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“Hendricks said you helped clear the glasshouse yourself,” she said.

“I did.”

Ambrose shrugged. There had been broken glass everywhere, and he could hardly have stood by while the servants did all the work. Besides, he had been too furious to remain idle. Every shattered pot and ruined plant had reminded him of the cruelty Marina had endured in that village.

He had wanted to put things right.

“I wish you had told me,” she said softly.

He looked at her, expecting the reproach that had been absent until now. But there was none.

“You had only just arrived at Griffin Manor,” he explained. “There was Emma to settle, and you were still becoming accustomed to the household. I saw no reason to add another unpleasantness to your life when there was very little you could do about it.”

Marina lowered her gaze. For a moment, he thought she might cry, and he felt thoroughly helpless.

He had never been particularly adept at comforting people.

Then Marina reached across and placed her hand over his.

“Thank you, Ambrose.”

He stared at their joined hands.

There was something dreadful about being thanked for an act of kindness by a woman whose touch was already causing him so much difficulty.

He had spent that very morning convincing himself that what had happened the day before had been a mistake. A momentary lapse of judgment. Nothing that ought to be repeated.

And now she was sitting beside him in the snow, holding his hand as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

“There is no need to thank me,” he said.

“But there is. You did all of this without expecting me ever to know.”

Ambrose shifted uncomfortably. He had not considered the matter in quite those terms. He had merely seen the damage and decided that it ought to be repaired. What else was he supposed to have done? Leave her home in ruins?

Marina gave his hand a gentle squeeze, and he found himself looking at her.

She was smiling, although her eyes appeared suspiciously bright. He wished he knew what to say. He wished, too, that she would stop making him feel as though he were some sort of hero when he knew perfectly well that he was not.

“I am very grateful,” she said. “More than I can tell you.”

Ambrose swallowed.

He had thought he could keep his distance from her. Indeed, only that morning he had been quite determined to do so. Yet somehow he had found himself sitting beside her, discussing her precious plants and books, and feeling rather pleased about it.

Twenty-Two

There was something else she needed to discuss with him. Something that she had been thinking about ever since her meeting with the vicar. She looked at the man beside her, who remained silent, simply staring at her.

“Before we return, there is something else I must ask. I shall return to my chamber once you hear my proposal,” she promised quietly. “At least then I shall know whether I ought to begin making arrangements.”

Ambrose still did not answer. At that precise moment, a snowflake drifted lazily from the dark sky, and her eyes followed the way it landed in his open palm. For a moment, he stared at the tiny crystal, and slowly curled his fingers around it.

She blinked. Faint veins stood out on the back of his hand as he crushed something as delicate as snow.

Ambrose lifted his gaze, and her breath faltered. There was something almost unnerving about the way he gazed upon her now, as though he already suspected that the proposal she was about to make would be one he had no intention of entertaining.

At last he spoke, his voice deliberately controlled. “What is it you wish to arrange?”