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He shrugged. “The wedding, of course. I can arrange for a special license, and we can be wed within the week. I will have my men travel to your cottage to collect your things. Or you can collect what you need right away and…”

She raised a hand at once. “Excuse me, Your Grace. But I believe there has been rather a grand misunderstanding.”

“Oh?”

“I am not here to accept your proposal.”

He stared at her as if she’d announced the end of the world itself. Then, he cleared his throat.

“Is that so? Then why, exactly, have you come?”

She took a deep breath and gathered herself, for the truth was, she wasn’t quite certain. She wasn’t about to tell him that, however. Instead, she put on her brightest smile and raised her head.

“Because, I cannot deny that I am rather… curious.”

Eight

“Curious?” Ambrose scarcely knew what to say. The woman had come to his manor because she was curious? He disliked that turn of phrase very much because he had been a curiosity all his life, and she had struck him as so very different that hearing her say this hurt.

She placed her hands on her hips and stared at him with those intense eyes. Even though he was presently cross with her, he could not stop looking at her. Then, she spoke up again.

“I am indeed curious. Curious how you thought giving me an ultimatum was a suitable way to propose to me. I must tell you this is not the way to a lady’s heart or into her good graces.”

He hoped she could not see how relieved he was that her objection was rooted in something rather minor—at least in his opinion. He crossed his arms, and from the corner of his eye he saw a maid bring the tea to his study.

“Yet, here you are,” he replied.

“Yes, but as I said, not to accept you.”

He dipped his head to one side. “But you have not yet rejected me either.”

“I am not a debutante who can be ordered about. I am a grown woman with a home of my own, and a mind of my own.”

“All of which you are more than welcome to retain. In fact, I rather like a woman with a mind of her own.” He shrugged. “I fail to see how that prevents you from marrying me.”

“It… it…” It did not, in fact, prevent her. That was precisely the trouble.

The study was lit by a large fireplace and two sconces on the walls. The maid had been busy pouring their tea but looked up with worry as he approached. He was used to his servants reacting this way. It bothered him nonetheless. He was polite to them and didn’t raise his voice unless they did something foolish—such as attempting to murder a bird—and yet, they looked at him like this.

The maid hurried out, and as she left, he heard Lady Whitmore scoff.

“Something amuses you?” he asked.

“I mean,” she clarified, a small chuckle escaping her, “I have observed that your rather intimidating presence seems to have taken a firm hold of everyone in this household.”

Her brief laughter echoed for another moment before it vanished without a trace. Her smile dropped so completely that it was as if it had never been there at all.

“I suppose your ultimatum and your confidence were meant to startle me into accepting. But I am not moved by it,” she declared, her voice firmer. “If you believe I shall be intimidated into marrying you, Your Grace, then you have greatly mistaken me.”

There she was again, making assumptions about him.

“What is it that you request of me? Do you wish to be wooed? Shall I hire musicians to serenade us? I was unaware that a practical arrangement, which was what I proposed, should require such theatrics. Indeed, I thought you would be pleased to be released from your current circumstances.”

He was getting under her skin; he could see it. And he liked it. Her chest rose and the top of her bosom momentarily distracted him before her voice drew him back.

“I do not require theatrics,” she continued, her fingers tightening slightly around the teacup she’d just picked up. “I am quite content with my present circumstances. I have my independence, my home, and a life that, while perhaps unconventional, belongs entirely to me.”

For a long moment, Ambrose said nothing. He studied her across the little table: the cup she held without drinking, the stubborn set of her chin, the faint tremor in her fingers that told him her composure had cost her something. Then he rose.