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“My glasshouse is important to me,” she continued. “And my books. I spend a great deal of time studying, and I have no intention of abandoning my work with herbs because someone decides it is an unsuitable occupation for a duchess. It is important to me. I create salves and teas for my family and those close to them, as well as their servants, and I have no intention of stopping.” She allowed her nostrils to flare. “In fact, I might increase my activities because I believe a manor like this will have an exceptional stillroom.”

He smiled at this. “It does. Two, in fact.”

Her eyes grew wide at the thought of all the herbs those rooms must hold, but she forced herself back to the task at hand.

“Well, then. I will make use of them.”

“You must.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You make that sound suspiciously easy.”

“I see no reason it ought to be difficult. I have lived a simple life thus far, and I do not imagine it shall change much with another person there. This is a large manor; there is ample space for your activities.”

She ought not to have smiled at that. She was trying to establish the terms upon which her future happiness might depend, and the man had the audacity to look as though he was enjoying himself.

Yet beneath his dry amusement, she sensed something else. He was listening. Not merely waiting for her to finish speaking, but considering what she said. His answers were tailored to her concerns.

It was an unfamiliar sensation.

Her first husband had made it abundantly clear that marriage would place her entirely at his mercy. He had expected obedience, heirs, and a wife whose wishes mattered very little beside his own. Marina had escaped that future through circumstances so dreadful that she had spent years being punished for them by everyone else.

She would not willingly walk into another such arrangement.

“I mean what I say, Your Grace,” she told him, more quietly now. “I have become accustomed to belonging to myself.”

Something in his expression softened.

“You would be my wife,” he continued, “not my prisoner. I need someone who will care for Emma, certainly, but I have no wish to extinguish everything that makes you who you are.”

Marina looked at him for a long moment. It was an extraordinary thing to hear from a man who had entered her cottage and proposed marriage with all the certainty of someone arranging the purchase of a horse. Yet he seemed entirely sincere.

“In that case,” Marina said, encouraged by his answer, “there are a few practical matters we ought to settle.”

Ambrose’s mouth curved faintly. “I suspected there might be. As I said, I shall be in charge of the special license.”

“I shall return to my cottage this evening. There are certain belongings I must collect.”

“Naturally. I shall have a carriage sent whenever you require it.”

“And my books,” she continued. “I cannot possibly bring all of them at once, but there are several I shall need immediately. My medical texts, in particular.”

“Then bring them. Take whatever you need and I shall arrange for some of the servants to collect everything else after the wedding.”

She paused, knowing her next demand might meet with some resistance.

“And Luna.”

Ambrose went very still.

“The cat?”

“My cat,” Marina corrected.

“The black creature that attempted to murder me upon our first acquaintance?”

“She did nothing of the sort. You invaded her home. She hissed, that was all. She will have to come and she will live here.”

He shrugged. “You may keep her in her chambers.”