Christmas With The Duke. Katrina Cudmore
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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