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Lady Whitmore lifted her chin. “Now, Your Grace, since you have established that I am quite possibly a dangerous woman, perhaps you would care to explain what you want from me.”

There it was. Beneath her spirited manner, he detected the first hint of unease. Her fingers tightened upon the fabric of her gown, and the pulse at the base of her throat fluttered rather more quickly than before.

And he found himself wondering how much further he could unsettle her.

“I believe,” he said, taking a slow step toward her, “that I am making you nervous.”

“Nonsense.”

“Is it?”

“Quite. I am merely growing impatient with your refusal to explain yourself.”

“Then perhaps you might tell that to your hands.”

Her gaze dropped involuntarily to the fingers clutching her skirt. She released the fabric at once, looking thoroughly annoyed with herself.

“Your Grace, if you intend to stand there making observations about my person, I shall have to reconsider allowing you to remain.”

Ambrose took another step closer and removed his hat.

Without its broad brim between them, he could see her more clearly. The dark blue of her eyes, the color warming her cheeks, the slight movement of her throat as she swallowed. He was close enough now to catch the faint scent of herbs about her, mingled with something softer and sweeter that he could not identify.

It was unexpectedly intoxicating.

“You are certainly frightened,” he murmured.

“I am certainly not.”

“Then why are you fidgeting?”

“Because you are standing much too close to me.”

“A reasonable complaint.” He did not immediately retreat. “Although I suspect what I am about to say will astonish you considerably more.”

“Then for heaven’s sake, say it.”

“Perhaps we might go inside?”

“Perhaps you might tell me what you want first, and then I’ll decide,” she fired back.

Ambrose held her gaze and shrugged. He might as well tell her. “I want you to marry me.”

For a moment, neither spoke.

Lady Whitmore stared at him as though she had not heard correctly. Then her lips parted, and she began to laugh.

It was not a polite little laugh, nor the nervous sort he occasionally heard from servants desperate to humor him. She laughed with such genuine disbelief that he found himself wondering whether she might continue until Christmas.

He was considering how best to interrupt her when something black darted through the open doorway, brushing past his boots.

A sharp hiss sounded near his boots.

Ambrose stepped aside instinctively, turning just in time to see a black cat disappear beneath a chair.

Lady Whitmore’s laughter grew louder.

“Good heavens, Your Grace! Whatever is the matter?”