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As you know, your sister passed away during childbirth. I have done my best to care for the child, even though she is not the heir I wanted. However, the time has come to focus on what must be done. I must marry again. I must have an heir. And I cannot be burdened by this child any longer.

I assume you will wish to care for her. She is named Emma. A selection made by your sister, not one I would have chosen. But there you have it.

Rutland

His jaw tightened. A bitter heat spread through his chest. His sister was dead. He knew this. Word had come some months ago. He had managed the grief the way he managed everything.

Alone. Quietly.

He hadn’t expected to hear anything further. He certainly hadn’t been invited to the funeral… He most certainly had not expected Emma to show up out of the blue.

He looked at the letter again, disgusted by the tone. The man who had once promised to cherish her had written about her death as though he were discussing an inconvenience. He had spoken of Janet’s final gift to the world as though she were an object to be discarded.

His fingers tightened around the letter. His eyes darkened. He had never cared for Douglas. He had met him only once, when he had decided he wished to marry Janet. As head of the household, it was up to Ambrose to provide a dowry for the sister he had never been permitted to know.

And he had.

He had hoped to see Janet during the negotiations, but it hadn’t come to pass. Douglas’ habit of asking for money had started then. In addition to the dowry, he’d asked for additional funds. Over the short four years of Janet and Douglas’ marriage, he’d asked Ambrose for funds three times. And Ambrose had given it each time, always telling himself he was helping his sister.

The paper crumpled. His sister did not deserve that kind of man, and he would make sure to deal with his brother-in-law soon.

But first, he had a more important matter to settle.

Emma.

He had to protect her, and would not allow his niece to be raised by strangers. He would not allow her to experience the sort of childhood he had endured.

Ernest and Mrs. Dalton had been the only people who had shown him any real kindness. Everyone else assigned by his parents had treated him as though he was a disease that might spread if they came too close. His parents had wanted nothing to do with him, and the servants had followed their example. He had been a child. An innocent child who had been forced to understand cruelty far earlier than any child ever should.

Ambrose’s gaze flickered toward the hat resting on the table beside his robe. As if on cue, the memory of a pair of blue eyes rose in his mind. He frowned. Ridiculous. He pushed the thought away and cast the letter aside.

He made his way toward Emma’s new nursery. The moment he entered, the wet nurse stiffened, immediately lowering her head. He saw how her fingers tightened around the bassinet, noticing the slight tremor in her hands. Pfft. Just like everyone else. They always seemed to fear him without getting to know him.

Except one little witch.

The thought arrived so suddenly that his jaw tightened. She was still as good as a stranger. Nonetheless, he had spent the entire day attempting not to think about her. It had been useless. Those blue eyes had appeared in his thoughts more times than he cared to admit. Her remarkably long dark hair. The way her skin glowed. The way she had looked at him without fear.

And that mouth.

That infuriatingly beautiful mouth that had smiled at him as though he were not the Duke of Griffin but merely some strange, insane man who had wandered onto her doorstep.

Beautiful… He cautioned himself against such a word, clearing his throat. Perhaps she truly was a witch, enchanting him before he left.

Ambrose forced his attention toward the small cradle. Emma was awake, her tiny face turned toward him. Her little eyes reminded him of his sister’s, staring at him with innocent curiosity. And the sight made something tighten painfully inside his chest. It made his hands itch to pick her up.

However, he remained motionless. For one thing, he was not certain he knew how. And for another… there was the bigger matter. What if she cried? What if he frightened her? What if he had the same effect on babies, too?

The thought brought something dark and sorrowful back to the surface of his mind. He remembered being a boy, standing in the garden beside Janet’s crib, desperate only to see his baby sister. He had been treated as though his very presence was something shameful. As though he had committed some unforgivable crime simply by wanting to hold her. What if Emma looked at him and saw the same thing everyone else had? A monster.

Ambrose swallowed and stepped back.

“Take her,” he instructed, his voice softer than usual as he gave the wet nurse room. “She requires you more than she requires me.”

The woman obeyed. Ambrose moved farther away until his back nearly touched the door. The butler, who had appeared in the doorway, offered a gentle bow.

“Your Grace,” Ernest said, “you have not mentioned how your visit to Lady Whitmore’s went. May I assume, then, that matters did not proceed quite as you had intended?”

Ambrose’s eyes narrowed slightly. The butler’s words brought her back into his mind with insufferable ease.