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His smile turned into a faint smirk, and Marina hated how much she adored that particular expression.

“I thought I ought to join you in receiving our guests,” he explained calmly, his gaze traveling briefly over the entrance before returning to her. “The duke and duchess should work together if we intend for this ball to succeed.”

His eyes lowered to her fidgeting fingers before returning to her face, and the look that replaced his earlier expression was familiar. She knew that look, the one that said, I can see right through you. The knowledge did not embarrass her; rather, it made her feel strangely… reassured.

Then she gave a small smile. “Then I suppose I shall have to trust my husband,” she said.

Her words lingered between them. Before Ambrose could answer, the announcer’s voice rang through the hall.

“Lord and Lady Bancroft,” the man announced formally from the entrance, his voice echoing across the grand hall.

Several guests appeared at the doors, looking uncertain whether they could move forward into the Griffin estate. Marina turned toward them. Tonight was important, and she would not spend the entire evening melting beneath the gaze of her husband. Especially not when that gaze was making her wonder whether his hands would be as skillful at removing her gown as they were at admiring it.

She pushed the thought away, stepping forward with a welcoming smile.

“Merry Christmas, everyone. You are all most welcome,” she assured them. “Please, come inside and enjoy yourselves. Tonight, the Griffin estate belongs to our guests.”

The guests entered. A lord gave a suspicious little laugh.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Lord Smitherton said with rather sarcastic amusement. “But this seems rather suspicious. The Griffin estate has not held a ball in years, and now His Grace suddenly opens his doors, and with a duchess whom half the county once called the Christmas Witch.”

Marina’s smile faltered. Old wounds, it seemed, were not easily erased. But then she tilted her head, her playful smile returning. “Then you may consider yourselves fortunate,” she replied with graceful composure. “The doors are open for entering, and they shall remain open for leaving. If the Christmas Witch proves too frightening, Lord Smitherton, you may escape whenever you please.”

The man puckered his lips and gave a nod, as if accepting his defeat.

One by one, the guests began moving into the ballroom, their fine Christmas attire shimmering underneath the light. Marina watched them disappear into the growing crowd on the dance floor until a familiar figure caught her attention.

Lady Beatrice. And beside her was her son, Peter.

The woman met Marina’s eyes, and for one brief moment, Marina saw guilt cross the other woman’s face. Lady Beatrice quickly looked away and continued inside with her son.

Lady Beatrice had never been particularly fond of her, and her talent for spreading unkind gossip about her had been almost impressive. Still, Marina smiled. At least she had come.

She barely had time to turn before Ambrose stepped directly before her, easily stealing her attention once again. She noticed the impressed look he wore before he inclined his head. She blinked in confusion and followed his gaze.

Her eyes widened the moment she understood his silent message. “You mean the dance floor?” she asked, blushing. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been asked to dance.

“I am asking my wife for a dance,” he stated, stepping closer until she could feel the heat of his body once again. “Come. Let us show them that despite our reputations, we are still of noble birth and know how to dance just as well as any of them. Better, I dare say.”

“I have had lessons, of course, but it has been years. What of you?”

“I am quite natural at many things,” he murmured. “Even things I have never tried before. Dancing, however, I have practiced. Mrs. Dalton taught me when I was younger.”

His gaze moved deliberately from her eyes to the soft rise of her breasts above the neckline of her gown before returning to her face.

The whole ballroom faded around them. All that remained was the unbearable awareness of standing so close to his solid presence. He was tempting her. And she wanted to let him. She wanted to reach under that dark hat, run her fingers through his hair, and discover what would happen if she surrendered control completely.

Thirty-One

Ambrose felt the stares of everyone in the ballroom as he and Marina swirled across the dance floor, but for once in his life, he did not care.

He had never danced in public. Not once. The only dancing he had ever done had been in the darkness of his own chambers, with the curtains drawn and a single candle burning on the mantel, while Mrs. Dalton counted out the steps and scolded him for treading on her toes. Just in case, she had always said, with that stubborn little lift of her chin. He had thought it a foolish indulgence.

And now here he was, beneath the glittering chandeliers of Griffin Manor, with his wife in his arms.

The light pressed in on him from every direction: hundreds of candles, the great chandelier overhead, the gilt frames along the walls catching every flame and throwing it back. It was not sunlight, and it did not burn, but it made him feel exposed all the same, as though every flame were an eye turned toward him. He kept the brim of his hat low and his gaze upon Marina. That helped. She helped.

Not everyone looked upon them with delight. He caught raised eyebrows over the rims of glasses, fans lifted to hide whispering mouths, and one elderly gentleman who watched them as though he fully expected the Beast of Griffin to bare his fangs halfway through the turn. One evening would not turn a village of gossips into admirers. He knew that. But if Marina’s efforts could change even a few hearts and minds, then everything she had done, every garland, every ribbon, every argument she had won against him, would have been worthwhile.