Christmas With The Duke. Katrina Cudmore
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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.
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