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“You think it is hereditary, then? Do you think Emma…?”

“No,” he said. “Emma appears perfectly fine. Mrs. Dalton, the housekeeper—you have met her—has taken her outside for walks to see if the sun harmed her, and it did not. She took her at first for only a few minutes, but now she is taking her for much longer walks, and there is no reaction. In fact, Emma appears to adore the sun. Fortunate child.”

“So then you cannot know if it is hereditary or not.”

“I cannot. But as I said, I would not wish it upon anybody, and I am not going to risk it. Which is another reason why ours is the most blessed union. I do not wish for an heir, yet I have a child. You always wished for children, but not for another marriage, and now you too have a child with only a marriage of convenience to content with. All is well.”

Marina gave a dry little chuckle, though there was nothing amused in her eyes.

“You believe everything is settled, do you? Your Grace has no idea how much babies notice. Nor, perhaps, how deeply a child’s circumstances may affect the person she grows to be.”

His brows lowered at those words. She could not have meant it. She did not know.

Still, the words struck deep, reaching the place he had spent a lifetime keeping locked away. The memories came unbidden: being too small to understand why his mother would not hold him. He remembered the wet nurses who had cared for him from infancy, their noses pinched whenever they came near, their expressions exposing the fear that touching him might somehow contaminate them. Even as a boy, he had understood enough to know that something about him repulsed people.

The memory struck with such force that he stepped back, turning his face away before she could see anything. For one brief, humiliating moment, he needed the darkness to hide him.

“Your Grace?”

Her voice came from behind him, its earlier obstinacy softened. He did not reply. Instead, he began to move farther into the chamber, toward the deepest shadows of the room.

“Your Grace?” she called again, confusion entering her voice. “Is it not rather rude to leave me alone in the middle of a…”

“Leave. This conversation is finished for the time being.”

His command was brutal. A stunned silence followed. He expected her pride to be wounded enough to retreat. Surely, she would turn on her heel and leave him to his darkness.

But then he heard her footsteps. He raised his gaze to find her stepping deeper into his chamber. His jaw tightened. Why was she not leaving? When she stopped, she was standing almost in the center of the room, where the distant lamp lit her soft figure, making her look ridiculously enchanting.

“How dare His Grace speak to his duchess in such a manner?” she demanded.

For a moment, he silently watched her. The indignation in her voice made something dangerously close to desire curl through him. His eyes dropped before he could stop them. The dim lamp cast its soft gold below her neck, making the gentle rise and fall of her breasts appear luminous.

The sight struck him speechless. She wasn’t supposed to have this inexplicable effect upon him. She truly was a witch, able to shake his defenses simply by standing before a lamp with a mouth that seemed made for challenging him.

He lowered his gaze. “Leave.” But this time the word sounded different. It was less commanding, almost breathless, because he needed her gone before he forgot himself.

“I will not, Your Grace,” she shot back, standing her ground as though she knew exactly what effect she had on him. “I need you to consider what I have said.”

He paused at her words, and then something inside him gave way. He retraced his steps and crossed the distance between them, stopping only when a breath of space was all that kept their bodies apart.

Marina inhaled sharply at his closeness. He heard her breathing, felt it. And that tiny sound went through him more forcefully than anything could. His eyes dropped to her lips. Soft, parted enough to tempt him. His fingers flexed at his sides at the mere sight of them.

Ambrose knew he should step away. Instead, he lifted one hand and held her chin between two fingers. Her breath hitched, and he didn’t miss the slight tremor that vibrated through her jaw. The stubbornness in her gaze softened considerably, and whatever battle remained in her eyes looked more like one against herself.

“I cannot think,” he murmured.

His voice was deeper than usual, roughened by something he had no intention of naming. Her brows drew together at his words, her lips parting further.

“Something bewitching about you prevents it,” he confessed, his thumb remaining still against the delicate line of her jaw. “Especially when you dare to enter my room.”

Her cheeks flushed then. He should not have found it so captivating, but he did. His thumb caressed her skin, and her lashes fluttered in response. The reaction was so slight another man might have missed it. He did not, just as he was painfully aware of how little separated them.

“If you wish me to think,” he continued, “then I require you out of my sight.”

Her eyes widened. He wanted to kiss her again. It was neither an idle thought nor a fleeting temptation.

It was want. A very, very dangerous want.