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Marina felt the memory of the previous night return with painful clarity.

She wanted him to kiss her.

She wanted him to forget, for one moment, all the reasons he believed he should not.

But then he stepped back, and the coldness of the corridor returned to the space between them.

“I believe I shall retire to my study,” he said firmly, his face revealing nothing.

Marina remained where she was, watching him.

The duke turned and walked away, his long strides carrying him down the corridor. She listened to the measured rhythm of his footsteps, still trying to gather the pieces of her composure, when he stopped abruptly and turned back.

She blinked, a slight furrow appearing between her brows.

There was that tiny smile. That rare, devastating little curve of his mouth that could make the stern duke appear warmer, almost wickedly pleased.

“I am looking forward to the Christmas ball, by the way,” he remarked lightly.

Her brows sprang upward once again.

“The ball?” she repeated, disbelief brightening her expression. “You are actually looking forward to it?”

“I did not say I was looking forward to the guests.”

Marina laughed before she could stop herself.

“Then what, pray tell, are you looking forward to?”

He regarded her for a moment, and the faint smile returned.

“Seeing what you have made of Griffin.”

Before she could think of a reply, Ambrose inclined his head and continued down the corridor, the broad line of his shoulders disappearing into the darkness beyond.

Marina watched him go, her fingers curling into her skirts.

The Christmas ball.

He had agreed to it for the orphanage, despite all his misgivings. And now, for the first time, he seemed almost willing to enjoy what she was bringing into his home.

As she stood there with her heart still racing from everything she had overheard, Marina knew the ball would no longer be merely a Christmas celebration.

She would be entering that ballroom beside him, and whether they liked to admit it or not, something had changed between them.

Even if neither of them was brave enough to name it yet.

Thirty

Christmas had finally arrived and the ball with it. From the upper landing, the Duchess of Griffin stood at the railing, looking down upon the ballroom that had once been nothing but a gloomy space housing abandoned portraits and dust-covered furniture. But tonight, it glittered.

Hundreds of candles burned across the hall, their flames appearing like dancing stars. The light of the chandeliers reflected off the polished marble floor, which cast it back until the whole room shimmered. Red ribbons adorned every corner, and a giant Christmas tree had been placed in the center of the room. It was as though the spirit of the holiday itself had stepped inside.

“After all this time preparing for it,” Marina murmured, her fingers resting against the railing, “they will finally arrive tonight.”

She still could hardly believe it. She had managed to put all of this together in such a short time. Of course, she had had a great deal of help from the servants and, of late, her family. The vicar, too, had delivered invitations and encouraged people to attend. But still. She felt immensely proud.

The Griffin estate had been closed to Society for years. People rarely visited unless duty demanded it, and now they were preparing to welcome half the county. At once, a worry surfaced.