Page 93

But this was where she truly belonged. With Emma. With Ambrose. A life that felt warm rather than one she was merely surviving.

Then she heard his voice, and her head slowly rose again.

“I assure you, my lady,” he said in that unmistakable deep voice, “she has brought far more contentment and, dare I say, happiness, into my life than I ever gave her.”

Marina’s breath hitched when he said it.

Had he been saying those words directly to her, she might have wondered whether he was merely trying to reassure her, or whether some part of him was saying what he thought she wanted to hear. She might even have teased him about it later, accusing the infamously difficult Duke of Griffin of suddenly discovering the art of sweet words.

But he did not know she was listening.

“And whatever I do,” he continued, “her happiness will always come first.”

The words broke through all the walls she had built around herself.

Ambrose meant it.

Suddenly, the drawing room doors opened, and Ambrose appeared.

His green eyes found hers immediately, and his brows lifted when he noticed her flushed cheeks.

She had been caught.

She dropped her gaze for the briefest moment before raising it to his. Her heart hammered treacherously, beating so fiercely that she was certain he must hear it. She could still feel the warmth of the words she had heard, and now here he was before her.

And rather than denying anything, she breathlessly asked, “Was everything you said… true?”

He was silent a moment before he answered simply, “Yes.”

The single word stole another breath from her.

“And the cottage?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly. “My glasshouse? I saw how much progress has been made today. You have done so much for me.”

Ambrose stepped closer, and she felt the warmth of his body.

“The work is not finished,” he said. “The glasshouse will require more attention when spring comes.”

“I know.”

“And there are plants that could not be saved.”

“I know that too.”

Marina stared at him.

He had repaired her cottage, replaced her books, and arranged for the glasshouse and garden to be restored as far as possible. All while allowing her to live at the estate surrounded by warmth and ribbons, as though the world had not been cruel enough to make her doubt she deserved such kindness.

“I did not do it to be thanked,” he added quietly, as though he had read her thoughts, his unwavering gaze fixed upon her face.

“I know,” Marina whispered.

“Your happiness comes first,” he murmured. “I care for you more than I care for myself.”

He had said words like those before.

Now, she believed him.

His eyes lingered over her face for a long moment, moving slowly from her eyes to her lips before returning to meet her gaze. There was something almost predatory in the way he watched her, as though touching her were the very thing he wanted and the very thing he had decided he would not allow himself.