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Marina. She had an expression so gentle that Ambrose could not quite understand what he was seeing. Her long dark hair fell loosely across her shoulders. She was dressed in a thin nightgown, the fabric sheer enough that he could see the faint peaks of her breasts. His gaze dropped and lingered for another dangerous second before returning to her face.

Marina looked as though she had only just awakened. His gaze dropped at once to Luna.

Had the cat sent for her?

She tilted her head, amusement dancing in her eyes. He stepped forward before that expression could undo him further, slipping outside and quietly shutting the nursery door behind him.

“My cat woke me,” Marina said, keeping her voice soft so as not to disturb Emma. “I thought she must have wanted me here.”

Ambrose glanced at Luna before admitting reluctantly, “The cat certainly possesses redeeming qualities.”

Her soft laughter carried along the dark corridor. The sound caught him unprepared. He watched the curve of her mouth, and then forced his gaze back to her eyes before the observation could deepen into something less controllable.

“I should hate to have ruined your sleep,” he said.

“That,” Marina answered lightly, “is part of being a mother.”

The word struck him unexpectedly. Mother. He glanced toward the nursery door, and something about hearing Marina claim the title so naturally brought him a quiet sense of relief. It was exactly what he had wanted for Emma, a motherly figure who would care for her, comfort her, and make her feel loved.

Marina was already becoming that person.

Then she added, in a gentler tone, “And a father, I suppose. Perhaps your own fatherly instinct brought you here in the middle of the night.”

Ambrose kept his expression unreadable. He would not let her see the cracks his nightmare had left. Fatherly instinct? It was closer to fear—fear that the same torment he had suffered might fall upon the baby.

He released a breath. He needed to turn his thoughts elsewhere. He glanced around, though he could make out little in the darkness.

“Neither of us is likely to fall asleep quickly now,” he said. “Would you care to walk with me through the gardens?”

Marina looked directly into his eyes. She did not answer immediately. Instead, her brows lifted slightly, as though she found his invitation almost suspicious. Then her lips curved, not quite into a smile, but enough to tell him she had already found some private amusement in it.

“Yes,” she finally whispered.

The pair walked underneath a sky full of stars. The snow had turned the gardens into something almost dreamlike beneath the bright moonlight. The atmosphere was everything Christmas needed to be.

Ambrose had never cared for winter or Christmas. He had spent too many of them locked inside his room while his father entertained guests, the man apparently convinced that his son would frighten away respectable company merely by appearing.

Why was Marina so enthusiastic about this season? Especially after everything the season reminded her of?

“Enjoying the view, Your Grace?” she said suddenly, her voice pulling him from his thoughts. “You are staring,” she added, her lips curving with teasing amusement.

Ambrose did not smile. “I know,” he simply said.

The rawness of his answer made her blink. Once. Then again. She looked away, and he didn’t miss the way she rubbed her fingers together. He could not tell whether she was preparing some clever reply or merely trying to keep warm. That was when he noticed her shivering. She had put on a redingote over her nightgown before they stepped outside, but it was not enough.

Without hesitation, he removed his coat. He stepped behind her. Marina went completely still. She did not pull away. She only stood there, rigid and aware, as if the simple act of him moving so close had stolen every clever word from her tongue.

His fingertips touched the back of her neck as he gently moved her hair forward. He placed the heavy coat around her shoulders, its size nearly swallowing her. She silently lifted one arm as he guided it through the sleeve, then the other, and he adjusted the fabric carefully. Once done, his fingers returned to her hair and moved it back over her shoulders, his fingertips lingering against her flesh for one risky second too long.

He wanted to do far more than this.

He wanted to lift her into his arms and carry her to his chamber where the rest of the world could not follow. He wanted to peel the coat away again only to replace it with his hands this time, to feel the warmth of her skin against his, to silence every teasing remark she had ever made with his mouth until she forgot how to be clever and only remembered how to breathe his name.

For a while, they sat in silence on a garden bench, looking out over the snow-covered garden. Ambrose was beginning to think that perhaps they might enjoy a few moments of peace when Marina spoke.

“I went to my cottage this afternoon.”

He turned toward her so abruptly that she looked startled.