Christmas With The Duke

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

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.