Jago shook his head. 'Unfortunately, I have to get back to my hotel. I have early meetings in London tomorrow. I'm sorry.'
'Well, I suppose I must forgive you.' There was a pout in her voice, as Charlie opened her door for her. Jago got out too, walking with her to the front entrance.
Tavy turned her head and her attention to the semi-darkness outside the window again. She did not want to see if Jago Marsh was kissing Fiona Culham goodnight. For one thing, it was none of her business. For another...
She stopped right there, finding to her discomfort that she did not want to consider any alternatives.
Then tensed as she realised he was already back, rejoining her in the car. Her heartbeat quickened as she shrank even further into her corner.
He said, 'Are you all right?'
'Yes,' she said. 'I mean-no. I shouldn't be here. I should have stayed with Patrick.'
There was a silence, then he said drily, 'Your loyalty is commendable, but I doubt whether he'd have been much good to you tonight.'
She said in a suffocated voice, 'I think you're vile.'
'No,' he said. 'Just practical.' He paused. 'Does he often get blasted like that?'
'No,' she said hotly. 'He doesn't. And he only had a few pints. I don't understand it.'
'I think it was rather more than that. He was drinking whisky chasers up at the bar too.'
She gasped. 'I don't believe you.'
'You can always check with the landlord,' he said. 'He warned me what was going on when I ordered the other bottle of champagne.'
'He warned you? Why?'
'I imagine in order to avoid trouble.'
'Oh, it's too late for that,' she said quickly and bitterly. 'Because you're the real cause of the trouble. It started when you came here. When you decided to buy the Manor.'
She took a swift, trembling breath. 'Mrs Wilding, Patrick's mother, is afraid that her pupils' parents will take them away from the school when word gets out that you've come to live in the village. That people won't want their children exposed to your kind of influence. That there'll be disruption-drunken parties-drugs.'
'You've left out sex,' he said. 'But I'm sure that features prominently on the list of righteous objections to my loathsome presence.'
'Can you wonder?' Tavy hit back.
'No,' he said, with a brief harsh sigh. 'The old maxim "Give a dog a bad name and hang him" has held good for centuries. Why should it be different here-in spite of your father's benign guidance?'
He paused. 'And now I may as well justify your dire opinion of me.'
He moved, reaching for her. Pulling her out of her corner and into his arms in one unhurried, irrefutable movement. Moulding her against his lean body.
The cool, practised mouth brushed hers lightly, even questioningly, then took possession, parting her lips with expert mastery, his tongue flickering against hers in a sensuous and subtle temptation totally outside her experience.
Her hands, instinctively raised to brace themselves against his chest and push him away, were instead trapped helplessly between them, and she could feel the tingling, pervasive warmth of his body against her spread palms, the steady throb of his heartbeat sending her own pulses jangling in a response as scaring as it was unwelcome.
Because she needed to resist him and the treacherous, almost languid wave of heat uncurling deep inside her, and the threat of its unleashed power. And knew she should do it now, as his kiss deepened in intensity and became an urgent demand.
Which was something she had to fight, she recognised, in some dazed corner of her mind, while she still had the will to do so.
Only it was all too late, because he, to her shame, was releasing her first. Putting her firmly away from him. And, as he did so, she realised the car had stopped, and that Charlie was already coming round to open the passenger door for her.
She stumbled out, drawing deep breaths of the cool night air, her sole intention to put the Vicarage's solid front door between herself and her persecutor.
Except he was walking beside her, his hand inflexibly on her arm.
As they reached the porch, he said softly, 'A word of advice, my sweet. When you eventually decide to surrender your virginity, choose a man who's at least sober enough to appreciate you.'
She tore herself free and faced him, eyes blazing, nearly choking on the words. 'You utter bastard. How dare you speak to me like that? Don't you ever bloody touch me-come near me again.'
He tutted reprovingly. 'What language. I hope for your sake that none of the morality brigade are listening.'
She spun on her heel, fumbling in her bag for her key, sensing rather than hearing the departure of the car down the drive. Trying desperately to calm herself before facing her father.
As she closed the door behind her, she called, 'Hi, I'm home.' But there was no reply and once again there were no lights showing.
It seemed that she had the house to herself. And with that realisation, the tight rein on her emotions snapped, and she burst uncontrollably and noisily into a flood of tears.
CHAPTER SIX
TAVY SPENT A restless, miserable night, and responded reluctantly to the sound of the alarm the following morning.
Clutching a handful of damp tissues, she'd stared into the darkness trying to make sense of Patrick's extraordinary behaviour, and failing miserably.
But the chief barrier between herself and sleep was her body's unexpected and unwelcome response to Jago Marsh's mouth moving on hers. The warm, heavy throb across her nerve-endings, the stammer of her pulses, and, most shamingly, the swift carnal scald of need between her thighs-all sensations returning to torment her.
Reminding her that-just for a moment-she had not wanted him to stop...
She'd been caught off guard-that was all, she told herself defensively. And she would make damned sure that it never happened again.
When she got to the school, Mrs Wilding was waiting impatiently. 'Oh, there you are, Octavia,' she said as if Tavy was ten minutes late instead of five minutes early. 'I want you to sort out the library this morning. Make sure all the books are catalogued, and shelved properly. List any that need to be replaced and repair any that are slightly worn.' She glanced at her watch. 'I shall be going out.'
Tavy could remember carrying out the self-same operation, fully and thoroughly, at the end of the previous term, but knew better than to say so, merely replying, 'Yes, Mrs Wilding.'
As she'd suspected, the library was in its usual neat order, and there was nothing to add to the list of replacements from the last check. Although she could do something brave and daring like creating a parallel list of books, and suggest that the library should be treated to a mass buying programme.
Some hopes, she thought with self-derision as she returned to her cubbyhole. Mrs Wilding liked the idea of a library because it sent a positive literacy message to the parents, but did not regard it as an investment.
She reprinted the original list, then sat staring at the computer screen, wondering how to occupy herself. Apart from the cheerful sound of Radio Two emanating faintly from Matron's room, the place was silent.
Her hand moved slowly, almost in spite of itself, clicking the mouse to take her online, then keying in 'Descent'.
She drew a breath, noting that the entries about them seemed endless. She scrolled down the page and Jago smiled out at her, sitting on a step, a can of beer in his hand, next to a fair-haired guy with a thin, serious face, both of them stripped to the waist and wearing jeans.
For a moment she felt something stir inside her, soft, almost aching, and clicked hastily on to 'The Making of Descent'. She read that while Pete Hilton, the fair serious one, and Jago had met at public school and started writing songs together, they'd only made contact with the other members of the band, keyboard player and vocalist Tug Austin and drummer Verne Hallam when they'd all subsequently enrolled at the Capital School of Art in London.
They'd started playing gigs at schools and colleges in London, their music becoming increasingly successful, allied with a reputation for drinking and wild behaviour, and leading them to be thrown out of art college at the start of their third year.
At first they'd called themselves Scattergun, and it was only when they'd been offered their first recording contract that they changed their name to Descent, soon scoring their first huge, groundbreaking hit with Easy, Easy.
Tavy went on reading about the tours, the sell-out concerts, the awards, all accompanied by a riotous, unbridled lifestyle, fuelled by alcohol and, it was hinted, drugs, that apparently became the stuff of legends. Or horror stories.
There were more pictures too, involving girls. She recognised a lot of them-models, film and TV stars, other musicians. The kind who made the covers of celebrity magazines. But not usually half-dressed, dishevelled and hung-over. And many of them entwined with Jago.