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She smiled, unable to contain her delight. He continued on through the garden, his strides so long that she had to hurry to catch up, her shoes sinking softly into the snow.

When she reached him, Ambrose was waiting beside another bench. Without a word, she sat down, and he settled beside her. Her eyes dropped briefly to the tiny space between them and looked away once again. Do not get ahead of yourself, she reminded herself.

Ambrose leaned back slightly, his gaze traveling across the garden. Marina knew exactly what he was seeing. The young plants sprouting stubbornly through the snow, the uneven hedges, the herbs she had begun tending herself…

“I have been growing herbs in the hothouse. A few new plants as well,” she said.

“A good idea.”

Marina stopped breathing. Was that approval? From him? She lowered her face to hide her smile.

“It used to look like this when my mother was here,” Ambrose said, his voice quieter now. “Before she left the estate after the late duke’s death. She couldn’t bear to live in a house that reminded her of the death of her husband and her… monstrous child.”

Marina’s expression softened. He rarely spoke of his family. She raised her gaze back to his face, observing the subtle change in his expression as his eyes remained fixed on the garden. The words made something in her ache. She did not know whether to ask more, so she remained silent.

When she assumed he had finished, he added thoughtfully, “That is probably what makes us different.”

A soft frown crossed her features. She had not expected those words.

“Makes us different how?” she repeated, studying his expression, but his profile gave nothing away.

Ambrose did not respond at once, choosing his words with care.

“Christmas. Snow. Gardens,” he finally said, his voice hushed with a bitterness he made no effort to disguise. “Anything that reminds me of my family, I have learned to avoid. Yet somehow, you remain perfectly connected to the one thing that ought to have become a source of pain.”

Her gaze dropped, then returned to his face.

“I have watched you,” he continued, turning toward her with a thoughtful intensity that made her heart beat strangely. “You anticipate Christmas with a joy that is almost impossible to comprehend. A normal person would have detached herself from such a celebration.”

She inhaled softly and gave a slight shrug. As she did, a breeze swept toward her, as if on cue, lifting several strands of her long dark hair and scattering them across her face. For once, she did not reach up to move them, but simply drew another deep breath.

She rose from the bench, and his eyes followed her. There was something in their glint. His gaze traveled over her slowly, not boldly, but with an attention that made her conscious of every graceful movement. The moonlight, too, fell upon the curve of her shoulders, the loose fall of her nightgown, the bare skin his coat did not cover.

“The viscount is dead,” she said, returning the stare of his deep green eyes. “What use is there in spending the rest of my days wailing over a crime I did not even commit?”

Feeling unburdened, Marina stepped into the snow. With a soft grunt, she bent and gathered a fistful of snow. He raised an eyebrow, and she smiled.

He narrowed his eyes. But he was not fast enough. She threw the snow directly at him. The snow landed upon his shoulder, scattering across his neck. Marina laughed.

Ambrose stared at her. A small piece of snow melted slowly beside his neck.

“What,” he asked, his voice echoing with an almost offended dignity, “are you doing?”

“Making you love snow again,” Marina answered brightly, her amusement spilling freely into her voice. “You have missed enough games in your life. It is time you learned to enjoy them.”

His eyes narrowed.

“You appear remarkably certain of yourself,” he remarked dryly.

“I am,” she said, smiling mischievously. “And one day, Your Grace, you shall be very grateful to me.”

“I assure you,” Ambrose murmured with grave certainty, “I have no interest in being grateful.”

Another handful struck his chest. He froze again, and her laughter rang out once more. Then he rose and began to advance. The look upon his face made her retreat instinctively, though her smile only widened.

Quickly, she threw another snowball. The duke dodged it with infuriating ease. Another followed. He caught it in one large hand and held it as it melted against his palm, while his gaze remained fixed on her.

She gasped before protesting playfully, “That was hardly fair.”