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Marina looked at him more carefully. “You have not answered my most important question.”

“I was beginning to suspect there might be several more.”

“Why me?”

His amusement faded a little.

“You are a duke,” she continued. “Surely there are any number of ladies who would be delighted to become your duchess. Why seek out a widow whose neighbors believe she killed her husband?”

“Because I do not believe you killed your husband.”

The simplicity of his answer took her by surprise.

“Indeed? You seem remarkably certain for a gentleman who was asking whether I was a witch only a short while ago.”

“I may avoid society, Lady Whitmore, but I have not abandoned all reason. My butler was familiar with your story and told me what is being said, what happened, and something of your family. Based on all I heard, I find it difficult to believe that a young woman could kill a man merely by speaking a few angry words to him.”

Marina looked at him in silence. She had heard many explanations for her husband’s death over the years, most of them delivered by people who had never witnessed it. Very few had been willing to accept that there might be no mystery at all.

The duke, however, spoke as though the matter were obvious.

She refused to allow herself to be moved by that. “And I suppose you expect me to believe that your own reputation is equally undeserved?”

He shifted slightly farther into the shadows. “That depends upon which part of it you mean.”

“The part concerning your peculiar aversion to sunlight, for a beginning.”

“You witnessed that for yourself.”

“Yes, but I do not understand it.” She glanced at the brim of his hat. “What exactly is your condition?”

He looked at her as though he could scarcely believe she needed to ask.

“I am sensitive to light. My eyes cannot tolerate it, nor can my skin. Exposure causes considerable pain, and I have learned that avoiding it is generally the wiser course.”

Marina’s curiosity stirred at once. She had read about many unusual ailments, though she could not immediately recall one that matched his description. Her gaze traveled toward the books piled upon her table.

“Surely there must be some explanation. I have several volumes that discuss disorders of the skin, and another concerning the effects of light upon…”

She turned toward the shelves, already searching for the book she wanted. Before she could reach it, however, the duke followed and caught her gently by the arm.

“Lady Whitmore.”

She looked up.

“I was born with this condition,” he said firmly, releasing her. “And I expect I shall die with it. I have endured enough physicians and examinations to last several lifetimes. I do not require you to play nurse to me.”

Marina drew back, offended by his presumption.

“Do not flatter yourself, Your Grace. I was merely curious.”

“Of course.”

“And if I wish to consult my own books in my own house, I shall do so without seeking your permission.”

His mouth curved. “I would not dream of interfering.”

“You have just done precisely that.”