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“Well, you may enjoy these decorations,” he said, “but I do not. Surely someone told you that we do not celebrate Christmas in this house.”

“You may not have celebrated it before, but you do now. You are married to me, Ambrose. You are no longer the only person living here, and I enjoy Christmas. Emma will, too, when she is older.”

He thought of his niece asleep upstairs. Marina was right. As a child he had sometimes glimpsed the decorations in the parts of the house forbidden to him. He had heard servants discussing their gifts and the festive dinner. His own meal had always arrived on a tray, carried into the dark rooms where he was expected to remain. He had never been permitted to join the merriment.

The small opening in his defenses closed again.

“I do not wish to turn a corner and collide with a potted plant. What next? Will you decorate my chamber? Perhaps remove its curtains while you are at it?”

“I wish you would cease complaining.” She rolled her eyes, which was becoming a habit he found both infuriating and fascinating. “If either of us has grounds for complaint, it is I. I am grateful that you had my belongings brought here, but at least fifteen of my potted plants are still missing.”

He stiffened. He knew exactly what had happened to those plants. Their pots had been smashed in the ruins of her glasshouse. He had brought back everything he thought might be saved and entrusted the damaged specimens to his gardener, but some had lain without soil or water for days. The gardener could not promise they would recover.

“We brought as many as we could,” he said carefully. “And if the servants’ reports are to be believed, you have already been putting them to use in your teas and potions.”

She smiled. “Mrs. Dalton has been suffering from an unsettled stomach for weeks. I made her a preparation with ginger, and she says she feels much better.”

“So I hear. You spend a great deal of time in the stillroom. The servants appreciate your attention, and so do I. I wish them to be well cared for, even when they irritate me.”

“I like helping people. I always have.” She climbed down from the ladder and faced him. “Perhaps I could help you.”

He should have known she would seize the opening. “I have told you already. I have had this condition since childhood. There is no remedy.”

“You cannot know that for certain. Did your parents try to find a treatment?”

“Of course they did. They wanted a healthy, strong heir. They summoned physicians and tried everything those men proposed. Some treatments soothed the symptoms. None prevented them.”

“You said your skin burns and a rash appears. What other symptoms do you have?”

His skin prickled. He wanted to leave, not because her questions were cruel, but because he could not bear to become a medical curiosity to his own wife. He had spent the evening watching her move among the candles, admiring the grace of her figure and the brightness of her eyes. He did not wish to exchange that pleasure for an inventory of his afflictions.

“I am certain there are things we could try,” she said. “You must let me look into it. Would you not like to take Emma into the garden in daylight? Or walk with her at dawn or dusk for more than a few minutes? Has her arrival changed nothing for you?” She hesitated. “Has mine?”

Of course they had changed everything. Before Emma arrived, he had resigned himself to a life in darkness. Now he imagined pushing her pram through the garden, and later riding beside her when she was old enough. And Marina—he could picture her among the flowers, her hair catching the sun, her eyes bright with delight. They were pictures of a life he did not believe he could have.

“I do not wish to hope for what cannot be,” he said. Then, surprising himself, he added, “Janet asked me something very like that.”

“Your sister?”

“Yes.” He looked away. “I do not think I have told you much about her. We grew up beneath the same roof, yet I was never allowed in her company. I saw her only once, when she was an infant.”

“Once? But how was that possible?”

“My parents feared that my condition was contagious. They kept me in a separate wing, with the curtains drawn. My father visited to instruct me in the duties of a future duke. My mother came less often. Janet lived in the other part of the house, and I was forbidden to go near her.”

Marina stared at him. “But after your father died, surely you were no longer confined there?”

“No. By then my mother had taken Janet away to another family estate. She visited occasionally, though reluctantly, and never brought my sister.” He drew a slow breath. “The one time I saw Janet, I slipped out to the garden during the celebration of her birth. I reached her cradle. She was beautiful, just as Emma is. I kissed her cheek. Then my father dragged me away and punished me for it.”

Marina stepped closer. The scent of cinnamon and vanilla clung to her, warm and distracting. “That is dreadful. I scarcely know what to say.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“But you said Janet asked you about your condition.”

He nodded. “She wrote to me a few times, some months before Emma was born. After seventeen years without a word between us, the first letter astonished me. She apologized for the distance between us, though it was hardly her doing. She asked about my health and whether I had ever found a way to venture into the light.”

“And you answered?”