Christmas With The Duke. Katrina Cudmore

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ