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The footman nodded.

“Your family, Your Grace.”

Her family. At once, her irritation vanished, replaced by a happiness that filled her chest so completely she nearly forgot the man standing behind her.

She turned toward Ambrose and offered him a perfectly proper curtsy.

“If you will excuse me.”

Marina didn’t wait for his response before sweeping past him. And, because she was still annoyed, she allowed her shoulder to bump lightly against his as she went. Yes, it was childish. She knew it, but she did it anyway.

The moment she stepped outside the manor, the winter breeze wrapped around her, though she hardly noticed. Her attention was fixed on the view before her. Ahead, a pair of magnificent carriages moved through the estate gates, wheels crunching over the frosted ground. Her heart leaped with anticipation.

The Duke of Netherton stepped down first. He turned and offered his hand to his wife, helping her from the carriage before extending the same courtesy to her mother and younger sister. Harper. Sophia. Her mother.

Her sisters spotted her at almost the same moment, lifted their skirts, and performed exaggerated curtsies from across the snowy drive.

“Your Grace,” Harper called teasingly, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Sophia followed with an even deeper curtsy. “How fortunate we are to be received by such an important lady.”

Marina giggled. With her sisters around, there was always something to laugh about. Her gaze moved to the woman watching her daughters’ mischief. Lady Dashwood regarded her with the worried gaze of a mother who wished to be sure her daughter was in safe hands.

“Mama,” Marina exclaimed as she moved closer to her family with quick, eager steps. “How are you here?”

Her mother beamed. “Your husband sent us word of your Christmas ball, the one you wrote about without inviting us.”

“I did not know if he would wish for you to be here,” she admitted, but her mother shook her head.

“Evidently he does, as he has invited us all. And how glad I am to be here with my darling.”

She buried her face in her mother’s embrace, and her sisters squeezed into the hug, sandwiching her between them with matching grins.

Just then, familiar voices interrupted the moment. “Aunty Marina!”

Marina pulled her face from the embrace. She recognized the voices of the Netherton twins. She glanced at Harper, who shrugged innocently, then at Simon, who had just opened the door of the second carriage.

“Oh, you brought them!” she exclaimed, scurrying forward. “I was expecting you to leave them behind,” she teased, embracing Vivienne and Rose in turn. “And here I was preparing to complain that nobody had come to help me with my duties as a favorite aunt.”

Sophia rolled her eyes at once. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Your Grace. Clearly, the twins know I am their favorite aunt.”

“Every child adores a spinster aunt of seven-and-twenty with paint beneath her fingernails,” their mother observed dryly.

“Artist, Mama,” Sophia corrected, entirely unbothered. “The word you are searching for is artist.”

Lady Dashwood laughed softly, while Harper shook her head. Her family was here. Her unusual, chaotic, loving family. And suddenly the idea of Ambrose around them filled her with both longing and dread. How would a man rejected by his own family all his life react to a family as loving and loud as hers?

Twenty-Seven

Concentration had always come naturally to Ambrose. This afternoon, however, as he sat behind his desk with a pen between his fingers, he found himself rereading the same sentence before him for nearly ten minutes. He had meant to write to the solicitor in London regarding Emma. He had heard no more about Douglas and his ridiculous claims, but he wanted to be prepared.

However, the company was driving him to distraction.

Apparently, he could not remain indifferent to the laughter drifting carelessly from the drawing room. It made concentration impossible. Every sound seemed determined to remind him that his wife was enjoying herself without him. Ambrose frowned at the page. How was Marina laughing so freely? Were her eyes filled with that familiar twinkle? And… was she still angry with him?

He gave a quiet groan and dragged a hand through his hair, then muttered bitterly, “I should not have spoken to her that way.”

The memory of the hurt that had flashed across her face before she hid it beneath annoyance tightened something in his chest. He had seen it, though he had pretended not to.