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“Who the devil are you?”
He pinned her down with penetrating dark eyes that sported lashes long enough to satisfy even the vainest of women, and slowly crossed his arms over his chest.
“Miss?” he barked. “I asked you a question.”
Yes—he had, hadn’t he? Yes, of course. Who the devil was she? “Delia Somerset?” she squeaked, cringing when it emerged as a question.
A glint of lazy humor flashed in the black eyes. “Well, are you or aren’t you? You don’t seem to be sure.”
Delia didn’t trust that glint. Her married friends sometimes whispered about men like him; men who became crazed with lust and were swept away by their animal passions. All manner of wicked behavior followed. And this one looked more savage than most.
“Let’s assume you are indeed Miss Somerset,” he drawled when she still didn’t speak. “Now that I know who the devil you are, may I suggest you tell me what the devil you’re doing here?”
Why, of all the offensive, bullying . . . all at once Delia’s embarrassment faded under a wave of indignation. Even an intriguingly bare chest didn’t excuse profanity. “And may I suggest, sir,” she snapped, “that you manage your shirt?”
One dark eyebrow shot up in acknowledgment of this show of temper. “Forgive me, Miss Somerset.” He began straightening the shirt with an air of complete unconcern, as if he spent every day half-naked on a public road. He shrugged into his coat. “I didn’t mean to offend your delicate sensibilities.”
Delia stared at him. “It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it? My sensibilities were offended, sir, when you unfastened your breeches.”