Christmas With The Duke

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.

Also by Katrina Cudmore

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.

Christmas with the Duke

Katrina Cudmore

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 HarperCollins Publishers 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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Version: 2020-03-02

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To Ava, my modern girl full of wit,

intelligence, acceptance and ambition.

The world is yours to conquer.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

‘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.