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“Then why keep it so dark?”

He shifted from one foot to the other. “I am merely used to it. When I was young, the wing I lived in was always kept dark because the physicians thought any light would harm me. By the time we understood candles did not, I was used to the dark. It is a habit, more than anything. But we can add more candles. We can have roaring fires if you like. But no sun.”

She nodded, though the thought of living in darkness during the day troubled her. However, she knew that this was a discussion for another day.

As she looked at him, she realized that she had made the right decision in saying yes.

No, she hadn’t chosen to marry him simply because of Emma, though the little girl had claimed a piece of her heart in the brief time Marina had held her. The memory of that tiny face, the weight of the child against her shoulder, and the way Emma had quieted in her arms still stirred something fiercely protective within her.

A daughter whose father had not wanted her.

Marina knew too well what such words could mean.

Emma deserved better. She deserved a home where she would never be made to feel that being born a girl was some terrible disappointment.

And Ambrose, for all his forbidding manner, plainly intended to give her one.

Marina returned her attention to the duke.

He understood what it meant to be unwanted. She had heard it in his voice when he spoke of Emma, and she had seen something of that same old hurt when he told her how people reacted to his condition.

How could anyone look upon this man and see only something to fear?

He had spoken of his affliction as though it were a warning she must heed before making the dreadful mistake of marrying him. He had seemed so certain that knowledge of it would make her recoil.

And she, who had spent six years reading every medical text she could obtain, had found his assumption almost as infuriating as the superstitions themselves.

But that was not the whole truth.

Marina’s gaze dropped, quite without her permission, to his mouth.

Oh, heavens.

She had kissed him.

She had risen onto her toes and pressed her lips to his with the bold determination of a woman intent upon proving a point. It had seemed an excellent idea at the time. A perfectly sensible demonstration that she neither feared his condition nor believed the foolish stories told about him.

What she had not anticipated was his response.

The memory of his hand at her waist sent a rush of warmth through her. She could still recall the astonishment in his eyes before he drew her close, the strength of his arms around her, the extraordinary sensation of being kissed as though he had forgotten every other concern in the world.

She had certainly forgotten hers.

For those few moments, there had been no duke, no Christmas Witch, no proposal to consider. There had been only Ambrose, his mouth against hers, and the alarming discovery that she wanted him to go on kissing her.

Indeed, had Emma not cried out when she did, Marina was not entirely certain what might have happened next.

The thought made her cheeks burn.

“Lady Whitmore?”

She looked up sharply.

Ambrose was watching her with an expression that suggested he had noticed considerably more than she would have liked.

“Yes?”

“You appear to have gone very quiet.”