Tilly Bagshawe 3-book Bundle: Scandalous, Fame, Friends and Rivals. Tilly Bagshawe
oh.’
Horatio looked up curiously. ‘What?’
‘If I tell you, you have to promise me you won’t make a scene. I like working here.’
‘I never make scenes. What?’
‘Your Mrs Robinson has just walked in. Staggered in, actually. She looks three sheets to the wind.’
Horatio spun around so fast he slipped off his bar stool. There, indeed, was Theresa, standing by the door, swaying gently but rhythmically, like a sailboat in the breeze. Her divine mountain of red hair was wet and dark, stuck to her head with snow, and her long skirt and sheepskin boots were also soaked through to the point where they made a sloshing sound when she walked. Her pale cheeks were flushed, her eyes glassy. There was no question she was drunk. Horatio’s eyes lit up with delight when he noticed she was wearing his scarf, but his happiness soon evaporated as Theresa staggered forward, falling into the arms of a surprised young couple enjoying their fish and chips by the fire.
‘You’d better do something,’ Jack whispered. ‘The boss’ll throw her out in a minute. He’s clamping down on hurlers.’
The very idea that anyone might consider Theresa a ‘hurler’ filled Horatio with chagrin, but now was not the time to argue the point, especially as she looked as green as her scarf after her tumble and, if truth be told, distinctly nauseous.
‘Let me help you.’
Theresa blinked groggily. ‘Horay … Hooray … Horay-show? Whaddayou doing here? ‘S Chrishmas.’
‘I know. Here, take my arm.’
‘Why? Where’re we going? You shun’t be here, you know. ‘S Christmas. ’Tis the season to be jolly, fa la la la la!’ She dissolved into giggles. Jack shot Horatio a meaningful glance.
‘I’m taking you home,’ he said, ushering Theresa out into the freezing night air before she had a chance to resist. Outside the cold was sobering, but not sobering enough. At seven o’clock it had been pitch dark for hours. Street lamps flickered pale gold above the snowy cobbles. Somewhere in the distance, bells were still ringing. Theresa clutched Horatio like a drowning man reaching for driftwood.
‘I’m drunk,’ she murmured sleepily.
‘I know.’ Horatio felt the damp weight of her body pressed against his thick winter coat and felt weak with longing. All he wanted was to sweep Theresa up into his arms and kiss her, but of course he couldn’t, not in this state.
‘’S’all Theo’s fault, bloody bastard,’ she mumbled into his lapel. ‘Why can’t he leave me alone? I mean, really, ’sthat too much to bl’dy ask?’
‘Where do you live?’ asked Horatio, who had no idea what she was talking about. ‘It’s too cold to talk out here and you’re soaked to the bone. I could take you back to college?’
‘No,’ said Theresa firmly. She’d been drinking since noon, ricocheting from one pub to the next getting progressively more depressed at the thought of Theo’s imminent arrival. Though extremely drunk now, she was not quite paralytic enough to think that staggering back to Christ’s in this state, on the arm of one of her students, was a good idea. When she woke up tomorrow she would feel like death, but she’d rather feel like death in her own bed, with only her cats as witnesses. ‘I’ll go home. S’all right. I can get a cab.’
‘Not in this state you can’t, no one’ll take you,’ said Horatio matter-of-factly. ‘I’ll drive you. I’m parked round the corner and I’ve only had one beer all night.’
Too tired to argue, Theresa followed him. By day, Horatio’s ancient Datsun looked like the death trap that it was. Right now, to Theresa’s bleary eyes anyway, it looked like a welcoming oasis of warmth and safety. She climbed into the back seat, sprawled out across it and fell deeply asleep.
When she woke, she found herself on the couch in the living room at Willow Tree Cottage, wrapped in a blanket, a freshly laid fire crackling to life in front of her. Disorientated, she sat-up, and then immediately lay back down again, clutching her head and groaning.
‘Here.’ Horatio handed her some revolting-looking liquid, fizzy and amber-green. It reminded her of cat sick.
‘No thanks.’
‘Drink it. Trust me. I’ve made you Marmite toast for afterwards, to take the taste away.’
Like a child, Theresa drank. If possible, the liquid tasted worse than it looked. She retched, but with an effort managed to keep it down.
‘Good. Now try some toast. Small bites.’
The sour tang of the Marmite felt good, cutting through her nausea like a knife. ‘Thanks,’ she said weakly. She looked up at Horatio, who was smiling down at her, his kind eyes amused and compassionate at the same time. He was wearing a dark blue Guernsey jumper with holes in it and a tatty pair of grey corduroy trousers. Or was that three pairs of trousers? Her vision was still touch and go.
‘What time is it?’ she asked, closing her eyes and sinking back against the cushion that Horatio had arranged behind her head as a pillow. Before he could answer, another thought struck her. ‘How did you know where I live? How did you get in?’
‘It wasn’t that much of a brain teaser,’ he joked, sitting down on the other end of the couch, by her feet. ‘After you passed out in the car I looked in your wallet. Your driving licence had the address on it.’
‘Oh.’ Theresa blushed. ‘Of course.’
‘I couldn’t find a key in your pockets, thought I might have to jimmy open a window or something, but the place was unlocked. You should be more careful.’
His tone was admonishing, as if he were the teacher and she the pupil. It – all this, the knight-in-shining-armour routine – was a side to Horatio that Theresa had never seen before. As his three faces merged back into one, she watched him tuck the blanket around her feet and thought, He’s really very handsome.
‘You mentioned something outside the pub. About Theo.’ The name seemed to stick in Horatio’s throat. ‘Is that why …?’
‘I was drinking? Yes. Stupid, I know.’ She ran a hand through her drying curls. ‘Getting hammered’s not going to help anything. It’s certainly not going to stop him coming back to Cambridge, if that’s really what he wants. When Theo wants something he’s like the Bad Rabbit. He doesn’t say “ please ” . He just takes it.’
Horatio missed the literary reference, but he got the gist of what she was saying. He looked almost as horrified by the prospect of Theo Dexter’s return as Theresa had ten hours earlier. ‘Dexter’s coming here? Moving here? Why, for God’s sake?’
Theresa told him the whole sorry story. By the time she’d finished she was fighting back tears again. Without thinking, Horatio leaned over and hugged her. Misinterpreting her distress, he said sadly, ‘You still love him, don’t you?’
‘No!’ Theresa pulled back, surprised by the vehemence of her own reaction. ‘No, I don’t still love him. Not in the least. In fact at this precise moment there’s a possibility I might even hate him. And I make it a policy never to hate people.’
‘A policy. I see. Like your “ policy ” not to date students, you mean?’
All of a sudden Theresa was aware of how close he was. She could see the stubble on his chin and jawline, smell the faint scent of aftershave on his skin. She looked up and his eyes were boring into her. This was not the Horatio Hollander she remembered. This version was a man, not a boy. And he was smouldering.
When she spoke, her voice cracked. ‘Yes. Like that.’
‘You have too many policies, Professor O’Connor.’
The kiss was so fast, and so bold, Theresa told herself she had no time to resist. The truth was, she didn’t