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Ambrose looked up, baffled. “How?”

“Well, Your Grace,” Ernest explained, patient as ever. “I arrived here at fifteen years old and you were merely one year old. I have been in your employ now for thirty-four years. You would think I would have developed it by now.”

Ambrose said nothing.

Ernest continued, his voice becoming slightly more solemn despite his usual composure, “My standing beside you all these years is perhaps the greatest proof I can offer that my master does not suffer from a contagious disease.”

The words affected Ambrose far more deeply than he cared to admit. Still, he refused to show it, hardening his expression, because that seemed to him the most sensible response to anything that stirred too many emotions within him. He had never liked being pitied, not when he was a boy, and certainly not now that he was a man. He could tolerate fear and the endless whispers about him.

“Ernest,” he began, his voice still lacking its usual command, “how long do you think Lady Whitmore will last before she becomes frightened of me and asks to return to her cottage?”

The question sounded absurd the moment it left him. Even so, he did not take it back. Ernest drew in a slow breath, locking both hands behind his back, and when he finally spoke, his tone was as calm as always.

“I believe, Your Grace, that you shall have to discover that for yourself,” Ernest replied thoughtfully. “Lady Whitmore does not appear to be a woman who can be easily predicted. Nor does she seem easily frightened.”

Ambrose’s brow furrowed. That was hardly a reassuring answer. Before he could respond, Ernest began walking toward the light, his features becoming clearer again.

Then another thought seemed to occur to him. “To be perfectly frank, Your Grace,” he admitted with a faint note of amusement, “I am rather more curious about how long you will last in this marriage.”

The duke tilted his head, his whole attention captured by that single sentence. “How long I will last?” he repeated.

Ernest’s mouth curved. “I merely mean that Lady Whitmore does not seem like the sort of woman who would…”

“Would what?” Ambrose prompted, his voice calm but keenly interested.

“I have never believed the rumors concerning the lady,” he noted. “But I do believe she is capable of turning your entire world… upside down.”

Ambrose froze. Marina returned to his mind once more: her face, her boldness, that small, helpless sound she had made when he had kissed her… He swallowed.

Such a sinful kiss had happened after only three days of knowing her. Three damn days. What, precisely, would happen when they were married? He could hardly imagine having her in his home every day, hearing a laugh that sounded rather too appealing, and seeing her move through rooms with a body that tempting.

And if Ernest was right? That she truly possessed some strange ability to turn his carefully ordered world upside down? As much as Ambrose hated to admit it, the idea did not seem particularly impossible. And now, the thought of how much could change in the future would not easily leave his head.

Eleven

The following afternoon, Marina stared at her reflection in the mirror. She held a candle beneath her chin so she could see herself properly in the darkness. It was a rather strange way for a bride to look at herself. A fire burned in the hearth, but the chamber she had been given, the duchess’s chamber, was so large that the fire could only do so much.

She longed to open the curtains but Mrs. Dalton, the housekeeper, had made it clear every curtain had to remain shut, in case His Grace should wish to wander into a room.

Still, the dress was lovely. The elegantly fitted white silk wrapped around her slender frame, its train trailing gracefully behind her. Her long black hair was gathered half up and half down, a style she was told was popular in London these days. A pair of pearl earrings adorned her earlobes, and that was all she had allowed herself.

No powder. No rouge. No attempt whatsoever to make herself appear prettier. Even though Harper and Sophia had spent the better part of the morning trying to change her mind, they had failed. Now, apparently accepting defeat, both sisters had abandoned their campaign and were attempting to bring more light into the room.

“I still cannot believe the rumors were true,” Sophia murmured from somewhere behind her. “The Beast of Griffin truly does not like light.”

Harper hummed thoughtfully in agreement, though her voice was slightly strained as she concentrated on adjusting the wick. “Perhaps he would have to permit just a little for now.”

Marina almost smiled. Just then, the flames within the lantern grew, and the sisters laughed at their success.

“At least let us have enough light for the bride to see how beautiful she looks, rather than standing there looking so doubtful,” Harper said with a teasing smile, warmth in her voice.

Their words earned a gentle chuckle from the bride. The uneasiness that had been on her face for most of the morning loosened for the first time in what felt like hours. She lowered the candle slightly, watching in the mirror as her sisters proudly admired the lamp they had finally managed to light.

“There,” Sophia announced with immense satisfaction, stepping away from it. “We have conquered the darkness.”

“Quite an accomplishment,” Marina teased gently, turning away from the mirror to face them. “I am certain His Grace shall be informed of your heroic efforts.”

Her sisters smiled. But when Marina returned her gaze to the mirror, her expression softened.