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She looked. His eyes were dark and wild and utterly unguarded.

“You are mine,” he said, driving into her harder now. “Say it.”

“Yours,” she gasped. “And you are mine.”

He caught her wrists in one hand and pinned them above her head, and this time he did not stop. He took her with long, powerful strokes that drove the breath from her lungs, and when he shifted his angle and struck something deep inside her that made her cry out, he did it again, and again, until she was straining beneath him, begging him without words. His free hand slid down between their bodies. The moment his thumb touched her, she came apart, clenching around him so tightly that he groaned her name. His rhythm faltered and broke, and with one last deep thrust he spilled himself inside her, his whole body shaking, his face buried in her neck.

For a long while, neither of them moved.

At last he released her wrists and gathered her against his chest, and she lay with her cheek over his heart, listening to it slow. The candles had burned low. Outside the window, the snow was still falling.

Now, lying in his arms, she understood how deeply she had needed him. No. How deeply she loved him. She had fallen in love with this man so completely that every part of her belonged to him now, and every part of him to her. Six years ago, Christmas had taken everything from her. This Christmas had given it all back, and more besides. And it had begun long before this night. It had begun the evening she opened the door of her little cottage to a scowling stranger in an enormous hat, a man she had never once expected to love.

And from that moment on, her Christmas had been entirely rewritten. She would never again be lonely or alone, or feel unwanted. For she had him, and Emma, and whatever their future held. She had a family.

She had love.

She had it all.

Epilogue

ONE YEAR LATER

“It’s time,” Mrs. Dalton announced as she moved toward the window and drew back the curtains.

Marina stirred from her nap, her eyes fluttering open. She had fallen asleep on the chaise longue while reading poetry to Emma, and for a moment she could not remember why Mrs. Dalton sounded so delighted. Then she saw the snow drifting past the window, and a smile spread across her face.

“Oh, the snow has come at last!” she exclaimed, sitting upright.

Ernest, who stood near the balcony doors, smiled. He had helped Mrs. Dalton arrange the room so that the curtains could be opened without allowing the pale winter sunlight to fall directly upon Ambrose’s usual chair.

Marina clapped her hands, scarcely able to contain her excitement. She was about to rise when a small hand caught at her sleeve, followed by a rather determined little body scrambling over her lap.

She looked down to find Emma laughing at her.

“Oh, look,” Mrs. Dalton said, amused. “Someone wishes to see the snow too.”

Emma wriggled free. Marina rose from the chaise longue, laughing as she watched the little girl move across the carpet.

“Come along, darling. We shall see it together.”

But before she could reach her, Emma stopped beside a chair and grasped its edge. She pulled herself upright, her small face bright with concentration. For a moment, she remained perfectly still, as though considering some extraordinary new possibility.

Then she let go.

Marina’s breath caught.

Emma took one uncertain step, swayed, and took another.

“Oh!” Marina pressed a hand to her mouth. “Mrs. Dalton, did you see?”

The housekeeper turned at once.

Emma wobbled, steadied herself, and took a third step before dropping onto the carpet with a delighted squeal.

Marina could scarcely believe what she had witnessed.

“Send for the duke,” she said, excitement making her voice tremble.