Seduction Never Lies. Sara Craven
could well be the worst thing to hit the village since the Black Death, and, even if he didn’t stay for very long, the damage would probably be done and quiet, sleepy Hazelton Magna would never be the same again.
Pity he didn’t stay in Spain, she thought, as she parked her bike at the back of the house and walked into the kitchen.
Where she stopped abruptly, her green eyes widening in horror as she saw who was sitting at the scrubbed pine table with her father, and now rising politely to greet her.
‘Ah, here you are, darling,’ the Vicar said fondly. ‘As you can see, a new neighbour, Jago Marsh, has very kindly come to introduce himself.
‘Jago—this is my daughter Octavia.’
‘Miss Denison.’ That smile again, but faintly loaded. Even—oh, God—conspiratorial. One dark brow quirking above that mocking tawny gaze. ‘This is indeed a pleasure.’
Oh, no, she thought as a wave of hotly embarrassed colour swept over her. It’s the Dark Lord himself. I can’t—I don’t believe it...
Only this time he wasn’t in black. Today it was blue denim pants, and a white shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, with its sleeves rolled back to his elbows, adding further emphasis to his tan. That unruly mass of dark hair had been combed back, and he was clean-shaven.
He took a step towards her, clearly expecting to shake hands, but Tavy kept her fists clenched at her sides, tension quivering through her like an electric charge.
‘How do you do,’ she said, her voice on the chilly side of neutral, as she observed with astonishment a couple of empty beer bottles and two used glasses on the table.
‘Jago is a musician,’ Mr Denison went on. ‘He’s coming to live at the Manor.’
‘So I’ve heard.’ She picked up the dirty glasses and carried them to the sink. Rinsed out the bottles and added them to the recycling box.
Mr Denison looked at his guest with a faint grimace. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘The village grapevine, I’m afraid.’
Jago Marsh’s smile widened. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way. As long as they keep their facts straight, of course.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Tavy said shortly. ‘They generally get the measure of newcomers pretty quickly.’
‘Well,’ he said. ‘That can work both ways. And, for the record, I’m now a retired musician.’
‘Really?’ Her brows lifted. ‘After the world arenas and the screaming fans, won’t you find Hazelton Magna terribly boring?’
‘On the contrary,’ he returned. ‘I’m sure it has many hidden charms, and I’m looking forward to exploring all of them.’ He allowed an instant for that to register, then continued, ‘Besides, I’ve been looking for somewhere quiet—to settle down and pursue other interests, as the saying goes. And the Manor seems the perfect place.’
He turned to the Vicar. ‘Particularly when I found a beautiful water nymph waiting for me at the lake. A most unexpected delight and what irresistibly clinched the deal for me.’
Tavy reached for a cloth and wiped out the sink as if her life depended on it.
‘Ah, the statue,’ Mr Denison mused. ‘Yes, it’s a lovely piece of sculpture. A true classic. One of the Manning ancestors brought her home from the Grand Tour back in the eighteenth century. Apparently he was so pleased with his find that he even renamed the house Ladysmere for her. Until then it had just been Hazelton Manor.’
‘That’s a great story,’ Jago Marsh said, thoughtfully. ‘And I feel exactly the same about my alluring nymph, so Ladysmere it shall stay. I wouldn’t dream of changing it back again.’
‘But the house itself,’ Tavy said very clearly. ‘It’s been empty for so long, won’t it cost a fortune to put right? Are you sure it’s worth it?’
‘Octavia.’ Her father sounded a note of reproof. ‘That’s none of our business.’
‘Actually, it’s a valid question,’ said Jago Marsh. ‘But I’m in this for the long haul, and I like the quirkiness of the place, so I’ll pay what it takes to put it right. Although I suspect what it most needs is TLC. Tender loving care,’ he added, surveying her flushed and mutinous face, before allowing his gaze to travel down over the white blouse and dark grey skirt worn well below the knee, according to Mrs Wilding’s dictates.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I am familiar with the expression.’
How dared he do this? she raged inwardly. How dared he come here and wind her up? Because that’s all it was.
Maybe he was just piqued that she hadn’t recognised him yesterday. Maybe he’d thought one glance, a gasp and a giggle as realisation dawned, would bring her out of the water and...
Well, she didn’t want to contemplate the rest of that scenario.
And with a lot of girls, he might have got lucky, but she had no interest in rock music, or the people who played it, so she was no one’s idea of a groupie.
As well as being spoken for, she added swiftly.
Although, it would have made no difference if she’d been free as air. However famous, however rich he might be, she had known him instantly as someone to be avoided. Someone dangerous with a streak of inner darkness.
His talk of settling down was nonsense. She’d give him three months of village life before he was looking for the shortest route back to the fast lane.
Well, she could survive that long. It was enduring the rest of this visit which would prove tricky.
Oh, let it be over soon, she whispered inwardly, and with unwonted vehemence.
But her father was speaking, driving another nail into her coffin. ‘I’ve asked Jago to stay for lunch, darling. I hope that’s all right.’
‘It’s cold chicken and salad,’ she said tautly, groaning silently. ‘I’m not sure there’s enough to go round.’
‘But I thought we were having macaroni cheese,’ he said. ‘I saw it in the fridge when I got the beer.’
And so there was. One of Dad’s all-time Saturday favourites. She’d got up specially to prepare it in advance.
‘I’d planned that for supper,’ she lied.
‘Oh.’ He looked faintly puzzled. ‘I thought you’d be seeing Patrick tonight.’
‘Well, no,’ she said. ‘His mother’s had some bad news, so he’s spending the evening with her.’
‘Ah,’ he said, and paused. ‘All the same, let’s have the macaroni now. It won’t take long to cook.’
‘Dad.’ She tried to laugh. ‘I’m sure Mr Marsh can do better for himself than very ordinary pasta in our kitchen.’
‘Better than a home-cooked meal in good company?’ her antagonist queried softly. ‘It sounds wonderful. As long as it isn’t too much trouble,’ he added, courteously.
Tavy remembered an old Agatha Christie she’d read years ago—The Murder at the Vicarage. She felt like creating a real-life sequel.
Hastily, she counted to ten. ‘Why don’t you both have another beer in the garden,’ she forced herself to suggest. ‘I—I’ll call when it’s ready.’
While the oven was heating, she mixed breadcrumbs with Parmesan and scattered them across the top of the pasta, found and opened a jar of plums she’d bottled the previous autumn to have with ice cream as dessert, and made a simple dressing for the salad.
We’ll have to eat the chicken tonight, she told herself grimly as she put the earthenware dish into the oven, then turned away to lay the table.
All the domestic stuff she could do on