Page 16 of The Lyon Whisperer
Seated in the sturdy armchair, long legs stretched out before him, he exuded the power, grace, and cool disdain of a fabled demigod surveying his domain—which, in this scenario included her—and finding it lacking.
For pity’s sake. She’d come here tonight hoping to scratch out a shred of control over her uncertain future. Instead of gaining ground, she now felt like a cornered mouse trying to outmaneuver a hungry lion.
“Your stipulations?” she prodded, gratified by the steady cadence of her voice. She sensed showing fear would only serve to weaken her position.
“As my wife, I will expect you to behave with decorum. Do you understand what that entails?”
Annoyance pricked her, overshadowing her wariness. “Of course I do. What sort of female do you take me for?”
His narrowed gaze slid over her in a considering manner. “Some would consider a young lady, dashing about on horseback in the middle of the night to rendezvous with an unmarried man lacking decorum.”
She affected an air of dismissal. “But, you are notanyunmarried man, are you? You are my betrothed—or soon will be,” she finished on a mutter. She licked her lips, then silently cursed herself for lapsing into the nervous habit.
“Lady Amelia, let me be clear. I will have your promise not to pull another stunt like this.”
Or what,she wondered? Would he withdraw his intent to wed her, and cause her father to disown her, or would he, instead, rescind his agreement to grant her few requests? Either instance spelled disaster for her.
“You have my promise. No more midnight calls on unmarried men.”
“In social settings,” he went on, not missing a beat, “your behavior must be above reproach. By word and deed, you will present yourself as a proper lady, befitting your station.”
Alarm bells jangled in her head and she slanted him a suspicious look. He sounded very much like her father with that statement. Had the two discussed her shortcomings as her father saw them, or was Lord Culver simply a carbon copy of the man?
“Meaning?”
He waved a negligent hand. “The usual things. You’ll clothe yourself in proper dress…”
She chewed her lower lip, imagining herself on her recent rescue mission to the stews. She’d ventured into the mud-covered alleys to round up the abandoned litter wearing a borrowed servant’s gown for the task.
But he’d said she must dress properlyin social settings.
Oblivious to her mental cogitations, he continued on. “…and refrain from drawing undue attention with fomenting speech. In short you’ll do nothing to draw undue attention.”
She did occasionally feel the need to speak her mind on a subject, but that hardly signified. She rarely mixed in society, preferring to keep her own company or spend time with close friends, or, of course, with her furry companions.
“May I ask why you are so concerned with public opinion?”
He sent her a lazy smile. “No, you may not.”
She blinked. The man’s attitude really warranted a thorough set-down.
However, she dare not push him too far. She knew what he did not. She had no real choice in whether they married. If she tried to tell him to fob-off with his rigid stipulations, her father would learn of this midnight call and likely lock her in a convent as he’d threatened on more than one occasion.
Bristling, she nodded her assent.
“One last thing.”
Dear Heaven, there was more? She gritted her teeth. “Yes?’
“There will be no animals running around the manse.” He met her gaze and held it, as if doing so would bend her to his will.
She sent him her iciest smile. “Very well, I promise not to bring animals into the home.” Stables didn’t count, did they? “Anything else, my lord?”
He unfolded from his chair.
Her gaze traveled up the length of his long, hard, lean body and an unfamiliar—and unwelcome—shiver of awareness coursed through her.
“Are we in agreement, then, concerning each of our conditions?” he asked.
