On their way back to the castle they’d ‘happened’ to bump into Ciara again, this time chatting with her boss Sean at the start of the garden’s Palm Walk.
‘Wait until you see the orchard, sir,’ Sean had said with great excitement. ‘We’ve expanded it greatly and we supply farmers’ markets nationwide. This year, thanks to Ciara’s knowledge, we’ve planted new apple and plum saplings—they’re old varieties that would have once grown here in Loughmore.’
Sean had then taken him on an extensive tour of the walled garden, the lakeside gardens and the orchards, breathlessly talking about his plans to extend the market garden.
His tour had ended at the glasshouses, where Ciara herself had taken him on a tour of the heritage plants she was cultivating.
He knew he had been cool with her throughout the tour—her jibe about his loyalty to Loughmore the previous evening had still been fresh in his mind. For a brief moment, when she’d said it, he’d wanted to tell her the truth. About how his father had left the estate in debt through poor financial investments. How selling Loughmore would significantly rebalance the books.
Tom had only learnt of the debts after his father’s death. At first he had been angry—especially when he’d realised that his father had left it to him to inform his mother of the situation. Later he had felt nothing other than regret. A father and son should have had a better relationship. One with trust and mutual respect.
In the aftermath of his father’s death Tom’s resolve to value and cherish his own children, if he was ever to have them, had become all the more resolute.
Now, beside him, the politicians had moved on to a heated debate about land tax, and both became indignant when Tom interrupted to point out that their policies sounded remarkably similar and equally non-progressive.
Out on the dance floor Ciara turned to study him, before leaning towards Mr Brite and whispering something into his ear. Mr Brite turned and studied him too, before saying something to Ciara which, even in the low lights of the ballroom, Tom could see had made her blush.
Tom took another long slug of his whiskey, but the smooth tones of the ten-year-old blend were doing little to improve his mood.
With narrowed eyes he watched Ciara leave the dance floor and head in his direction. What was she up to now?
Beside him, the two politicians miraculously grew silent as Ciara approached them. Giving them her widest beam, she said, ‘I’m sorry to break up your conversation, but the Duke promised me a dance earlier.’
Placing her hand on his elbow, she tugged him towards the dance floor. At first he resisted—but then he considered his options. The company of two self-important politicians or Ciara? She was the lesser of two evils. But only marginally.
He went with her, but at the edge of the dance floor he pulled her to a stop. ‘Hold on—I believe we have a number of problems here.’
Ciara tilted her head and waited for him to explain.
‘First off, I didn’t promise you a dance.’
‘You looked as though you needed rescuing.’
He’d give her that. ‘Secondly, I don’t think your previous dance partner will be too impressed with losing you.’
Ciara raised an eyebrow and pointed to the far end of the ballroom, where Mr Brite was surrounded by a group of women of varying ages, who were clapping along to his extravagant dance moves.
‘Vince McNamara is the doctor in Loughmore now. His husband Danny is away skiing at the moment. He’ll happily dance with anyone who admires his moves.’
‘Which brings us to our third problem. You might not remember, but I can’t dance.’
Amusement danced in her eyes. ‘Oh, I remember, all right. But you need to get into the Christmas spirit.’
With that she dragged him out on to the dance floor. He shuffled along as she shimmied before him and the crowd around them bopped along to the band’s rock ’n’ roll rendition of another Christmas classic.
She gestured to him to take off his jacket, but he shook his head. Instead he leant towards her and said in a low voice, so only she could hear, ‘I’m not going to change my mind about selling Loughmore.’
She shrugged and continued dancing, and then she leant towards him. ‘So you said yesterday.’
She smelt of roses and vanilla. He tried to ignore the way her hips swayed along to the beat of the music. ‘I’m on to you, you know.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Libby’s cooking, my tours of the castle and grounds today, then hot port and carols outside the front door at five. You’re not going to change my mind.’
‘They were all just coincidences.’
On the stage, the band segued into another song. This time it was much slower, and around them couples formed.
Ciara looked towards the stage with a frustrated frown and then gave him a bright smile, ‘Well, I guess that’s you off the hook.’
He should let her go. He knew he should. But all of a sudden he wanted to play her at her own game. As she moved to pass him he placed a hand on her waist and twisted her around, his other hand reaching for hers.
She tried to step away but he pulled her back.
She gave him a tight smile. ‘I’m not sure this is appropriate. Us dancing together will have raised some eyebrows—slow dancing will set the cat amongst the pigeons.’
‘You started it. Now, tell me what you’ve said to the rest of the staff.’
Blinking rapidly, Ciara protested, ‘I’ve said nothing.’
He shifted nearer, stared her in the eye. ‘Ciara...’
The two glasses of champagne she had drunk earlier were to blame. Ten minutes ago asking Tom to dance had seemed like an inspired idea. She wanted him to enjoy his Christmas in Loughmore, and he sure hadn’t looked happy having his ear chewed off by two local politicians. But now that they were slow dancing that ‘inspired idea’ was quickly morphing into the worst decision she had taken in a very long time.
His hand enclosing hers was too familiar, too heart-stoppingly reassuring...too strong a reminder of how he’d used to touch her. His arm on her waist—heavy, in charge—was sending jittery shudders down the length of her legs. Pretending to be relaxed, to be unaffected by him, was already tearing her apart.
But what choice did she have? She had to save Loughmore. As her mum had always said, she needed to stop overthinking and just get on with it—preferably with a cheery smile on her face.
She craned her neck and met his gaze for a brief second, before shifting her eyes to the safety of the fine navy wool of his suit jacket. ‘Okay... I’ll admit I’ve said we need to make a special effort to make you feel welcome and part of the castle.’
She felt his muscles tense beneath the palm resting on his shoulder. In a low voice, much too close to her ear, he said, ‘My life is elsewhere.’
Despite the hollow sensation that cracked in her chest at his words, she forced herself to keep her voice casual when she said, ‘I think you’ll regret selling Loughmore... Don’t you want to pass it on to your heirs?’
His eyes duelled with hers while his hand on her waist shifted slightly, so their hips were now only inches apart. ‘Who said there will be any?’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘I bet you’re beating back wannabe duchesses with a stick.’
A grin hovered on his lips. ‘There are a few.’
‘Bet your mum has a shortlist.’