognised it instantly, as it sped off. It was Fiona Culham’s car, and she was driving it, wearing sunglasses and with a scarf tied over her blonde hair.

Tavy sat very still for a moment, aware that her pulses were drumming oddly, as she told herself that there was probably a perfectly logical explanation, and that driving straight back to Hazelton Magna was the coward’s way out.

Then, taking a deep breath, she turned into the car park and found another car hurriedly departing, leaving an empty bay. An elderly woman was just emerging from the main entrance as she arrived, and she held the door open with a friendly smile. Tavy took the stairs to the first floor, and rang Number Eleven’s bell.

Patrick answered the door almost immediately. He was bare-legged, wearing a towelling robe and an indulgent smile.

‘So, what have you forgotten...?’ he began, then paused gaping as he registered his visitor’s identity. ‘Tavy—what the hell are you doing here?’

‘I think it’s called “wising up”.’ She couldn’t believe how calm she sounded when, by rights, she should be falling apart. ‘May I come in?’

There was another pause, then he reluctantly stood aside. She walked into the living room and looked around. The table in the window still held the remnants of breakfast for two, while the bedroom door was open affording a clear view of the tumbled bed.

‘So,’ she said. ‘You and Fiona.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘As it happens. I didn’t know you’d been spying on us.’

‘Spying?’ she echoed incredulously. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I had no idea until I saw her driving away.’ She paused. ‘When did it start?’

‘Does it matter?’ His tone was defensive. He looked uncomfortable. Even shifty.

‘I think I’m entitled to ask.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ he said impatiently. ‘You’re a nice kid, Tavy, but it was never really serious between us. Surely you realised that.’

She said quietly, ‘I’m beginning to. But what I can’t quite figure is why “we” happened at all.’

He shrugged. ‘When I came down here, I needed a local girlfriend, and you...filled the bill.’

‘And was that why we only met outside the village—so that you could dump me for Fiona without looking quite so much of a bastard?’

‘Oh, do we really have to pick it all over?’ he asked irritably. ‘Let’s just say we had some nice times together and leave it there. Things change.’

Yes, thought Tavy. I’ve lost my job. I may lose my home and now I’ve lost you—except it seems that I never had you in the first place.

She lifted her chin. Smiled. ‘In that case,’ she said. ‘Let me wish you both every happiness.’ She paused. ‘I presume you will be getting married.’

‘Yes, when her divorce is finally settled, among other things.’ He didn’t smile back. ‘Until then, perhaps you’d be good enough to keep your mouth shut about us.’

‘Who,’ she asked, ‘could I possibly want to tell?’

And walked out, closing the door behind her.

She drove steadily back to Hazelton Magna. About a mile from the village she pulled over on to the verge, switched off the engine and sat for a while trying to gather her thoughts and gauge her own reactions. Waiting, too, for the pain to strike as if she’d just deliberately bitten down on an aching tooth.

After all, Patrick was the man she’d believed she was in love with—wasn’t he?

Only, there was nothing. Not even a sense of shock. Just a voice in her head saying, ‘So that’s it.’ Rather like being handed the solution to a puzzle—interesting, but not particularly important.

Looking back with new and sudden clarity, she could see she’d been flattered by Patrick’s attentions because of the memory of that long-ago crush.

She’d let herself think a new chapter had opened in her life. Yet how in the world could she have mistaken lukewarm for passionate? Except, of course, she had no benchmark for comparison. Or, at least, not then...

No, don’t go there.

Switching her mind determinedly back to Patrick, she could see now why there had been no pressure from him to consummate their relationship. Not consideration as she’d thought but indifference.

My God, she thought wryly. Even Dad saw that I was fooling myself.

And so did Jago...

Jago...

Even the whisper of his name made her tremble.

Now, there she could find pain, she thought. Pain that was immeasurably deep and frighteningly intense. Even life-changing. The certainty of it tightened her throat and set her pulses thudding crazily.

Patrick’s kisses had been enjoyable but had always left her aware she should have wanted more but wondering about her uncertainty. Yet the mere brush of Jago’s mouth on hers had opened a door into her senses that she’d never dreamed could exist. Offered a lure as arousing as it was dangerous.

And he hadn’t even been trying. In fact, he’d probably been amusing himself by gauging the precise depth of her innocence.

Maybe because he too thought she was ‘a nice kid’, she told herself, and flinched.

Hang on to that thought, she adjured herself almost feverishly. That’s the way to armour yourself against him, because you must do that. No out of the frying pan into the fire for you, my girl.

Tomorrow you go back to Market Tranton and you find a job stacking shelves or anything else that offers pay.

And you forget the past, disregard the present and concentrate on the future.

* * *

‘Was Mrs Wilding at church?’ she asked her father later as she dished up their lunch of lamb steaks with new potatoes and broccoli.

‘Fortunately, no,’ Mr Denison said, helping himself to mint sauce. ‘I imagine she’ll be transferring her allegiance to Saint Peter’s in Gunslade for the duration.’

Tavy stared at him. ‘But, Dad, she’s on the parochial church council.’

‘Yes, my dear, but that always had more to do with establishing her position in the village than anything else.’ He paused. ‘Did I mention that Julie Whitman and her fiancé were coming this afternoon at two-thirty to discuss their wedding? It could well be Holy Trinity’s last marriage service, so we’ll have to find some way to make it special.’

‘Oh, don’t say that.’ Tavy shook her head. ‘Maybe if we got up a petition...’

‘I don’t think so, darling. I’m afraid we have to bow to the inevitable, however unwelcome.’

Once the apple crumble which followed the lamb had been disposed of, Tavy cleared away, loaded the elderly dishwasher, and took her coffee into the garden. As she stepped on to the lawn, she heard the front doorbell sound in the distance. Julie and Graham had arrived early, she thought with a faint smile.

It was a warm day with only a light breeze and she wandered round, looking at the garden as if seeing it for the first time, kicking off her shoes to feel the fresh, sweet grass under her bare feet. Wondering if the lilac and laburnum had ever been so lovely and breathing in the scent of the early roses. Trying to capture a lifetime of memories in a moment.

She was under no illusions as to what would happen to the garden. The whole site would be bought up by a developer who would demolish the rambling inconvenient house, and use all the land to build a collection of bijou village residences. And she hoped she would be miles away when that happened, she thought fiercely.

She sat down under the magnolia on the ancient wooden bench she’d been planning to repaint and sipped her cooling coffee.

A wave of weariness swept over her. The day’s revelations had taken their toll after all. Nor had she slept well the night before. Snatches of her disturbing dreams kept coming back to her, and she was glad she could not remember the rest of them.

Above her the magnolia blossoms shivered, and, through half-closed lids, she saw a shadow fall across the grass in front of her.

Her eyes snapped open and she sat up with a jerk, nearly spilling the remains of her coffee when she realised who was standing there.

She said breathlessly, ‘How did you get in here?’

Jago shrugged. ‘I rang the doorbell in the conventional way, was greeted by your father and chatted to him until the would-be-weds arrived when he sent me out here to find you. Is there a problem?’

She glared at him. ‘It didn’t occur to you that you’re the last person I want to see?’ And especially when I’m wearing the old denim skirt and washed out T-shirt I’d have once opted for.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But I didn’t let it trouble me for long.’

She said coldly, ‘I suppose you’ve come to apologise.’

‘Why? For suggesting you wake up and smell the coffee, or for kissing you? If so, you’ll be disappointed. I have no regrets on either count.’ Uninvited, he sat down on the grass, stretching long legs in front of him.

More chinos today, she noticed unwillingly, and a shirt the colour of a summer sky.

‘Has the man at the top of your welcome list put in an appearance?’

‘No,’ said Tavy, fighting an urge to grind her teeth. ‘Nor is he likely to.’

‘Ah,’ he said, and gave her a thoughtful glance. ‘So you know.’

‘Yes,’ she admitted curtly.

‘How did you find out?’

‘I went over to his flat this morning—to talk.’ She lifted her chin. ‘She was—just leaving. It was clear she’d been there all night.’

He said quietly, ‘And you’re upset.’

‘I’m devastated,’ she said defiantly. ‘Naturally.’

Jago’s dark brows lifted. ‘Then I can only say—I’m sorry.’

There was a silence, then Tavy said, ‘Tell me something. How did you find out?’

‘I became suspicious that night in the pub. She was so insistent we go there, and then the landlord told me they’d been quarrelling at the bar, and she’d been winding him up, apparently about being with me.

‘I also have the hidden advantage of knowing Fiona’s soon-to-be ex-husband,’ he added calmly. ‘We’ve had dinner a couple of times in London. I learned a lot about his brief marriage including his conviction that she’d been seeing someone else almost from the start. A boyfriend from the old days.’

Tavy moved uncomfortably. ‘But as they’re getting divorced, anyway...’

‘It’s not that simple.’ Jago shook his head. ‘Apparently the Latimer family had their lawyers draw up a form of pre-nuptial agreement. Under it, Fiona gets a more than generous divorce settlement if the marriage breaks down, unless infidelity can be proved, when she only gets a fraction more than zilch.’

He shrugged. ‘I believe that’s why she got Patrick to leave London, in case they were being watched.’