Читать книгу British Bachelors: Tempting & New: Seduction Never Lies / Holiday with a Stranger / Anything but Vanilla... - Сара Крейвен, Liz Fielding - Страница 8

CHAPTER THREE

IT WAS ONE of the most difficult lunches she had ever sat through.

And, to her annoyance, the macaroni cheese was one of her best ever, and Jago Marsh praised it lavishly and had two helpings.

To her utter astonishment, her father had gone down to the dark, cobwebby space which was the Vicarage cellar and produced a bottle of light, dry Italian wine which complemented the food perfectly.

She had turned to him, her eyebrows lifting questioningly. ‘Should Mr Marsh be drinking if he’s driving?’

‘Mr Marsh walked from the Manor,’ Jago had responded, affably. ‘And will return there in the same way.’

Did he mean he’d moved in already? Surely not. The formalities couldn’t have been completed. And how could he possibly be living there anyway with no gas, electricity or water and not a stick of furniture in the place?

Somehow she couldn’t see him camping there with a sleeping bag and portable stove.

If he’d indeed been the traveller she’d first assumed, she knew now that he’d have had the biggest and best trailer on the site with every mod con and then some.

Just as that cheap metal watch, on covert examination, had proved to be a Rolex, and probably platinum.

What she found most disturbing was how genuinely the Vicar seemed to enjoy his company, listening with interest to his stories of the band’s early touring days, carefully cleaned up, she suspected, for the purpose.

While she served the food and sat, taking the occasional sip of wine, and listening, watching, and waiting.

Let people talk and eventually they will betray themselves. Hadn’t she read that somewhere?

But all that their guest seemed to be betraying was charm and self-deprecating humour. Just as if the good opinion of an obscure country clergyman could possibly matter to him.

He’s my father, you bastard, and I love him, she addressed Jago silently and fiercely. And if you hurt him, I’ll find some way to damage you in return. Even if it takes the rest of my life.

‘So, Jago,’ the Vicar said thoughtfully. ‘An interesting name and a derivative of James I believe.’

Jago nodded. ‘My grandmother was Spanish,’ he said. ‘And she wanted me to be christened Iago, as in Santiago de Compostela, but my parents felt that Shakespeare had knocked that name permanently on the head so they compromised with the English version.’

Iago, thought Tavy, who’d studied Othello for her ‘A’ level English exam. One of literature’s most appalling villains. The apparently loyal second in command, turned liar, betrayer and murderer by association. The personification of darkness, if ever there was one.

It felt almost like a warning, and made her even less inclined to trust him.

After the meal, she served coffee in the sitting room. But when she went in with the tray, she found Jago alone, looking at one of the photographs on the mantelpiece.

He said abruptly, not looking round, ‘Your mother was very beautiful.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘In every way.’

‘Your father must be very lonely without her.’

‘He’s not alone,’ she said, defensively. ‘He has his work and he has me. Also he plays chess with a retired schoolmaster in the village. And...’ She hesitated.

‘Yes?’

‘And he has God.’ She said it reluctantly, expecting some jeering response.

‘I’m sure he does,’ he said. ‘But none of that is what I meant.’

She decided not to pursue that, asking instead, ‘Where is he, anyway?’ as she set the tray down on the coffee table between the two shabby sofas that flanked the fireplace.

‘He went to his study to find a book he’s going to lend me on the history of the Manor.’

‘The past is safe enough,’ she said. ‘It’s what you may do to its future that worries most people.’

‘I met two of my new neighbours on my way here,’ he said. ‘A man on horseback and a woman with a dog. Both of them smiled and said hello, and the dog didn’t bite me, so I wasn’t aware of any tsunami of anxiety heading towards me.’

‘It may seem amusing to you,’ she said. ‘But we’ll have to live with the inevitable upheaval of your celebrity presence—’ she edged the words with distaste ‘—and deal with the aftermath when you get bored and move on.’

‘You haven’t been listening, sweetheart.’ His tone was crisp. ‘The Manor is going to be my home. The only one. And I intend to make it work. Now shall we call a truce before your father comes back? And I take my coffee black without sugar,’ he added. ‘For future reference.’

‘Quite unnecessary,’ said Tavy. ‘As this will be the first and last time I have to serve it to you.’

‘Well,’ he said. ‘One can always dream.’

Lloyd Denison came striding in, holding a slim book with faded green covers. ‘Things are never where you expect them to be,’ he said, shaking his head.

That, Tavy thought affectionately, was because he never put things where they were supposed to go. And she hadn’t inherited her mother’s knack of guiding him straight to the missing item.

‘Thank you.’ Jago took the book from him, handling it gently. ‘I promise I’ll look after it.’

Their coffee drunk, he stood up. ‘Now I’ll leave you to enjoy your afternoon in peace. But I must thank you again for a delicious lunch. And as home-cooking is currently out of the question for me, I was wondering if you could recommend a good local restaurant.’

‘I dine out very rarely, but I’m sure Tavy could suggest somewhere.’ Her father turned to her. ‘What do you think? There’s that French place in Market Tranton.’

Which is our place—Patrick’s and mine—thought Tavy, so I’m not sending him there.

She said coolly, ‘The pub in the village does food.’

‘Yes, but it’s very basic,’ Mr Denison objected. ‘You must know lots of better places.’

She turned reluctantly to Jago. ‘In that case, you could try Barkland Grange. It’s a hotel and quite a trek from here, but I believe its dining room won an award recently.’

‘It sounds ideal.’ That smile again. As if he was reaching out to touch her. ‘And as I’ve ruined your supper plans, maybe I can persuade you to join me there for dinner tonight.’ He looked at her father. ‘And you, sir, of course.’

‘That’s very kind,’ said the Vicar. ‘But I have some finishing touches to put to my sermon, plus a double helping of chicken to enjoy. However I’m sure Tavy would be delighted to accompany you.’ He looked at her blandly. ‘Wouldn’t you, darling?’

Tavy reflected she would rather be roasted over a slow fire. But as it had already been established that, thanks to her would-be host, she had no prior date, she was unable to think of a feasible excuse. Her only alternative was a bald refusal which would be ill-mannered and therefore cause distress to her father. Although she suspected Jago himself would be amused.

Accordingly, she murmured an unwilling acquiescence, and agreed that she could be ready at seven-thirty.

Unless mown down in the meantime by a runaway steamroller. And if she knew where one was operating, she’d lie down in front of it.

As she stood by her father, her smile nailed on, to wave goodbye to the departing visitor, she wondered how close she was to the world record for the number of things that could go wrong within a set time.

Because her choice of Barkland Grange, astronomically expensive and practically in the next county, had rebounded on her big time.

Safely indoors, she rounded on her father. ‘Dad, how could you? You practically offered me to him on a plate.’

‘Hardly, my dear. He only invited me out of politeness, you know.

‘I gather from something he said in the garden, he feels that the pair of you have somehow got off on the wrong foot, and he wants to make amends.’ He added gently, ‘And I must admit, Tavy, that I did sense something of an atmosphere.’

‘Really?’ she said. ‘I can’t think why.’ She was silent for a moment, then burst out, ‘Oh, Dad, I don’t want to have dinner with him. He’s out of our league, in some unknown stratosphere, and it worries me.’

And the worst of it is I can’t tell you the real reason why I don’t want to be with him. Why I don’t even want to think about him. Because you’d think quite rightly that I’d been stupid and reckless and be disappointed in me.

She swallowed. ‘Why did he come here today?’

‘To make himself known as the new resident of the Manor, and my parishioner,’ he returned patiently.

‘You think it’s really that simple?’ She shook her head. ‘I bet you won’t find him in the congregation very often. Also, you seem to have forgotten I’m going out with Patrick.’

‘But not this evening, it seems. And Jago, after all, is a stranger in our midst. Will it really hurt so much to keep him company? For all his fame and money, he might be lonely.’

Which is what he said about you...

‘I doubt that very much,’ she said tautly. ‘I’m sure he has a little black book the size of a telephone directory.’

‘Perhaps he hasn’t unpacked it yet,’ her father said gently

Tavy, desperate, delivered the killer blow. ‘And I’ve got nothing to wear. Not for a place like that, anyway.’

‘Oh, my dear child,’ he said. ‘If that’s the problem...’

He went into his study, emerging a few minutes later with a small roll of banknotes, which he pushed into her hand. ‘Didn’t you tell me that a new dress shop had opened in Market Tranton, in that little street behind the War Memorial.’

‘Dad.’ Tavy gazed down at the money, aghast. ‘There’s a hundred and fifty pounds here. I can’t take all this.’

‘You can and you will,’ he said firmly. ‘I know full well you get paid a pittance for all the hours you put in at that school,’ adding drily, ‘but presumably you feel it’s worth it. And I have a feeling that you’ll soon be needing a dress for special occasions.’

Such as an engagement party, Tavy thought with sudden buoyancy, as she grabbed the car keys from their hook. Now that would be worth dressing up for.

While tonight could be endured then forgotten.

* * *

As seven-thirty approached, Tavy felt the tension inside her begin to build. She sat, trying to interest herself in the local paper, finding instead she was imagining the following week’s edition by which time the news about Jago would have become public knowledge.

And she could only hope and pray that none of the stories printed about him would involve herself.

In the end, she’d bought two dresses, neither as expensive as she’d feared, and both sleeveless with scooped necks, and skirts much shorter than she was accustomed to—one covered in tiny ivory flowers on an indigo background, and the other, which she was wearing that evening, in a wonderful shade of jade green.

She’d chosen this because, among the few pieces of jewellery her mother had left, were a pair of carved jade drop earrings which she’d never worn before, but hoped would give her some much needed confidence.

And for once, her newly washed and shining hair had allowed itself to be piled up on top of her head without too much protest, even if it had taken twice the usual number of pins to secure it there.

She’d even treated herself to a new lipstick in an unusual shade between rust and brown that she found became her far more than the rather soft pinks she normally chose. And was almost tempted to wipe it off, and revert to the dull and familiar. Yet didn’t.

Any more than she’d gone into Dad’s study and said, ‘I have to tell you what happened yesterday...’

Tonight at some point, she would offer Jago Marsh a stiff, well-rehearsed apology for trespassing on his property, then ask if the entire incident could be forgotten, or at least never referred to again. And somehow make it clear that what he’d referred to as ‘gentle teasing’ was totally unacceptable. As were softly loaded remarks about water nymphs.

After that, if the way she was feeling now was any indication, she might well be sick all over the tablecloth.

She had the cash left over from her shopping expedition tucked into her bag, in case she needed to make a speedy exit by taxi at some point. Her mother, she remembered with a soft catch of the breath, had been a firm believer in what she called ‘escape money’.

And how strange she should be thinking in these terms when millions of girls all over the world would give everything they possessed to be in her shoes this evening. And so they could be, she thought, grimacing. She was wearing her only decent pair of sandals and they pinched.

When the doorbell rang, she felt her heart thud so violently that she almost cried out.

I shouldn’t have dressed for the restaurant, she thought, as she made her way into the hall. I should be wearing a T-shirt and an old skirt—maybe the denim one I’ve had since school. Something that would make him wish he’d never put me on the spot—never asked me, as well as ensuring that he won’t do it again.

Her father was ahead of her, opening the front door, smiling and saying she was quite ready. Then, to her embarrassment, telling her quite seriously that she looked beautiful, and wishing her a wonderful evening.

So she was blushing and looking down at the floor, only realising at the last moment that the man waiting for her on the doorstep was not Jago Marsh, but someone much older, grey haired and wearing a neat, dark suit.

‘Evening, Miss Denison.’ A London accent. ‘I’m Charlie, Mr Jago’s driver. Can you get down the drive in those heels, or shall I fetch the car up?’

‘No.’ Her flush deepened. ‘I—I’m fine.’ If a little bewildered...

Her confusion deepened when she realised that she would be travelling to Barkland Grange in solitary state.

‘The boss had a load of emails to deal with,’ Charlie told her. ‘Last-minute stuff. Or he’d have come for you himself. He sends his apologies.’

‘Oh, that’s all right,’ Tavy muttered as she was helped into the big grey limousine with tinted windows. In fact, she added silently, it was all to the good. At least she’d be spared his company for a while.

Charlie was solicitous to her comfort, asking if the car was too hot or too cold. Whether or not she’d like to listen to the radio.

She said again that she was fine, wondering what he’d do if she said that she’d really like to go home, so could he please turn the car around.

But of course she wasn’t going to say that because this was her own mess, and it wouldn’t be fair to involve him or anyone else.

One evening, she thought. That was all she had to get through. Then, her duty done, she could tell her father with perfect truth that she and Jago Marsh were chalk and cheese, and tonight would never be repeated.

Besides there was Patrick to consider. Patrick whom she could and should have been with tonight.

It’s time we talked seriously, she thought. Time we got our relationship on a firm footing and out in the open, for everyone to see, particularly his mother. Made some real plans for the future. Our future.

And she found herself wondering, as the limo smoothly ate away the miles between Hazelton Magna and Barkland Grange, why, when she’d been quite content to let matters drift, this change should now seem to be of such pressing and paramount importance.

And could not find a satisfactory answer.

Her first sight of Barkland Grange, a redbrick Georgian mansion set in its own sculptured parkland, with even a small herd of deer browsing under the trees, seemed to confirm everything she’d heard about it and more.

She sat rigidly, staring through the car window, feeling her stomach churn with renewed nerves. Cursing herself for not having found an excuse—any excuse—to remain safely at home, sharing the cold chicken and later a game of cribbage with Dad.

She could only hope now that Jago’s email correspondence had been more involved than expected.

Because if he’s not here, she thought, I’d be perfectly justified in saying that I’m not prepared to hang around waiting for him to show up. And if Charlie won’t drive me back, I’ll simply use my escape money.

And then she saw the dark figure standing on the stone steps in front of the main entrance and knew, with a sense of fatalism, that there was no way out.

‘So you have come after all.’ She heard that loathsome note of amusement under his drawl, as he opened the car door. ‘I was afraid that a migraine, or a sudden chill brought on by unwise bathing might have prevented you.’

‘And I was afraid you’d make me produce a doctor’s note,’ she said, lifting her chin as she walked beside him into the hotel, hotly aware of the candid appraisal that had swept her from head to toe as she emerged from the car.

Resentful too of the light guidance of his hand on her arm—the first time, she realised, that he’d touched her—but reluctant to pull away under the benevolent gaze of the commissionaire holding the door open for them.

He took her across the spacious foyer to a bar, all subdued lighting and small comfortable armchairs grouped round tables, most of which were occupied.

‘It’s very busy,’ Tavy said, praying inwardly that the Grange was too expensive and too distant from Hazelton Magna to attract anyone who might recognise her.

‘Weekends here are always popular, I’m told,’ Jago returned as a waiter appeared and conducted them to an empty table tucked away in a corner. ‘I considered ordering dinner in my suite, but I decided you’d probably feel safer in the dining room. At least on a first date.’

Tavy, sinking back against luxurious cushions, sat upright with a jolt. On several counts.

‘Suite?’ she echoed. ‘You have a suite here?’

‘Why, yes.’ He was leaning back, supremely at ease in his dark charcoal suit and pearl grey collarless shirt. ‘I’ve been here on and off for several weeks. I thought it would be easier to deal with the purchase of the Manor from a local base, and this proved ideal.’ He smiled at her. ‘And you were quite right about the food,’ he added lightly.

‘You knew all about it already—and you didn’t say. You let me ramble on...’

‘Hardly that. You were quite crisp on the subject. And I was impressed. I’d anticipated being directed to the nearest greasy spoon.

‘And as you’d suggested eating here, I couldn’t be suspected of any ulterior motive. Better and better.’ He nodded to the still-hovering waiter. ‘I’ve ordered champagne cocktails,’ he added. ‘I hope you like them.’

She said in a small choked voice, ‘You know perfectly well I’ve never had such a thing in my life.’

‘Then I’m glad to be making the introduction.’

‘And this is not a first date!’

The dark brows lifted. ‘You feel we’ve met before—in a previous existence, maybe? Wow, this is fascinating.’

‘I mean nothing of the kind, and you know that too.’ She drew a shaky breath. ‘I’m here because I didn’t have a choice. For some reason, you’ve made my father think you’re one of the good guys. I don’t share his opinion. And I’d like to know how the hell you came to be sitting in our kitchen anyway.’

‘That’s easy,’ he said. ‘I’d invited Ted Jackson up to the Manor this morning to give me a quote on clearing the grounds. As he was leaving, I simply asked him the identity of the gorgeous redhead I’d seen around. I admit his reply came as something of a surprise, so I decided to pursue my own enquiries.’

The drinks arrived, and he initialled the bill, casually adding a tip, while Tavy stared at him, stunned.

‘You—asked Ted Jackson?’ she managed at last.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I want to use local labour for the renovations as far as possible. Why? Isn’t he any good?’

‘Yes—I think... How would I know?’ She swallowed. ‘I mean—you actually asked him about me.’

‘It’s a useful way of gaining information.’

‘He will tell his wife that you did,’ she said stonily. ‘And June Jackson is the biggest gossip in a fifty-mile radius.’ Although she doesn’t seem to know I’m seeing Patrick, she amended swiftly. So she’s not infallible.

He shrugged. ‘You may be right, but he seemed to be far more interested in the prospect of restoring the gardens to their former glory.’

‘Until she makes him repeat every word you said to him,’ Tavy said bitterly. ‘Oh, God, this is such a disaster. And if anyone finds out about this evening...’ Her voice tailed away helplessly.

‘Single man has dinner with single woman,’ he said. ‘Sensational stuff.’

‘It isn’t funny.’ She glared at him.

‘Nor is it tragic, sweetheart, so lighten up.’ He glanced round. ‘I don’t see any lurking paparazzi, do you?’

‘You think it won’t happen? That the press won’t be interested in notorious rock star suddenly turning village squire?’

‘I like the sound of that,’ he said. ‘Maybe I should grow a moustache that I can twirl.’

‘And perhaps you could give up the whole idea,’ she said passionately. ‘Put the place back on the market, so it can be sold to someone who’ll contribute something valuable to the community, instead of causing it untold harm to satisfy some sudden whim about being a landowner, then walking away when he gets bored.’

She paused, ‘Which I suppose was what happened with Descent.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Not exactly.’ He picked up his glass. Touched it to hers. ‘But here’s to sudden whims.’ Adding ironically, ‘Especially when they come at the end of a long and fairly detailed property search. Because I’m staying, sweetheart, so you and the rest of the neighbourhood will just have to make the best of it.’

He watched her fingers tighten round the stem of her own glass. ‘And if you’re planning to throw that over me, I’d better warn you that I shall reciprocate, causing exactly the kind of furore you seem anxious to avoid.

‘It’s up to you, of course, but why not try some and see that it’s too good to waste on meaningless gestures.’

She relinquished the glass, and reached for her bag. ‘On the whole, I’d prefer to go home.’

‘Then I shall follow you,’ he said silkily. ‘Begging, possibly on my knees, for very public forgiveness of some very private sin. How about, “Come back to me, darling, if only for the sake of the baby.” That should get tongues wagging.’

Tavy stared at him, assimilating the faint smile that did not reach his eyes, and unwillingly subsided, deciding she could not take the risk.

‘Very wise,’ he said. ‘Now, shall we begin the evening again? Thank you so much for giving me your company, Miss Denison. You look very lovely, and I must be the envy of every man in the room.’

The tawny gaze held hers, making it somehow impossible to look away. She said shakily, ‘Do you really think that’s what I want to hear from you?’

‘No,’ he said, with sudden curtness. ‘So let’s discuss the menus they’re bringing over to us instead. And please don’t tell me you couldn’t eat a thing, because I noticed you only picked at your lunch. And the chef has an award. You told me so yourself.’

‘Tell me something,’ she said, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘Why are you doing this?’

His smile was genuine this time, and, in some incredible way, even disarming.

‘A sudden whim,’ he said. ‘That I found quite irresistible. It happens sometimes.’

He added more briskly, ‘And now that I’ve satisfied your curiosity, let’s see what we can do for your appetite. Why don’t we begin with scallops?’