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Marina took out a sheet of paper, dipped her pen into the ink, and began to write.

Mother, you must come at once. I need you.

Five

Marina wasn’t sure how to put into words what had just occurred in her cottage. She looked at the candle, flickering over the half-written letter. In the end, she gave a full account of what had happened, leaving out the fact that she’d found the mysterious visitor rather enticing indeed—if not utterly infuriating.

She could imagine her mother’s response to the letter. Her mother would read and conclude that Marina was being ridiculous again. Lady Dashwood would assume she had exaggerated some harmless encounter. Misunderstood, perhaps.

Or she’d assume someone was playing a joke on her unfortunate daughter.

It was a tale too ridiculous to believe, to be sure. There was a duke involved, a very strange duke. A duke who recoiled at the slightest ray of sunlight. And he wished to marry her, a woman he had met only that evening, apparently so she could care for an abandoned baby.

Marina leaned back in her chair. What sort of life had she stumbled into? It seemed that the strangest sort of marriages always found their way to her. Yet if she was entirely honest with herself, there was something else troubling her.

The disturbing thought made her gaze drift toward the window.

For six years, she had been perfectly content with her peace, her books, her herbs, and her loneliness. She had Luna for company, and the cat had never complained about Marina’s conversation, no matter how long she spoke. She had learned to enjoy the silence and convinced herself she preferred it.

But now she found herself thinking about a pair of dark green eyes. A ridiculously handsome face. A mysterious man whose presence had somehow made her little cottage feel foreign after he had left it.

Marina’s lips parted; she was tempted to whisper a breathless prayer. She wanted him to knock upon her door again. Perhaps to convince her further. That realization startled her.

Clearly, she wasn’t infatuated with him…

Certainly not.

She was not foolish enough to fall in love with a man who was clearly, in some fashion, mentally unstable. He had to be, to wander into her home and ask for her hand in marriage. No sane man did such a thing.

But perhaps she could admit that she missed company. Real company, from someone who was not her family. His brief visit had reminded her of something she had been denied for years: someone who might sit across from her and speak without first accusing her of killing her late husband.

His words returned, cutting through her thoughts: I shall expect your answer. A carriage will be sent for you once the sun has set.

She frowned. Of course. She ought not to wait for him like some lovesick young woman staring through the window. He had given her three days, three days to consider his proposal, three days to consider the baby.

And as her mind returned to the baby for the umpteenth time, her curiosity resurfaced.

Where had this baby come from? How had it come to be abandoned? Was his sister dead? And what of her husband?

So many questions…

She pressed her lips together. Was she expected to care for the child forever? Because something about the word ‘forever’ frightened her now. It was what she had always wanted, but she’d imagined that a child would come to her by way of marriage, to a man she might even love. Not by way of a beastly duke.

The duke surely could not read her mind, could not have discovered that the very thing he was offering her was something she had always been desperate to have.

Family. Raising children.

And now he was offering it to her on a silver platter.

She couldn’t deny it. For a fleeting second, she admitted how tempting it sounded, however ludicrous the situation.

This seemed to be another similarity between herself and the peculiar Duke of Griffin. They both appeared to possess a remarkable talent for making impulsive decisions concerning marriage.

Marina sighed. Then, before she could lose herself any deeper in thought, she picked up her empty bowl.

“Enough,” she muttered, gathering her things. “Herbs first. Marriage considerations later.”

Ambrose read the letter for what had to be the tenth time. Why, he wasn’t sure. It wasn’t as if the content would change.