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“I can no longer give you the life you deserve. There will be no grand house, no comfortable position, none of the things I promised when I married you.”

“I do not want a grand house!”

The words burst out of her louder than she had intended, and she pressed her lips together, half afraid someone in the ballroom had heard. She could scarcely believe this was happening. Only an hour ago they had been dancing. Only an hour ago he had smiled down at her beneath the chandeliers and told her he was proud of her. They had made such progress, with his health, with the light, with his willingness to open himself to her, even a little.

And now he was sending her away.

“I do not understand you,” she said. “Why must I leave? I can stay with you. I do not care about riches. Douglas himself mentioned the cottage. We can live there together. It will be repaired, and it can be a lovely home. We can think of some explanation for why we no longer live at Griffin.”

“The largest part of your cottage is a glasshouse in which I cannot live.”

“Then we shall manage without it until we find another arrangement.”

“It is not about the cottage, Marina.”

“Then what is it about?”

“What I can and cannot give you.”

He drew a long breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was very quiet.

“When I married you, I promised you a home and a little girl to care for. I promised you the life of a duchess. I can still ensure that Emma remains with you, but I cannot give you the rest. There will be hardship. You should not be made to suffer it because of me.” At last he looked at her. “You must leave with your family as soon as it is socially acceptable. You can tell everyone your husband was a beast after all.”

“But you are not!” Marina cried. “I want you. I want Emma.”

“I want you to have a real family. A chance at happiness.” He said it gently, and that was the worst of it, that he truly believed he was giving her a gift. “I shall take the blame for everything. I will make certain that you receive the credit for the charity ball and all the good you have done here tonight. Everyone will remember you as the generous duchess who was wronged by a man whose reputation was already dreadful. You will be welcomed back into society. You can still have⁠—”

“I do not want some hypothetical family!”

Her voice broke on the last word.

“I want the family I already have. You and Emma. I have told you that. I have told you that.”

Ambrose’s shoulders sagged, as though she had struck him. For a heartbeat she thought he might relent. She saw it in his face, the wavering, the wanting.

Then the shutters came down.

“Marina, there is no point in discussing this further. It is done.” He let go of her shoulders. “Speak to your mother and arrange to return home with her. I shall find my solicitor and have the papers drawn up tonight.”

“Ambrose, please.”

But he had already turned away. The door opened onto a flood of music and light, then closed again, and he was gone.

Marina stared at the door.

He was sending her away.

Just like that.

Her knees gave way beneath her. She caught at the wall and slid down it until she was sitting on the floor in a pool of silk, her pearls cold against her throat, the paneling hard against her back. The tears came all at once, hot and blinding, and with them came sobs she could not swallow no matter how hard she pressed her hand to her mouth. Her whole body shook with them. She had not wept like this in years. Not when the village turned against her. Not when they called her a witch. Not when the snowballs struck her windows, winter after winter.

At one point the door opened, letting in a gust of music, but whoever stood beyond it withdrew before she could lift her head. She did not care who had seen her. Let them all see.

She had no idea how much time had passed before she heard a familiar voice.

“Marina?”

Her mother.