Christmas With The Duke
Katrina Cudmore
Reunited with her first love…Ciara Harris hoped her first Christmas working back at Loughmore Castle would mark a fresh start, but Tom, now Duke of Bainsworth return threatens to uncover feelings she thought long-buried.Could a snowed in Christmas be a second chance?
Reunited with her first love...
For an unforgettable Christmas
Ciara Harris hoped her first Christmas working back at Loughmore Castle would mark a fresh start, but the return of Tom, now Duke of Bainworth, threatens to uncover feelings she thought long buried. Being snowed in on Christmas Eve with Tom forces Ciara to face the truth—there’s still something magical between them. As the castle’s fires burn warm and festive, so do Tom and Ciara’s feelings of hope...
A city-loving book addict, peony obsessive KATRINA CUDMORE lives in Cork, Ireland, with her husband, four active children and a very daft dog. A psychology graduate, with an MSc in Human Resources, Katrina spent many years working in multinational companies and can’t believe she is lucky enough now to have a job that involves daydreaming about love and handsome men! You can visit Katrina at katrinacudmore.com (http://www.katrinacudmore.com).
Also by Katrina Cudmore (#u9e87cc55-7ea2-538a-9f01-40a6b7ce8332)
Swept into the Rich Man’s World
The Best Man’s Guarded Heart
Her First-Date Honeymoon
Their Baby Surprise
Tempted by the Greek Tycoon
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
Christmas with the Duke
Katrina Cudmore
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-07824-5
CHRISTMAS WITH THE DUKE
© 2018 Katrina Cudmore
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Ava, my modern girl full of wit,
intelligence, acceptance and ambition.
The world is yours to conquer.
Contents
Cover (#ued9e54be-0d39-5a6c-8ccc-4e2d60be3245)
Back Cover Text (#u76d8b4bb-6fb7-5094-b33c-a9d1d827426e)
About the Author (#u9758444e-b4a4-5148-b167-477bcce42e2a)
Booklist (#u4489971b-787e-5c32-8ace-f3a1881394c6)
Title Page (#u926c5215-8389-5137-984c-f58740f7bdfe)
Copyright (#u4d726367-01aa-59a6-ac2c-407e13295e3d)
Dedication (#u5e07649e-dba1-55fc-98f6-f6a41a90f7b9)
CHAPTER ONE (#ubc026ce6-a482-553a-92e5-7ea97e1b2908)
CHAPTER TWO (#u717a50e9-0d27-58fb-9d95-e4ae17a3b44a)
CHAPTER THREE (#u42a1c558-fa1f-57b9-80d2-3db47957b718)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#u9e87cc55-7ea2-538a-9f01-40a6b7ce8332)
‘GOOD GIRL, CIARA, just another foot to go and you’ll be there.’
Despite her shaking legs, Ciara Harris could not help but grin to herself at her boss’s good-natured encouragement. Sean was the head gardener at Loughmore Castle and, having known Ciara since she was a teenager, at times still treated her as one despite the fact that she was now thirty years of age.
Her smile soon faded, however, when she made the fatal mistake of looking down from her twenty-foot-high perch up on the stepladder. The Connemara marble floor of the Great Hall swam up and then back down in a sickening vortex.
She grasped the stepladder’s metal rail for dear life and cast an unhappy eye over the reason she was twenty feet up in the air. The fine-boned angel, dressed in gold silk, her cheeks painted with a dash of pink blush, calmly considered Ciara back, as though wondering why she was making such a fuss.
Standing with Sean at the base of the stepladder, looking way too amused for her own good, Libby the head chef at Loughmore called up to Ciara. ‘Sometime in the next year would be helpful, Ciara. I’ve five layers of Christmas cake to ice and a ton of petit fours to make for tomorrow night’s lighting ceremony,’
Ciara scowled down at Libby, who had one foot casually propped on the bottom rung of the ladder, with a glass of mulled wine in one hand and a mince pie in the other, and muttered through clenched teeth, ‘I nominate you to climb up here next Christmas.’
‘Oh, no, the pleasure will be all yours until a new member of staff is recruited,’ Libby called back, with a tad too much relish.
Given the amused expressions of all thirty or so of the other Loughmore staff, who had come into the hall to watch the final finish to the tree decoration and, more to the point, rush to the buffet table, to partake in the refreshments Libby’s team had organised, Ciara guessed they shared Libby’s entertainment at Ciara’s terror.
‘Gird your loins...’ That was what her granddad had used to say to her as she’d buried herself beneath her blankets as a teenager, when he’d called her before dawn in order to polish the vast marble floor she was now suspended over. To this day she still had no idea what that expression really meant, but she knew it had been his way of telling her just to get on with it.
Ciara’s mum was definitely cut from the same cloth as her grandad. As a child, whenever Ciara had grumbled about a playground slight or wished she had a sister to play with, or a dad who would come to watch her play football like all the other dads, her mum would say, ‘Don’t overthink things, Ciara. Accept that life is unfair, put a smile on your face and just get on with it.’
Which she now needed to do.
Tentatively she moved on to the next step, inhaling deeply of the pine-scented air, before humming a Christmas classic in the hope of channelling some of the festive spirit.
Every Christmas Sean cut down a Noble Fir from Loughmore Wood. It was always huge—it had to be to suit its new home, the Great Hall at Loughmore Castle, which lived up to its title by having a forty-foot vaulted timber ceiling. But this year Sean had surpassed himself by cutting down a stunning blue needle perfectly symmetrical twenty-four-foot specimen.
It had taken the gardening crew of five an entire day to transport it, install it and hang two thousand lights and the endless baubles the Benson family had collected over the years from the tree’s branches.
Sean had rather cleverly waited until the last moment to announce that it was a castle tradition that the newest employee always had the honour of placing the delicate porcelain angel.
For a few moments Ciara had actually bought that story. But then she had spotted the mischief twinkling in Sean’s eyes, and the elbowing amongst her fellow gardeners. Honour, indeed. More like the short straw. Obviously no one else wanted the task—especially when Libby’s mince pies were on offer.
She had tried to protest that technically she wasn’t the newest employee, given she had worked in Loughmore as a cleaner during her school summer holidays. But her protest had fallen on deaf ears in the buffet table raid.
Anyway, as the only female member of staff on the gardening team, and a conservation and heritage horticulturalist to boot, Ciara knew that, apart from Sean, the rest of the gardening team were sceptical about her role and her ideas.
Only yesterday there had been a stand-off between her and one of the others, who had wanted to cut some holly for decorating the castle. Ciara had tried to explain to him just how important the holly and its berries were for the birds and small animals, both as a source for food and shelter, but her colleague had shaken his head and muttered, ‘You’re pure cracked, Ciara...’ before walking away.
So, ignoring the screaming alarm bells in her brain, she had grabbed hold of the angel and begun the climb. It was only when she’d been halfway up the stepladder that the voice of reason in her head had finally broken through her indignation at her co-workers and pointed out that she was terrified of heights.
But now, determined to continue on, aided by the combination of singing and her refusal to look down, she soon reached the top of the tree. Gingerly she leant into the branches, trying her best to ignore the pine needles stabbing against her bare forearms.
The ladder wobbled ever so slightly. Below her she heard a few gasps.
‘Steady now...take it easy,’ Sean called up.
Ciara leant in even further, keen to get the job over and done with. Inching forward, she managed to place the angel on the top branch, using her fingertips to straighten it when she slouched to the left.
Below her, applause rang out.
She’d done it!
Her elation lasted all of five seconds—until it dawned on her that she now had to climb back down.
Gripping the rails, she began her descent, her feet blindly searching for each tread beneath her.
The Christmas tree was positioned in front of the Great Hall’s vast Pugin fireplace and a gold over-mantel mirror. A few steps down from the top, in a gap between the branches, Ciara grimaced when she caught her reflection in the mirror. Pine needles were scattered in her hair and a smear of dirt stained the collar of her denim shirt.
And then she saw him.
Standing at the heavy wooden entrance door to the castle. Silhouetted by the late-afternoon burnished gold sky.
Staring up at her.
She faltered mid-step, her heart dropping to her steel-toecap boots and then catapulting back up into her chest.
Was it really him? After all these years?
Below her the idle chatter of the other staff died away.
Ten seconds later all hell broke loose.
‘Your Grace! I had no idea... I understood from the estate office you were to remain at Bainsworth until the twenty-ninth, as is tradition.’ Stephen, the head butler at Loughmore, was barely able to keep the panic from his voice.
Ciara just about managed to find the next step on the ladder before turning to face the scene unfolding below her.
All the crowd had shifted away from the tree to stand a respectful distance from him... Tom Benson... Eleventh Duke of Bainsworth. Under one arm he was carrying a scruffy-looking terrier, who was panting and wriggling in his eagerness to be let down.
The Duke had spent his childhood summers here in Loughmore, adored and indulged by all the staff. But he had not visited the castle for the past twelve years. The newer staff had never met him before, and even those who knew him seemed uncertain of how to greet him or even who they were dealing with.
For the briefest second he glanced up at her, those silver eyes giving nothing away. Ciara gripped the ladder rail even tighter, feeling completely off-balance. He still had the ability to make the world more vivid, more exhilarating, just by being in the same room.
He had changed. At eighteen he had been boyishly handsome, with brown hair deliberately too long and a restless energy that had never seen him stand still. Now his short hair only hinted at previous curls, and all that restless energy seemed to have been turned inwards, transforming him into a silent observer.
The intelligence in his eyes was sharper, his tall and lean athletic build more defined. The smoothness of his eighteen-year-old skin was gone, replaced by the hint of a five o’clock shadow and faint lines at the corners of his eyes.
His grey wool overcoat, gleaming black brogues and the dark suit underneath were in keeping not only with his title but also with his position as the owner of a chain of globally renowned restaurants that bore his name—Tom’s.
The last time she had seen him he had been wearing faded jeans and a crumpled polo shirt. He had caught the last flight from London to Dublin one late September night. Ciara flinched at the memory of that night and how they had argued. Across the hall she saw his shoulders stiffen even more, as though he was remembering that night too.
He flicked his gaze away from her and lowered his dog to the ground. It ambled away to sniff at a nearby pot plant. Then the Duke walked towards Stephen.
Both men shook hands before Tom...no, the Duke, as she needed to remember to call him now, said, ‘My schedule changed and allowed me the opportunity to travel early. My mother, the Duchess, and my sisters want to spend Christmas here in Loughmore...’ He paused before adding, ‘Away from Bainsworth Hall.’
Uneasy silence descended as everyone reflected on the reason why that would be the case.
Then, clearing his throat, Stephen said, ‘On behalf of myself and all the staff here at Loughmore, condolences on the death of your father.’
With a stiff nod of his head the Duke acknowledged Stephen’s words. Then yet more awkward silence followed as everyone waited for the Duke to speak. To acknowledge their condolences or to explain why he was here earlier than expected. Perhaps even to explain why he hadn’t visited Loughmore in years, or why it had taken him five months since his father’s death to visit.
But instead he caught everyone unawares as he moved forward and began to introduce himself to the rest of the staff.
Libby was the first in line. She blushed and smiled and thrust a plate of gingerbread Santas in the Duke’s direction. He declined her offer with a polite shake of his head.
Maggie, the head of Housekeeping, was next in line. Maggie had used to fondly scold the Duke as a teenager, for the endless mess he’d created around the castle—especially when he had friends to stay. Now she looked as though she wanted to hug him, as she had each summer when he’d arrived back from Eton. But the Duke held his hand out to her and formally they shook hands.
Forgotten by all and sundry—Sean and Libby having long neglected their promise to hold the ladder steady—Ciara had no option but to climb down on her own. Her already wobbly legs now felt truly un-coordinated. Her heart was unhelpfully lurching about her chest and the single looping question in her brain was slowly driving her to distraction—what on earth was she going to say to him when they came face to face?
When she was nervous her default setting was to joke and make light of the situation. Sometimes it worked, and defused the tension, but at other times it fell flat and she ended up looking like a complete fool. It was something she was trying to control, but it was hard to change a habit of a lifetime.
But maybe she was overthinking this. In all likelihood she was just a forgotten memory from his teenage years.
Long-buried memories accompanied each of her steps downward. Watching him cook in her gran’s tiny cottage kitchen, where his inventiveness as a chef had turned from a hobby into an all-consuming passion. Kissing him under the bridge at the far end of the lake, with the confined space, dim light and the trickle of water amplifying their laughter and chatter.
She remembered how Tom would climb to the top of the Japanese cedar in the Arboretum and dare her to join him... But even watching him forty feet off the ground had left her feeling giddy, and she would barely climb ten feet before giving up. And the way he would block out the sun when he leant over her as they’d lain in a mossy hollow they had found at the centre of Loughmore Wood, the affection shining from his eyes confounding her.
He had convinced her that the hollow had been created by a meteor. And it was there that her passion for native Irish plant species had begun. Later she would train to be a horticulturist, driven by the desire to preserve those plants and to conserve the historical importance of gardens such as Loughmore for future generations.Lying on that soft green blanket of moss, her hand in his, she had seen up close for the first time the intricate and delicate beauty of those often rare plants. Her gaze would shift from him to the breathtaking wonder of willowherb and Black Medick, and the world had been full of wonder and possibility and maybes.
But then reality would dawn and she would have to return to work. Dressed in her cleaning uniform, she would nod politely in his direction whenever they passed in the corridors of the castle, and he would do likewise in return. She’d tried to pretend to herself that she didn’t care, but deep down the easy distance he was always so capable of had made her wonder at the truth of their relationship.
Lost in thought, she clambered down the ladder—but her lack of concentration caught up with her when she was less than six feet from the bottom. Her foot moved to connect with the next step down, but she must have overreached because suddenly she was feeling nothing but open air. With a yelp, she clung desperately to the ladder. But in slow motion she felt her whole body fall backwards, and then she was flying through the air.
Her only thoughts were of the hard marble floor about to greet her and the ignominy of her situation.
Talk about making a holy show of yourself.
But instead of feeling her bones crunching against a hard surface she fell into a solid grip.
Winded, she threw her head back in confusion to come really close to those silver eyes.
‘You’re still a terrible climber, I see.’ His voice was a low rumble.
She tried to leap out of his arms, but they tightened around her. And she had to bite back the crazy temptation to say, Welcome home, Tom, you’ve been missed.
Cursing under his breath, Tom pulled the wriggling Ciara closer, trying to ignore the energy surge flooding his body at having her hip pressed against his stomach, her tumble of auburn hair softly tickling his wrist.
Other staff were starting to crowd around them, fussing over Ciara. He needed to make sure she was okay. He needed some space to think.
He shifted around and caught a horrified-looking Stephen’s eye. ‘Please bring tea to the morning room.’
He moved quickly away, Ciara still in his arms. Past the tapestries and family portraits lining the wide corridor. Not looking down. Trying to remember that he had come to Loughmore with one single purpose.
Boarding his private plane earlier that day, at the City of London airport, he had been determined to approach the next week logically. Even though he had done a double-take when he had seen Ciara’s name as he’d glanced through the names of personnel employed at Loughmore that the estate office at Bainsworth Hall had sent through, he had remained determined that he was taking the right decision in returning to Loughmore and making the announcement that had to be made.
But as he had wound his way from the outskirts of Dublin city and into County Wicklow, the Garden of Ireland, past familiar landmarks—the rolling Wicklow mountains, the hidden lakes, the silent narrow roads with towering trees and road signs for ancient monuments, the Christmas lights threaded across the narrow main street of Avoca Village, the doors of the brightly painted terraced cottages wearing Christmas wreaths—something had shifted in him.
And when he had come to the brow of Broom Hill and Loughmore Castle had appeared below him in the valley he had pulled his rental car to the side of the road and climbed out. Standing on the edge of a ditch, in the fading light of a winter afternoon, he had buttoned his coat against the sharp breeze carried all the way in from the distant Irish Sea with bittersweet memories confounding him.
Loughmore Castle hadn’t changed. It still sat proudly in the valley, its medieval tower standing pencil-sharp against the blue winter sky, the Victorian addition flanking it to the west, the Georgian courtyard to the rear. To the front of the castle sat Loughmore Lake, where Tom had learnt to sail and had had his first experimental kiss in the shadows of the boat house, with Hatta Coleridge-Hall.
To this day, his mother still dropped not so subtle hints that Hatta would make a good duchess.
It hadn’t been until Ciara, though, that he had understood what a kiss should really be.
To the rear of the castle, beyond the walled garden and orchards, lay Loughmore Wood. The place where he and Ciara used to escape to, to talk and poke fun at each other at first and then, over the long weeks of that final summer together, to make love.
Standing there on the edge of that ditch, with the icy breeze whistling around him, he had winced at all those wonderful and sad and painful memories and he had known more than ever that he had come to the right decision on the future of Loughmore. It was time he put the ghosts of his past in Loughmore behind him for once and for all.
And as he had driven through the imposing limestone arched entrance to the estate, and along the three-quarter-mile entrance avenue past the wide open fields, where deer were sheltering under oak and chestnut trees, he had been pulled back to his excitement as a child, when he had travelled to Loughmore each summer, relishing the freedom he’d got there, away from the ever-present sense of failure that had marked his schooldays.
His younger sisters, Kitty and Fran, had brought friends for company, and on occasions, to satisfy his parents’ insistence that he ‘socialise and network’, Tom had too, but in truth he had wanted nothing more but to immerse himself in castle life. He had driven tractors, helped bring in the hay and milked the cows. He had spent hours with Jack Casey, the Yard Manager at Loughmore’s stables, learning about horses, and even more hours in the kitchen with Jack’s wife Mary, at first devouring her home baking and then, to his own surprise, cooking and baking himself under her guidance.
She had grown nervous about his visits, politely asking what his father would say, but he had charmed his way around her resistance. In time he had learned of his father’s attitude to his passion for cooking but back then it had been his secret.
And then, one summer, Jack and Mary’s granddaughter Ciara Harris had blown into the estate—like a turbo-charged breath of fresh air. Funny, outspoken, often unknowingly irreverent, she had questioned everything. And for the first time he had seen that his life could be different...
A fire was lit in the morning room, where table lamps cast faint shadows over the pale pink embossed wallpaper. Before the fire on a Persian rug was a footstool, still bearing the business and scientific journals and periodicals his father had insisted were to be ordered for all three of the estate’s main properties—Bainsworth Hall, the two-thousand-acre main seat of the family in Sussex, Loughmore Castle, and Glencorr, the family hunting lodge in Scotland.
He lowered Ciara on to the sofa in front of the fire and stood back. Too late he remembered the time he had found her in here cleaning, and had dragged her giggling in protest to the sofa and kissed her until they were both breathless, hot with the intoxicating frustration of unfulfilled desire.
He shook away the memory and tried to focus on the woman before him—not the girl he had once known ‘Are you injured in any way?’
Immediately she stood and moved away from him, stepping behind the arm of the sofa as though that would shield her from him. She folded her arms and gave a wry shrug. ‘Just my pride.’
For long moments they regarded each other, the crack and hiss of burning wood the only sound in the room.
Ciara tucked a lock of her long red hair behind her ear and rubbed her cheek. She rolled back on one heel. as though fighting the urge to move even further away. She regarded him warily and then, in a low voice, asked, ‘How have you been?’
She’d always used to do this to him. Disarm him with the simplest of questions that left him floundering for an answer. How did you sum up twelve years?
‘Good. And you?’
She tilted her head, the deep auburn tones of her hair shining in the light of a nearby Tiffany lamp and answered, ‘Yeah, good too.’
A discreet knock sounded on the door to the room. Stephen entered, carrying a tray bearing a silver tea service and china cups. Storm bounded into the room behind him and jumped up on Ciara, his paws clawing at the denim of her black jeans.
He called to Storm, but the terrier ignored him as Ciara bent over and patted him, murmuring, ‘Hello, cutie.’
Stephen placed the tea service on a side table, along with some delicate triangular sandwiches and some mince pies, before awkwardly considering Ciara. Then, clearing his throat to gain her attention, because she was still chatting with Storm, he said, ‘If you are feeling better, Ciara, there is tea ready in the staff kitchen.’
Ciara straightened. Glanced in Tom’s direction and then went to leave with Stephen.
Tom gritted his teeth. ‘Stay and have tea here.’
Stephen did a poor job at hiding his surprise at Tom’s words but, gathering up Tom’s overcoat, simply asked, ‘Would you like me to take your dog away, sir?’
‘He’s called Storm—and, no, he can stay here with me.’
After Stephen had left, Ciara motioned towards the door. ‘I should go.’
‘Why?’
‘Staff don’t have tea with the Duke.’
‘I’m not my parents. I don’t give a fig about what’s the done thing or protocol. Now, have some tea and stop arguing with me.’
She looked as though she was going to argue with him, but then with a resigned shrug she went to the side table and poured tea into two cups, adding milk to one. Turning, she brought one of the jade-rimmed cups, with the family crest printed inside, to him.
Black tea—just as he had always drunk it. Was she even conscious that she’d remembered?
He gestured for her to take a seat on the sofa facing the fire, and took a seat himself on an occasional chair facing the bay window overlooking the lake.
Ciara watched as Storm settled on his feet, his belly lying as usual on Tom’s shoes.
‘Why did you call him Storm?’
‘I didn’t. He belonged to my ex-girlfriend. When she decided to return home to Japan I adopted him.’
Ciara said nothing in response. Instead she sipped her tea quickly.
Tom watched her, still thrown by seeing her after so many years.
They had once been so close. Ciara had been the first person ever to ask what his dreams were, who had seen beyond his title and the expected path that had been mapped out for him from the moment he was born. It was Ciara who had encouraged him to follow his passion for cooking—who had challenged him to write to some of London’s top restaurants seeking an apprenticeship. She had been the first person to believe in him. The first person who had helped him see who he was rather than who he was supposed to be.
But she was also the first person to have broken his heart; in truth the only ever person to do so. After Ciara he had been more circumspect in his relationships.
He could not go on reliving the painful memories of that time. It was time for closure.
Placing his teacup on a small walnut console table, he said, ‘I understand your grandparents have retired?’
His question elicited a smile from her. ‘Yes, they’ve moved back to County Galway. They bought a house in Renvyle—close to the beach. They love it there, but they miss Loughmore. Grandad especially misses the horses, and both miss the other staff. After working here for over fifty years leaving wasn’t an easy decision for them.’
Years ago Tom would have understood why her grandparents missed Loughmore. He had once loved it more than any other place on this earth. But what had happened between him and Ciara had ruined his love affair with the castle. Now it represented guilt and shame and pain.
But did the fact that Ciara was working here mean that she had been able to bury the past? Was she unaffected by those memories?
‘Is that why you’re working here now—did you miss it?’
Ciara gave a non-committal shrug. ‘I trained as a conservation and heritage horticulturist. Knowing how many rare Irish plant species there are at Loughmore, I applied for the gardening role that was advertised here during the spring of this year. You remember Sean? The head gardener?’ When Tom nodded she continued. ‘In the interview I told Sean about my interest in identifying and conserving the rare and threatened plants that are here. Thankfully he was interested in the project, and he also asked me to lead a programme to reintroduce heritage plants back onto the estate.’
‘All those days in the woods...’ Too late he realised his words.
Ciara flinched and looked into the fire, shifting her feet, clad in heavy boots, further beneath the sofa, as though she was trying to hide them.
In their last summer together, when they were both eighteen, their relationship had become much more than just friendship and flirting. It had started with a kiss in Loughmore Wood, as they had lain staring at the stars one July night. That summer had been wild and intoxicating. And special. They had made love several times. The first time for them both.
As the summer had drawn to an end, and he’d had to leave for his apprenticeship at one of London’s Michelin-starred restaurants, Ciara for her horticultural course in Dublin, they had promised to stay in touch. See each other over term-breaks. It had been much too early to talk about a future together, but Tom had silently envisaged a time when they would be together for ever.
And then one day in late September, as he’d dashed from his apartment into the rain, late for work, he had crashed into Ciara as he’d rounded the corner of his street. Delighted, but thrown at seeing her standing on Kentish Town Road as the bus he needed to catch sailed by, he had simply stared at her when she’d told him she was pregnant.
He hadn’t been able to take it in. He had muttered something about them working it out and that he had to get to work—that his head chef took pleasure in firing apprentices for being late. He’d given her the keys to his apartment. Promised to call her during his break.
Only hours later had he come to his senses. He had ignored the head chef’s threats to fire him for leaving early and, despite the cost, had taken a taxi home. His father had refused to support him in his bid to become a chef, telling him it was ‘beneath a Benson.’ He had even threatened disinheritance. Tom hadn’t known how he was going to support Ciara and a baby. But he’d known he would find a way.
His father’s stance on Tom’s career had summed up their relationship—he had never trusted Tom to make his own decisions, and dug his heels in when Tom went against his wishes. He’d pushed him further and further away, his disappointment and anger at Tom clear—so much so that since Tom had commenced his training they had rarely spoken to one another.
When he’d got to his apartment it had been empty. His frantic calls to Ciara had gone unanswered, so he had called a friend who’d got him to Heathrow within the hour. Just in time to catch the last flight to Dublin.
He’d gone to her mum’s address. But the house had been empty. He’d waited on the doorstep and at one in the morning a taxi had pulled up. Ciara, pale and drawn, had emerged first, followed by her stony-faced mum. Ciara had refused to speak to him and both women had gone into the house, the front door slamming behind them.
An hour later the door had swung open again and her mother had whispered furiously, ‘She’ll talk to you for five minutes. No longer. This is to be the last time you ever see her. My daughter deserves someone better than you.’
He had tried to hold Ciara. To say he was sorry. But she had quietly told him she had miscarried and then asked him to leave.
When he had refused to go her expression had turned to one of contempt. And icily she had told him of her regret at sleeping with him. That she had made a stupid mistake she’d regret for ever.
He had returned to London, and despite the humiliation and guilt burning in his stomach at her rejection, at how he had failed her, he had called her several times a week for months. But she had never answered his calls.
Now, he looked up as Ciara stood, her fingertips working against a smear of dirt on her collar. ‘I need to go and help with cleaning up after the tree installation.’ She paused and bit her lip, and then, tilting her chin, asked, ‘Can I meet with you tomorrow?’
‘Why?’
‘I’d like you to understand what we’re trying to achieve with both the conservation and the heritage programmes I have introduced.’ Her chin tilted back even further, and a hint of colour appeared in her cheeks. ‘To continue with the programme next year we’ll need a larger budget.’
He stood and walked towards the marble fireplace. The fire was burning out. He had planned on briefing the senior management at Loughmore first. But, given their history, and the way he had messed up everything all those years ago, the least Ciara deserved was his honesty.
Placing his hands behind his back, he squared his shoulders, turned back to her and said, ‘I’m putting Loughmore up for sale.’
CHAPTER TWO (#u9e87cc55-7ea2-538a-9f01-40a6b7ce8332)
FOR A BRIEF second Ciara hoped Tom was teasing her. Like he’d always used to do.
He had spent one whole summer trying to convince her that the entire dairy herd at Loughmore talked to him. Whenever they passed the grazing cows on their way to the woods he would stop and chat to them over the still-to-ripen blackcurrant laden hedges, relaying back to her what they were saying.
‘Blue says it’s going to rain later, but Nelly says Blue is talking rubbish. What’s that, Nelly...? Ciara’s looking beautiful today? Can’t say I’d noticed it myself.’
At which point Ciara would give him a friendly thump on the arm and start pedalling her bike away, trying not to laugh, happiness bubbling in her chest at his words and at the way he would softly gaze at her when he said she looked beautiful.
But now there was no softness or laughter in his eyes.
She stepped towards him, murmurs of panic breaking through her disbelief. ‘Sell Loughmore? Are you serious?’
He looked away from her and out towards the formal terraced gardens of Loughmore, rolling his neck from side to side. ‘With my work commitments I rarely get the chance to come here. It doesn’t make sense to hold on to the castle and estate.’
His voice was impassive, as though selling Loughmore was nothing other than yet another business deal to him.
Ciara moved away to the tea tray, staggered by just how devastated she felt by his casualness, by how little the castle meant to him. Her teacup rattled as she poured more tea. She could not let him see how upset she felt.
Loughmore was everything to her. Embraced not only by her grandparents, but also the rest of the staff, it had been a refuge from her lonely childhood in Dublin. It was where she had fallen in love for the first time...with the man so offhandedly telling her now he was selling it. The man she had lost her virginity to. The man who had created a baby with her, here on the grounds he was so indifferently about to sell.
Anger and deep upset fought for supremacy in her chest. She inhaled time and time again. Trying to calm down. Eventually she managed to say, ‘Loughmore has been in your family for ever...you can’t sell it.’
He glanced at her unhappily before walking towards the log basket at the side of the fireplace. ‘There’s no point in retaining a property that’s never used.’
Seeing he was about to take some firewood and add it to the now-dying fire, she dashed forward and took hold of the log in his hand. ‘I’ll take care of the fire,’ she said tersely.
She pulled at the log but he refused to let go. ‘I’m perfectly capable of looking after it,’ he said.
Ciara tried again to drag the log towards herself. ‘It’s not expected of you. I should have seen to it.’
With a heavy sigh Tom prised the log out of her grip, muttering, ‘To hell with what’s “expected”.’
Bending, he lifted another log from the basket before walking back to the fire.
‘I don’t have the same old-fashioned expectations of my staff as my father did.’ Throwing the logs onto the fire, sending a shower of sparks rising upward, he added, ‘I thought you’d know that.’
Standing upright, he pulled off his suit jacket and threw it on the back of a nearby chair. His tie soon followed. Then he eyed her silently, his mouth set angrily, his shoulders squared, his hands propped on his hips.
They’d used to have stand-offs like this before. But back then Tom hadn’t been quite so resolute. There was a harder edge to him now.
Ciara rolled back on her feet. She was unsure how to play this. He was the Duke now. She had to respect his position. But the anger and hurt inside her had her saying curtly, ‘Those logs are smothering the fire—you need to set them at a more upright angle.’
Tom scowled at her. ‘I didn’t say I would do a good job of it, though, did I?’
And then for the briefest moment his mouth twitched.
Her heart took flight in her chest.
Oh, Lord, he was always irresistible when he smiled. His eyes would become magnetic in their silver sparkle and his wide-mouthed grin would swallow up everything that was wrong and horrible in the world.
But today the hint of that smile was nanosecond-brief before he turned back to the fire.
Ciara leant against the warm marble mantelpiece as he adjusted the logs with a fire iron. ‘You’re going to cause consternation amongst the staff if you change the way things are done around here.’
Hunkered down before the fire, he turned to her, those silver eyes holding hers. Softly he said, ‘I’m selling Loughmore, Ciara.’
She winced at his words, but even more so at the heat that seeped through her body at the memory of how he’d used to whisper softly into her ear, telling her how much she meant to him. She’d used to laugh off what he said, calling him a chancer, terrified of believing him.
She moved away, taking care to skirt the antique Persian rug and cringing at her clumpy footsteps on the oak floorboards, thanks to her heavy work boots. She stood at the window on the opposite side of the room overlooking the walled garden. She had spent all summer working in there, reintroducing specimens that had been removed during an ill-judged replanting over forty years ago. What on earth would happen to the castle and its unique gardens and grounds if new owners took over?
Surely his mother and sisters weren’t in agreement with him selling? They spent every summer and New Year here, and from what Ciara could tell they adored it. His mother was a remote and formal figure, who kept her interactions with staff to a minimum, but her affection and loyalty for Loughmore was clear in the way both she and the late Duke had carried out a thorough tour of every single part of the property each time they returned, making instructions on improvements and repairs to be made.
‘What do your family think?’
‘I haven’t told them yet. I’ll do so in the New Year.’ He paused and frowned. Cleared his throat. ‘A hotel consortium has signalled its interest in acquiring Loughmore.’
‘Loughmore turned into a hotel! They’ll change the castle beyond recognition. I’ve seen similar developments all over Ireland. They’ll add on modern conference centres...build new homes and golf courses on the grounds. They’ll wreck the place. Would you be happy to see Loughmore changed so utterly?’
‘Things can’t stay the same for ever—I’m sure whoever buys it will be sympathetic to its history.’
‘I wouldn’t be so certain. And have you thought about the staff? Loughmore and working for your family means everything to them.’
Tom gave an exasperated flick of his hand. ‘That’s why I’m here—I want to give them as much notice as I can. And I’ll do my best to ensure they are all employed by the new owners’
‘Working in Loughmore isn’t just a job for the staff, though, it’s a way of life. Many of them come from families that have worked on the estate for generations. They love Loughmore—they’re immensely proud to work for your family.’
He considered her unhappily for long seconds and then gave a terse shake of his head. ‘I’m holding a meeting with the senior staff tomorrow morning and I will brief all the other staff after that. The hotel group is keen for the sale to go ahead as soon as possible.’
‘Can’t it wait until after Christmas?’
‘No. It’s better the staff have as much notice as possible.’ Moving towards the door he said, ‘I have some work to do. I need to get my laptop from the car.’
‘Stephen will have had it carried in already.’ Pushing in front of him she added, ‘Let me go and find out where he’s put it—I suspect the library.’
She reached for the doorknob and pulled the door open an inch. But suddenly Tom was behind her, closing it with a push of his open palm.
For long seconds she stood with her back to him. He was wearing an aftershave she didn’t recognise. But she did recognise the chain of reactions he caused whenever he came close—the thrill in her stomach, the inability to breathe, the heat that whipped through every cell in her body.
‘Why are you acting like this?’
She jerked at his soft voice. Willed herself not to lean back into him.
Slowly she turned around. She breathed deeply against the impulse to reach out and run her thumb against his evening shadow...and then along the hard lines of his lips.
‘Acting like what?’
His head tilted. ‘As if you have to run after me...do every small task that I can do for myself.’
She hesitated, but then the question spilled out of her. ‘Selling Loughmore...has it anything to do with what happened between us?’
He stepped back a bare inch, but it was enough to allow her to breathe.
His mouth tensed. ‘Why would it?’
Twelve years ago, after the initial shock of discovering she was pregnant had worn off, she had naively hoped she and Tom would somehow cope. She had known it wouldn’t be easy—they were both only eighteen, after all, with their own dreams and ambitions to follow. But her biggest mistake in her desperation to believe everything would be okay had been foolishly ignoring the fact that they were from different worlds, with families who didn’t approve of what they believed was nothing more than a friendship.
Know your place, Ciara. Don’t be getting any notions.
That had been her gran’s constant refrain. It had used to drive her crazy—but no more so than the way she’d been treated by Tom’s family, who didn’t even seem to realise she existed as she went about her cleaning duties throughout the castle. She was a staff member, and she had been warned time and time again never to speak to a member of the family unless spoken to, and to leave a room if any of them entered.
When Tom had invited her to some social events in the castle, his parents’ disapproval had been obvious. As had his sisters’ awkward embarrassment at having a member of staff in their midst. Their friendship had caused raised eyebrows not only in their families but also in the wider community.
One evening, at a recital that had been held in the castle, she had overheard two of the Duchess’s friends talking.
“What does she think she’s up to? Have you heard that accent of hers? As if a Benson would have anything to do with a working-class girl from Dublin.”
No one but her mother had ever found out that they’d become more than friends. They had agreed to keep their relationship a secret. At first Ciara had been happy with that, but in their final weeks together, as they’d grown ever closer, the secrecy and lying had felt all wrong. It had felt as though she was living two separate lives—as though they were doing something shameful and what they had was nothing but a lie.
That day she had told him about the pregnancy she had flown home to Dublin early, unable to face any further humiliation. The sharp drawn-out pain in her stomach had started over the Irish Sea.
The moment she’d walked in the door of her mum’s terraced house in Coolock her mum had instantly known something was wrong. She had taken her to the Rotunda Hospital, holding her hand for the entire taxi journey.
The fact that her mum had held her hand had freaked Ciara out—her mum wasn’t given to demonstrative acts, and Ciara had known then that her baby was in serious trouble.
Later, after a young male doctor with sad eyes had gently told her she had miscarried, she had told her mum who the father was. Her mum had paled, called her a ‘big eejit’ and then turned away to stare out of the hospital window, before returning to her side and admitting her own relationship with Tom’s father when she was Ciara’s age.
Her mum had stumbled over her words, and the difficulty of confiding her secrets had been obvious in the anger in her eyes, the tension in her mouth. She’d only found out that Tom’s father was marrying Lady Selena Phillips when it had been announced in the newspapers. She had called him at Bainsworth Hall. He’d eventually returned her call, incredulous that she hadn’t realised they could never possibly have a future together, and telling her it was his duty to marry well.
Less than a year later Ciara’s mum had married herself, after a rebound romance with a man who had subsequently walked out on them when Ciara was only a year old. Ciara’s grandparents had disapproved of the marriage, and until she was a teenager there had been no contact between her mum and her grandparents.
Her childhood had been lonely. Her mum had worked long hours and Ciara had spent most evenings on her own. When her mum had come home, she’d always been too tired to talk, or to play with Ciara.
Her mum’s confession that night in the hospital had been the first and only time her mum had opened up to her—allowed Ciara even a glimpse into her emotions. The default position in the Harris household was to be glib and pretend all was okay, to bury emotion beneath laughter and avoidance.
Now Ciara regarded Tom and wondered how he felt about everything that had happened all those years ago. A trace of humiliation still burnt brightly in her stomach, but mostly she just felt sad for the foolish and naive eighteen-year-olds they’d been then.
‘You haven’t been to Loughmore in twelve years.’
He blinked at her words. ‘I’ve been busy.’
There was much she regretted about her relationship with Tom, but nothing more so than the way she had lashed out at him when he had come to her bedroom that night, pale and apologetic. It would be so easy not to talk about what had happened, but Ciara couldn’t wish away just how close they once had been...those two naive eighteen-year-olds who had hurt one another so badly.
‘That night in my mum’s house... I was angry.’
A slash of red coloured his cheeks. ‘You had a right to be.’
Ciara’s heart squeezed tightly at the prideful tilt of Tom’s head that did little to hide the emotion playing out in his eyes.
For the first time ever, when she and Tom had become lovers, she had let her guard down and ignored the Harris family motto of ‘everything is fine’. She had told him her inner secrets, her loneliness and her guilt that her dad had left because of her, despite there being no evidence to back up that belief.
Tom had tried to persuade her to accept that she shouldn’t feel responsible, but it still sat inside her—that feeling of being insignificant that came with having a father who had walked away from her for ever.
She had even embarrassingly admitted that she wanted to create a family of her own, with at least five children. Tom had teased her over that...but she had fallen even deeper in love with him when he’d said that she’d be the best mother ever. She had opened her heart to him. She had been stupid. Because doing so had only made his rejection—which she should have known was coming—a thousand times worse.
It was a mistake she’d never make again.
She looked at him now, sadness and regret bubbling in her throat. ‘We should have just remained friends.’
His eyes held hers for what felt like for ever.
Eventually he nodded and said gently, ‘Perhaps you’re right.’
Overwhelmed by how emotional she felt, she stepped around him and collected his cup and saucer, placed them on the tea tray with her own, buying some thinking time in the process.
She liked her new life in Loughmore. Yes, she was occasionally caught unawares by a memory of Tom that rooted her to the spot. But she had long ago accepted that she needed to forge a life for herself. And through years of study and work in various conservation centres and heritage gardens, both in Ireland and Scotland, she had built a life she was proud of.
The conservation and heritage programmes she had started here in Loughmore needed to be continued. Loughmore itself needed to be saved from developers. And if that meant she needed to spend time with Tom, persuading him not to sell, then no matter how uncomfortable and awkward it would be she would do it—to save Loughmore.
She adjusted the tray in her hands and said, ‘Don’t tell the staff yet—let them enjoy Christmas.’
‘I have to return to London on the first of January. I want to be here and available to talk through any concerns they may have.’
‘Then plan on coming back in the New Year. You’re only in London—it’s not far to travel.’
He gave an unenthusiastic shrug and said, ‘Perhaps.’
Her heart sank. He clearly wanted to spend as little time as possible in Loughmore. But, forcing herself to smile, she said, ‘You never know—you might change your mind about selling over Christmas.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘I have a buyer lined up. That’s not going to happen.’
Ciara nodded. She needed to get Operation Save Loughmore underway immediately.
‘The staff have organised a charity event in memory of your dad tomorrow night. Two hundred and fifty guests will be attending the turning on of the Christmas lights, with a choral concert and dancing later. I assume you’ll attend?’
‘I had forgotten it was taking place,’ he answered, uninterested.
‘But you’ll come?’
‘My father wasn’t the easiest of men—it’s a generous gesture by the staff.’
It was true. His father had terrified most of the staff in Loughmore. But at least he would never have dreamed of selling it.
Adjusting the tray in her hands, Ciara moved to the door, which Tom opened to allow her to exit. Just as she was about to step out into the hallway she stopped and said, ‘He was tough, but he commanded respect. He was loyal to Loughmore.’
Tom’s mouth tightened. ‘And I’m not?’
Ciara shrugged and said, ‘I’m sure you have your reasons,’ before walking away.
The following evening Tom half listened to the back-and-forth one-upmanship of the two opposing politicians who had collared him once the guests had moved from the tree-lighting ceremony and choral concert in the Great Hall into the ballroom for dancing. Several times he had tried to break away, but both men seemed determined to impress on him why he should consider becoming a supporter of their political party.
Not for the first time that night his gaze wandered once again over the invited guests in search of Ciara.
He took a slug of his Irish whiskey when he saw her still out on the dance floor with a guy he’d privately nicknamed Mr Brite, given his dazzling white smile. Wearing a knee-length red lace dress and towering heels, with her tumbling red locks worn loose and her sinful brown eyes full of laughter, she and Mr Brite twirled around the dancefloor.
Ciara looked like a fantasy Christmas present for every hot-blooded man. And she was a woman on a mission. It had taken him only a few hours today to cotton on to her plan.
After a lavish breakfast from Libby, Stephen had politely insisted he give Tom a tour of the castle, pointing out the renovations that had taken place in recent years and reminding him of the historical importance of the castle not only to County Wicklow but to the whole of Ireland.
Stephen had conveniently ended the tour in the courtyard, where Liam Geary, Loughmore’s estate manager, had just happened to be standing by his estate vehicle chatting with Ciara. Before he’d known it Tom had been in the passenger seat, and Liam had taken him for a tour of the land, recounting his plans for extending the dairy herd and the possibility of introducing buffalo on to the estate.
On their way back to the castle they’d ‘happened’ to bump into Ciara again, this time chatting with her boss Sean at the start of the garden’s Palm Walk.
‘Wait until you see the orchard, sir,’ Sean had said with great excitement. ‘We’ve expanded it greatly and we supply farmers’ markets nationwide. This year, thanks to Ciara’s knowledge, we’ve planted new apple and plum saplings—they’re old varieties that would have once grown here in Loughmore.’
Sean had then taken him on an extensive tour of the walled garden, the lakeside gardens and the orchards, breathlessly talking about his plans to extend the market garden.
His tour had ended at the glasshouses, where Ciara herself had taken him on a tour of the heritage plants she was cultivating.
He knew he had been cool with her throughout the tour—her jibe about his loyalty to Loughmore the previous evening had still been fresh in his mind. For a brief moment, when she’d said it, he’d wanted to tell her the truth. About how his father had left the estate in debt through poor financial investments. How selling Loughmore would significantly rebalance the books.
Tom had only learnt of the debts after his father’s death. At first he had been angry—especially when he’d realised that his father had left it to him to inform his mother of the situation. Later he had felt nothing other than regret. A father and son should have had a better relationship. One with trust and mutual respect.
In the aftermath of his father’s death Tom’s resolve to value and cherish his own children, if he was ever to have them, had become all the more resolute.
Now, beside him, the politicians had moved on to a heated debate about land tax, and both became indignant when Tom interrupted to point out that their policies sounded remarkably similar and equally non-progressive.
Out on the dance floor Ciara turned to study him, before leaning towards Mr Brite and whispering something into his ear. Mr Brite turned and studied him too, before saying something to Ciara which, even in the low lights of the ballroom, Tom could see had made her blush.
Tom took another long slug of his whiskey, but the smooth tones of the ten-year-old blend were doing little to improve his mood.
With narrowed eyes he watched Ciara leave the dance floor and head in his direction. What was she up to now?
Beside him, the two politicians miraculously grew silent as Ciara approached them. Giving them her widest beam, she said, ‘I’m sorry to break up your conversation, but the Duke promised me a dance earlier.’
Placing her hand on his elbow, she tugged him towards the dance floor. At first he resisted—but then he considered his options. The company of two self-important politicians or Ciara? She was the lesser of two evils. But only marginally.
He went with her, but at the edge of the dance floor he pulled her to a stop. ‘Hold on—I believe we have a number of problems here.’
Ciara tilted her head and waited for him to explain.
‘First off, I didn’t promise you a dance.’
‘You looked as though you needed rescuing.’
He’d give her that. ‘Secondly, I don’t think your previous dance partner will be too impressed with losing you.’
Ciara raised an eyebrow and pointed to the far end of the ballroom, where Mr Brite was surrounded by a group of women of varying ages, who were clapping along to his extravagant dance moves.
‘Vince McNamara is the doctor in Loughmore now. His husband Danny is away skiing at the moment. He’ll happily dance with anyone who admires his moves.’
‘Which brings us to our third problem. You might not remember, but I can’t dance.’
Amusement danced in her eyes. ‘Oh, I remember, all right. But you need to get into the Christmas spirit.’
With that she dragged him out on to the dance floor. He shuffled along as she shimmied before him and the crowd around them bopped along to the band’s rock ’n’ roll rendition of another Christmas classic.
She gestured to him to take off his jacket, but he shook his head. Instead he leant towards her and said in a low voice, so only she could hear, ‘I’m not going to change my mind about selling Loughmore.’
She shrugged and continued dancing, and then she leant towards him. ‘So you said yesterday.’
She smelt of roses and vanilla. He tried to ignore the way her hips swayed along to the beat of the music. ‘I’m on to you, you know.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Libby’s cooking, my tours of the castle and grounds today, then hot port and carols outside the front door at five. You’re not going to change my mind.’
‘They were all just coincidences.’
On the stage, the band segued into another song. This time it was much slower, and around them couples formed.
Ciara looked towards the stage with a frustrated frown and then gave him a bright smile, ‘Well, I guess that’s you off the hook.’
He should let her go. He knew he should. But all of a sudden he wanted to play her at her own game. As she moved to pass him he placed a hand on her waist and twisted her around, his other hand reaching for hers.
She tried to step away but he pulled her back.
She gave him a tight smile. ‘I’m not sure this is appropriate. Us dancing together will have raised some eyebrows—slow dancing will set the cat amongst the pigeons.’
‘You started it. Now, tell me what you’ve said to the rest of the staff.’
Blinking rapidly, Ciara protested, ‘I’ve said nothing.’
He shifted nearer, stared her in the eye. ‘Ciara...’
The two glasses of champagne she had drunk earlier were to blame. Ten minutes ago asking Tom to dance had seemed like an inspired idea. She wanted him to enjoy his Christmas in Loughmore, and he sure hadn’t looked happy having his ear chewed off by two local politicians. But now that they were slow dancing that ‘inspired idea’ was quickly morphing into the worst decision she had taken in a very long time.
His hand enclosing hers was too familiar, too heart-stoppingly reassuring...too strong a reminder of how he’d used to touch her. His arm on her waist—heavy, in charge—was sending jittery shudders down the length of her legs. Pretending to be relaxed, to be unaffected by him, was already tearing her apart.
But what choice did she have? She had to save Loughmore. As her mum had always said, she needed to stop overthinking and just get on with it—preferably with a cheery smile on her face.
She craned her neck and met his gaze for a brief second, before shifting her eyes to the safety of the fine navy wool of his suit jacket. ‘Okay... I’ll admit I’ve said we need to make a special effort to make you feel welcome and part of the castle.’
She felt his muscles tense beneath the palm resting on his shoulder. In a low voice, much too close to her ear, he said, ‘My life is elsewhere.’
Despite the hollow sensation that cracked in her chest at his words, she forced herself to keep her voice casual when she said, ‘I think you’ll regret selling Loughmore... Don’t you want to pass it on to your heirs?’
His eyes duelled with hers while his hand on her waist shifted slightly, so their hips were now only inches apart. ‘Who said there will be any?’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘I bet you’re beating back wannabe duchesses with a stick.’
A grin hovered on his lips. ‘There are a few.’
‘Bet your mum has a shortlist.’
All titled, beautiful, and with the right social graces, Ciara would wager.
Tom shrugged in response.
They moved around the dance floor, Tom awkwardly leading the way. His inability to keep to the beat of the music was rather endearing.
‘Are you in a relationship?’
She looked up in surprise at his question. ‘Not at the moment.’
‘But you have been?’
It felt wrong to be talking like this with him. ‘Kind of.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I’ve moved around a lot with my work. It doesn’t lend itself to serious relationships. How about you?’
‘I’ve had a few...but they haven’t worked out. Now I’m too busy juggling my restaurants and the estate to find the time to sleep, never mind date.’
Her heart banged hard and furiously at the thought of him being with someone else. Even worse, a part of her wanted to know about every single relationship he had had. Had they been serious? Why had they broken up?
She bit the inside of her lip, and mentally gave herself a ticking-off. Why on earth would she do that to herself? She had to focus on saving Loughmore. Forget about the past.
‘Loughmore will be a great summer home when you do eventually marry and have children. Remember how much you loved coming here?’
He shook his head but a smile glittered in his eyes. ‘You’re as persistent as ever, aren’t you?’
He said it with such fondness that for a moment she forgot he was her boss, a member of the British aristocracy, the man who had once broken her heart.
His arm shifted on her waist and something darker, earthier entered his eyes.
She knew she should break her gaze away, but she couldn’t. His eyes were so hypnotic, full of intelligence, integrity and pride, but also a beguiling undercurrent of sensual suggestion.
A charge of dark, dangerous desire rippled in the air between them.
He pulled her closer. She didn’t resist.
‘Tom—why didn’t you tell us you were coming to Loughmore?’
Ciara jumped at the excited squeal behind her, and Tom’s arms floated away from her.
Turning, she had to step out of the way as a blonde-haired woman dressed in black trousers and a silver blouse, with a long grey cashmere coat draped over her shoulders, moved in to hug and air-kiss Tom.
Then, waving in the direction of the outside terrace, beyond the row of French windows that formed one wall of the ballroom, the woman added, ‘Tania and Jacob are outside, catching up with Becky Johnson. They’ll be back in a sec. It’s freezing out there, but they’re huddled under an outdoor heater, eating the toasted marshmallows on offer from the outside caterers. What fun! How fab to see you! We dined at Tom’s in Barcelona last month—the food was to die for. Clever you!’
Ciara went to leave, but Tom called to her. ‘Ciara! Let me introduce you to Amber Chamberlain.’
Amber turned and smiled at Ciara. ‘Are you down from Dublin for the night too? Wasn’t the traffic horrendous? That’s why we’re late. And they’re predicting snow soon. It will be bedlam then.’
‘No. I work here in the castle.’
‘Oh.’ For a moment Amber looked thrown, but she recovered well. ‘Lucky you—working in such a lovely place.’ Then she paused in thought. ‘Wait a sec... I think I remember you.’
And then it dawned on Ciara. Tom had celebrated his eighteenth birthday here at Loughmore. He had invited her but the night had been a disaster, because she had known very few of the other guests and his parents had watched her unhappily all night. The following morning when she had come to work the party had still been going strong.
‘The morning after Tom’s eighteenth...’ With a laugh, Amber held her hands to her cheeks. ‘Do you remember, Ciara? You were cleaning in the games room and found me fast asleep on the billiard table. You helped me to my room.’
Ciara nodded, refusing to glance in Tom’s direction. ‘I remember now. Can I take your coat?’
‘Please—and I would love a glass of champagne.’ Turning to Tom, Amber linked her arm in his. ‘Come on, let’s go and find Jacob and Tania. They’ll be dying to chat with you. They’re off to St Moritz tomorrow. Will you be there as usual this New Year?’
Tom did not move, despite Amber’s best efforts to lead him towards the terrace. ‘Ciara, why don’t you join us?’
Ciara saw the flicker of confusion on Amber’s face. No doubt she was wondering why Tom was asking one of the staff to socialise with them.
All those years ago as a teenager she had been pretty much blind to the social wall that existed between herself and Tom. Youthful enthusiasm, idealism, naivety... Call it what you will, it had had her believing their different backgrounds didn’t matter.
All that innocence had ended on the day she had travelled to London.
She gestured towards the dance floor. ‘I need to get back to Vince... I promised him we’d have another dance together.’
Moving through the crowd, she took Amber’s coat to the temporary cloakroom that had been set up in the library. The two teenage girls from the village who had been employed for the evening to man the cloakroom jumped up when she entered, frantically trying to hide their phones.
She hid her amusement and said, ‘Kelly, come with me to the kitchen, I need to organise drinks for some guests, and you two look as though you could do with some of Libby’s baking to get you through the next few hours.’
In the kitchen, as Kelly filled a plate with Libby’s delicate savoury pastries and mini-Christmas puddings, Ciara directed one of the waiters to take a bottle of champagne and glasses out to the terrace. Then, seeing how exhausted Libby was, she forced Libby to sit down while she made her a pot of tea.
Know your place.
There was actually wisdom in that saying. When her gran had used to say it to her she’d seen it as a putdown. But in fact her gran had only being trying to protect her. She had seen what unrealistic dreams had done to her mother—bringing a pain and humiliation that were hidden behind a wall of defiance and avoidance and a family rift that had gone on too long. Now she understood how worried they must have been when they’d seen history about to repeat itself.
They had only been trying to protect her from her own foolishness and naivety.
This time around she knew her place.
CHAPTER THREE (#u9e87cc55-7ea2-538a-9f01-40a6b7ce8332)
THE FOUR-BY-FOUR SLEWED towards the hedge on the narrow road. Tom steered into the skid, feeling the car scraping against brambles and seeing a shower of snow thumping against the side windows before he finally managed to bring the vehicle to a stop.
He switched off the engine. The fresh snow on the side of the vehicle slid to the road with a thud and then there was nothing but absolute silence. Nothing stirred. Not a single bird was to be seen in the early-morning milky blue sky. Not a cry nor a bleat from an animal. It was as if the earth was having a sleep-in, having exhausted itself in the intensity of the snowstorm that had hit the east coast of Ireland the previous night.
Below him in the valley the vibrant emerald fields of Loughmore had disappeared under a blanket of sparkling white snow. Switching the engine back on, he crunched his way through the snow-covered perimeter road of the estate, where the high limestone wall to his right marked the boundaries with the neighbouring farms. After a few minutes he finally caught a glance of his last destination for the morning: Butterfly Cottage.
It was nestled in a copse, and he could just about make out its thatched roof beneath the snow.
He drove down the long incline into the heart of the valley, the four-by-four skidding on the more sheltered parts of the road. Last night, the initial flourish of snow had frozen hard, to be followed later by a heavier and more prolonged snowfall.
At the cottage, the garden gate refused to budge, so he had no option but to leap over the low wall that surrounded the property, built to stop the estate’s cows and sheep from wandering into the garden.
On the other side of the wall he muttered to himself as he landed into a particularly deep snow drift and snow flooded the inside of his wellington boots.
His knock on the rose-pink-painted cottage door echoed into the valley. He had to knock a second and then a third time before the door swung open.
Dressed in a fluffy yellow dressing gown, her hair mussed up and her cheeks pink, Ciara stared at him through sleepy eyes. ‘Tom... I mean, Your Grace, what are you doing here?’ Then, pausing, she peered over his shoulder. ‘Oh, my God! I can’t believe how much snow there is.’
Her eyes grew wide and her gaze shot back to his.
‘My alarm didn’t go off! I slept in! I’ll be up at the gardens as soon as I can. I know snow was forecast, but I hadn’t realised so much would fall. I don’t usually work on a Sunday, but I would have been up inspecting the gardens earlier if I had known.’
‘I’m not here because I expect you to be at work.’
‘Why are you here, then?’
‘The electricity in the castle went out overnight. The emergency generator took over—’
Ciara interrupted him, her expression alarmed, ‘Were the outside buildings affected? The greenhouses?’
‘No, they’re all okay.’
She gave a grateful exhalation and then with a deep shiver added, ‘It’s Baltic out here—come inside before we both perish.’
The living room of the cottage was directly inside the front door. A Christmas tree, laden down with decorations, sat in one corner. Christmas cards were strung over the mantelpiece, and an array of angels and Santa Clauses and reindeers were spread on every other available surface.
Moving over to the small cottage window overlooking the front garden, Ciara leant down and propped her elbows on the deep windowsill. She shook her head as she stared at the wintry scene outside. ‘I have never seen so much snow. Thank God we covered some of the more vulnerable plants with fleeces.’
There was a light switch to one side of the front door. Tom switched it to on. The brass light at the centre of the room remained unlit.
Ciara gave a groan. ‘Oh, seriously... No wonder my radio alarm didn’t go off.’
‘You’re not the only one. I’ve called in to all the other estate cottages this morning to make sure everyone is okay—several others are without electricity too. You’re the last on my list, being the furthest out. I’d hoped you wouldn’t be affected too.’
Ciara looked at him in surprise. ‘You’ve called in to every cottage? How did everyone react?’
Now that he thought about it, his arrival had caused a certain level of consternation in each of the cottages. ‘They were a little thrown, I suppose. What’s the problem with me calling?’
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