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“Then it seems I have misjudged the matter,” he said evenly. “From what I had heard of you, and from what I saw with my own eyes, I assumed an arrangement such as this would benefit you as much as it would benefit Emma. It would make you a mother instead of an outcast.” He inclined his head. “But perhaps I have misunderstood. You need trouble yourself no further. I shall find another duchess.”

She blinked. Whatever she had expected, it plainly was not this. No argument. No bluster. Only quiet acceptance, and he saw at once that it unsettled her far more than any protest could have done.

“I shall have the carriage readied for you,” he added.

Her gaze dropped to the cup in her hands. She had not taken a single sip, and the tea had gone quite cold. She set it down upon its saucer with great care, as though it had personally offended her.

He ought to have left it there. He had his answer, and a gentleman would bow and see her to the door. But she looked so thoroughly put out, and he had so rarely enjoyed anyone’s company, that he could not quite resist one last remark.

“Unless, of course, this has something to do with my refusing to kiss you under the mistletoe?” He knew it did not, for her arguments were sound. Indeed, he respected her more for not blindly accepting him. But he could not resist needling her one last time.

“You are a crude man, Your Grace,” she replied.

“Perhaps. But I am trying to figure out what it truly is that bothers you.” He paused then, the humor going out of him. His hand traveled to his face. The rash was gone now and nothing remained of his last encounter with the sun. But she had seen it. He could not help but wonder if her hesitation was due less to conviction than to fear.

“Could it be that despite all your books and herbs and tinctures, you are in fact afraid of my disease? That you might catch it if you came too close?”

“You are incorrigible,” she shot back. “Do you think me so close-minded and foolish as to think whatever condition you have is catching?”

“In my experience, it is a common assumption.”

She inhaled through her nose like a bull, her chest rising again. “I am no narrow-minded fishwife. I did not expect a kiss under the mistletoe, and not because I was afraid but because I do not know you and I do not make a habit of kissing vampires under mistletoes.”

He suppressed a smile but before he could come up with a witty reply, she had risen and walked toward him.

“But just to put your mind entirely at ease and convince you that I am averse to the method of your proposal and not to your disease…” She stopped and rose onto her tiptoes.

And then, she kissed him.

Ambrose did not know how to react. He had never, in all of his thirty-five years, kissed anyone. Her lips were smooth and warm and tasted of berries. Her body pressed against his, her breasts soft against his chest in a way that robbed him of all rational thought.

He wrapped his arms around her and drew her nearer, kissing her back. He expected her to step back but she did not.

And truthfully, neither would he if it hadn’t been for his niece’s impeccable timing.

An almighty scream came from the nursery, louder and more severe than he’d ever heard.

He let the woman go at once.

Ambrose hurried toward the sound of crying, his long strides carrying him down the corridor. Behind him, he could hear Marina struggling to keep pace, but his attention was fixed upon Emma’s distressed wails.

He reached the little girl first, only to hesitate at the sight of her tiny face screwed up in misery. Before he could decide what to do, Marina stepped past him.

“Oh, you poor darling,” she murmured, gathering Emma into her arms without a moment’s hesitation.

Ambrose watched as she settled the baby against her chest and began rocking her gently, whispering words too soft for him to make out. Emma continued crying for a few moments, her little fists clutching at Marina’s gown, but gradually her sobs faded into whimpers.

“There now, sweetheart,” Marina whispered. “There’s nothing to be frightened of.”

To Ambrose’s astonishment, Emma quieted completely. She blinked up at Marina, then nestled against her as though she had known her all her short life.

He remained beside them, his shoulders tense, scarcely daring to move.

Marina brushed a gentle finger over the baby’s cheek, a tender smile touching her lips. Ambrose found himself watching her rather than Emma, struck by how naturally she held the child.

Then Marina raised her eyes to his.

“Your Grace,” she asked softly, “what happened to her father? You told me of her mother.”