The Unwilling Bride. Margaret Moore

or my decisions in front of my men. I am the lord here, my lady, not you, and I will not be criticized in public.”

      As she flushed hotly and told herself her indignant anger was necessary, he finally put on his shirt. It hung loose from his broad shoulders, the hem at his muscular thighs. The unlaced neck gaped, revealing enough of his chest to make this seem a tease.

      Rolling the sleeves up over his forearms, he gazed at her steadily, and his voice dropped to a low growl, like the purring of a large and not-quite-tamed cat. “However, when we’re alone, you may criticize me all you like.”

      He couldn’t be sincere. “You don’t mean that.”

      “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t say it.”

      She couldn’t believe any nobleman could truly be so acquiescent, let alone this one. “And you won’t take offense?”

      “I may very well take offense, but I won’t punish you for it.”

      She sniffed derisively. “How can I believe that?”

      “Because I give you my word.”

      “And if I should refuse you your rights in the bedchamber?” she challenged, certain she had found one thing he would insist upon.

      “I would expect you to tell me why, so that I may remedy the situation.”