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Ambrose turned and walked away without awaiting her answer.

Twenty-Eight

“Ambrose?”

There was something about the way Marina said his name that always slid under his skin. She made it sound intimate, as though she were speaking not to the duke but to the man beneath the title.

Ambrose turned to find her stepping through the balcony doors, gathering her skirts in one hand as she stepped toward him. Her eyes danced with amusement as she glanced toward the drawing room before looking back at him.

“I think they like you,” she teased.

Ambrose cleared his throat. “I have serious doubts about that. They stared at me rather relentlessly.”

She smiled. He hated how easily her smile could make the rest of the world disappear.

“That is simply how my family shows affection,” she explained with a fond sigh, her gaze drifting toward the drawing room. “My mother and sisters stare when they are curious. They mean no harm.”

“Oh, how reassuring,” Ambrose murmured dryly, the corner of his mouth lifting. “So it is a family trait. You did precisely the same thing the first time you saw me. Tell me, was it love at first sight?”

Marina rolled her eyes, but the blush tinting her cheeks betrayed her. “You are getting rather ahead of yourself, Your Grace,” she protested. “I was simply astounded to see a large man with an even larger hat.”

Ambrose smiled quietly, enjoying the way her composure faltered. Then she sighed, lifting her blue eyes to the sky, and his followed. It had darkened, and the first evening stars glittered faintly.

“Christmas is almost here,” she mused tenderly. “Five days. Is it not lovely?”

His smile faded as he watched her. She must have felt it, because she turned her head. Their eyes met, and her lips parted on a breath that clouded in the air before disappearing into the winter night. He stayed where he was, looking back at her mouth.

“You are staring,” she accused lightly, though her voice was less steady than before.

“I know, I wish to fit in with your family. I hear that is how they show affection,” Ambrose replied smoothly.

She shook her head but smiled.

“You fit in rather too well.”

Silence stretched between them.

“Are you truly well?” he asked quietly, his voice turning more solemn. “Christmas Eve approaches, and I wonder whether this season brings memories you would rather not revisit.”

Those beautiful eyes of hers searched his face before looking away.

“On the contrary, this is truly the best Christmas I have had in a very long time,” she confessed, emotion trembling faintly with every word.

She sighed and turned fully back to him. “So rest assured, every smile, every laugh, is genuine. I am not pretending.”

The words eased something in him.

Before Ambrose had time to react, her hands slipped around his waist.

He froze. His hands hovered, half-raised, as the scent of her skin made his chest ache. He looked down to find her head resting against him.

He raised his arms fully and embraced her back. His hold was very light, more tender than he wished, because he feared that if he held her the way he truly wanted to, he might never have the strength to release her. And as the hug deepened, the need to pull her closer grew. To bury his face in her hair and take whatever she would give.

“Thank you,” she whispered against his chest.

The words were muffled, barely more than a breath, yet they seemed to demolish every single wall he had carefully constructed.

Ambrose lowered his hands to her shoulders and gently drew her back just enough to see her face. Her eyes were shining. He could not look away. Could not stop the pull. That single hug had left him burning. He followed the feeling blindly, bending his head to taste her mouth like a man who had been starving for it.