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“I did. At first I hardly knew what to write. We were strangers, in some respects, and yet she was my sister. With each letter it grew easier. She told me she was expecting a child. She said she wanted her daughter to know her uncle.” His voice roughened. “She hoped to visit after the baby was born. She wrote that we might finally be a family.”

Marina reached for his hand. “How lovely that must have been.”

“It was.” He looked down at their joined fingers. “But then the letters stopped. I wrote again and received no answer. I feared she had changed her mind—that someone had persuaded her it would be better to keep her child away from the Beast of Griffin.”

“Oh, Ambrose.”

“I learned of her death only after Emma was born. By then there could be no visit. No chance to ask Janet about her life or tell her how much those letters had meant to me.” He swallowed. “Douglas sent the child here, but he could not give me back her mother.”

Marina moved closer and laid a hand against his back. The gentle pressure undid something in him. Before he could stop himself, he turned and wrapped his arms around her. She held him tightly, one hand moving over his back, the other resting against his hair.

“How cruel,” she whispered. “To find her again, only to lose her.”

For a little while neither spoke. He could hear the candles shifting in their holders and feel the warmth of Marina against him. At last he drew back far enough to see her face. She was watching him with such tenderness that he forgot every sensible reason to keep his distance.

He kissed her again.

Her lips were soft and warm, faintly sweet. For a heartbeat she went still. Then she kissed him back, and the gentle touch became something deeper, more urgent, something he could no longer pretend he did not want.

Ambrose caught himself. If he remained where he was, he feared he would forget every boundary he had so carefully established. He rested his hands lightly on her shoulders and stepped away.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, his voice unsteady. “I should not have done that. I shall leave you to your peace.”

Before she could answer, he hurried from the drawing room, leaving Marina among her candles and her Christmas greenery.

Eighteen

The following morning Marina sat in the morning room with one of the books he’d brought from the cottage open beside her untouched porridge. She had been searching for a passage about conditions resembling Ambrose’s, but her attention kept straying to the kiss they had shared among the Christmas decorations.

She pressed her fingers to her lips, then snatched them away. She had spent half the night remembering the warmth of his mouth. This was most unscientific behavior.

A knock interrupted her thoughts. Mrs. Dalton appeared in the doorway.

“Good morning, Your Grace.”

“Mrs. Dalton! How is the ginger preparation agreeing with you?”

“It tastes dreadful,” the housekeeper admitted. “But a little honey makes it bearable, and I have not suffered that burning in my throat since I began taking it.”

“Excellent. And Celeste’s ankle?”

“Much improved. She is resting as you instructed.”

Marina smiled. For years people had feared her remedies. Here, at last, someone was willing to try them.

“His Grace wishes to join you for breakfast,” Mrs. Dalton added.

Marina looked at the open curtains. “Of course. Will you help me close these?”

They drew the heavy draperies together, and Mrs. Dalton lit several candles to brighten the room. Marina found herself regretting the loss of the morning light, but she would not make Ambrose suffer merely to prove a point.

He entered a moment later, dressed with his customary severity.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning.”

He sat beside her and reached for a roll. His sleeve brushed her arm, and she shivered before she could stop herself.