British Bachelors: Tempting & New: Seduction Never Lies / Holiday with a Stranger / Anything but Vanilla...

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.’