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How dare he? How dare he stand in Ambrose’s own ballroom and wear Janet’s memory like a medal pinned to his coat? Janet, who had written to her estranged brother after seventeen years of silence. Janet, who had wanted her daughter to know her uncle. Ambrose had kept her letters in his desk drawer and read them until the folds wore thin, and this man spoke her name as though it were a cloak even though Ambrose knew he hadn’t loved Janet. Heat rose in his chest, the kind that had nothing to do with the sun.

A ripple of interest passed through the guests. He felt it more than saw it: heads turning from the platform to him and back again, whispers stirring behind gloved hands. The Beast had a family after all.

“I wished to thank His Grace personally,” Douglas went on, spreading his hands, “for he has been a savior, and not merely to the children of this village. I have just enjoyed a lengthy conversation with your vicar, who tells me that the duke has supported the local children for many years. Quietly. Asking for nothing in return. And now he and his lovely wife have gathered a remarkable sum toward replacing that decrepit old orphanage.”

He began to clap.

For one moment, nobody joined him. Then someone did, and then several more, until applause filled the ballroom and rose toward the chandeliers. Ambrose watched faces soften around him.

Ambrose watched Douglas and waited, the way a man waits for the second crack of thunder after the first.

“And there is something else for which I wish to thank him,” Douglas said when the room had quieted. He lowered his voice, and the guests leaned in to catch it. “Something more personal. As some of you may know, my dear wife passed away six months ago. Naturally, I was in a dreadful state. I could scarcely look after myself, let alone an infant. And Ambrose, generous Ambrose, agreed to help me in my time of need by caring for my daughter, Emma.”

Ambrose’s jaw locked so tightly that it ached.

“He has done a remarkable job,” Douglas went on, “as has the duchess. I am deeply grateful for all their kindness, and I do hope they will not miss her too terribly.” He smiled out at the crowd. “For I am delighted to announce that this Christmas, I shall be taking my daughter home. Thank you once more for all your help.”

Applause erupted again, louder than before. A few gentlemen near the platform clapped Douglas on the back as though he had performed some noble deed. Somewhere behind Ambrose, a lady sighed, “How very touching.” The musicians, sensing the interruption was over, lifted their bows uncertainly.

Ambrose barely heard any of it. Beside him, Marina had gone white to the lips.

“Take her back?” she whispered.

Her fingers had found his sleeve and were gripping it hard enough to crease the fabric. Ambrose shook his head, but he had no reassurance to give her, and he could see in her eyes that she knew it.

“Ambrose, what does he mean?” Her voice was very low and very steady, and that frightened him more than tears would have. “I thought you said he had abandoned her. I thought we were to look after her for good.”

“We were. We are.” He lifted his hands, then let them fall, useless. “There have been rumors that he might attempt something of this sort. I dismissed them. I did consult my solicitor. There are measures we can take.”

Marina stared at him. He watched the understanding arrive in her face, piece by piece, and settle there.

“Rumors,” she repeated. “You knew there was a chance he would try to take her, and you did not tell me.” Her breath caught. “You lied to me?”

“I did not lie⁠—”

“You said nothing. It amounts to the same thing.”

“The solicitor assured me it was unlikely he would act upon it.” The words sounded thin even to his own ears. “Apparently he told people that she is with us temporarily while he recovers from Janet’s death.”

“You should have told me.”

She did not raise her voice. She did not need to. The disappointment in it was so much worse than anger would have been. Anger he could have withstood; he had withstood his father’s for years. But Marina looking at him as though he had become a stranger, that he did not know how to bear.

“With everything that has been happening between us,” he said quietly, “I did not think it was the right time.”

“The right time,” she repeated, and the bitterness in it cut him to the bone.

Before he could answer, her gaze shifted past his shoulder.

“He is signaling to us.”

Ambrose turned. Douglas stood beside an alcove near the platform, one hand raised in a lazy, beckoning wave, the way a man might summon a waiter.

Ambrose resented being summoned in his own house. He resented it with every fiber of his being. But two hundred pairs of eyes were upon them, and so he offered Marina his arm. She took it without looking at him, and together they crossed the ballroom.

“Ambrose,” Douglas greeted him brightly, as though they were old friends. “Shall we speak somewhere private?”

He gestured toward one of the small adjoining rooms. Ambrose followed him inside, with Marina close behind, and Douglas shut the door. At once the music and laughter dropped away to a dull murmur, and the room seemed to shrink around the three of them. A single branch of candles burned on a side table, and Douglas’s shadow stretched long against the paneled wall.