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Her eyes narrowed. “Are you another angry parent? Because I assure you, sir, I have done nothing to your children. And if you have come here to threaten me, you may leave at once.”

“Another angry parent?” Ambrose repeated. “How many have you entertained this afternoon?”

“That is none of your concern. And how dare you sneak up on me?”

“I knocked and stood back because of the sun. Then you started chanting and I thought it best not to interrupt.”

A delightful flush spread across her cheeks. Ambrose found himself watching it with considerably more interest than he ought.

“I was doing no such thing,” she declared.

“Then I have misunderstood the purpose of all that chanting.”

“You have misunderstood a great many things, apparently. I was merely attempting to frighten away some troublesome visitors.”

“By summoning the forces of darkness?”

“By amusing myself, sir. Something you might consider attempting, though I suspect you would find it rather difficult.”

Ambrose felt the unfamiliar beginnings of a smile. It had been years since anyone outside Griffin Manor had spoken to him with such cheerful impertinence. Most people either trembled in his presence or went to extraordinary lengths to avoid him altogether. This woman, however, appeared quite prepared to throw him out.

“I am a guest, madam,” he informed her. “And I fear my hostess is failing rather miserably in her duties.”

“A guest?” She looked him over with open disbelief. “You are an uninvited caller who has appeared at my door and accused me of witchcraft. I should hardly call that a promising beginning.”

“Then perhaps an introduction will improve matters.” He inclined his head. “Ambrose Hunt, Duke of Griffin.”

The change in her expression was immediate, though not the one he had anticipated. Instead of recoiling, she looked at him with renewed curiosity.

“The Duke of Griffin?” she repeated. “The duke who never leaves his house?”

“The very same. Although I notice you have been gracious enough to omit the other name by which I am known.”

Her lips twitched. “I was attempting to be polite, Your Grace.”

“An admirable effort. Though I believe you have already accused me of being an intruder.”

“And you accused me of being a witch.”

“I merely asked whether the rumors were true.”

“Then we are both remarkably well informed about one another.”

Ambrose laughed. The sound surprised him. He had not expected to enjoy this visit, and certainly not within the first few minutes. Yet there was something irresistible about the way she met every remark with another, never seeming to remember that she was supposed to be intimidated by him.

He glanced past her through the open doorway. He could make out shelves of dried herbs and the collection of books spread across a nearby table. “Tell me, Lady Whitmore, do your spells actually work?”

She folded her arms. “That depends upon whom you ask.”

“And whom should I ask?”

“The entire neighborhood, apparently. They are quite convinced that at least one of my spells proved successful.”

“Indeed?”

“My late husband,” she replied, with a small, humorless smile. “Though I believe he would have preferred a different outcome.”

Ambrose studied her. The lightness had vanished from her voice, and although she still held his gaze, he could see that the subject was not one she wished to discuss. He had heard the story, of course. Everyone had. A bridegroom dead almost as soon as the wedding vows were spoken, and a young bride blamed for his sudden demise. It was precisely the sort of tale that would delight a village for years.