by Betina Krahn
His smile froze. She was also all motion and curves … swathed in layers of purple moire that reacted in glorious alchemy with the candlelight to make her seem to shimmer across the floor and set blue-crimson lights in her auburn hair. There was no lace on her gown, no ribbons, no flounces … only elegant watered silk trimmed with black velvet at the modest scooped neckline and short puffed sleeves. Her slender arms were covered by long black gloves, and she wore a black velvet ribbon at her throat with a carved ebony cameo dangling from it. Bracing internally, he looked up.
He was not at all prepared for that clear, extravagant heart of a face, with its high cheekbones, straight nose, and full, expressive mouth that, even drawn tight with disapproval, bore the promise of a tantalizing sensual pout.
It was a face more likely to stop a heart than a clock.
Could this possibly be the fabled Dragon of Decency? She didn’t look like the type to plant curvy widows in a man’s bed, then burst through the door breathing sanctimonious fire. But then—he rescued his reeling thoughts—treachery came in all sizes and shapes. Concentrating on her entrancing blue eyes, he mentally set aside their allure and discovered in them cool, disturbing lights … beacons warning of intelligence, strong opinions, and righteous determination … a dangerous combination in a woman.
And he felt a curious surge of excitement at the prospect of clipping the wings of this avenging angel of matrimony.
* * *
“I was beginning to despair of you, my dear,” Lady Constance had said, slipping her arm through Antonia’s and pulling her through the drawing room and toward the conservatory, where chairs had been erected for the musical program of the evening. “We’re almost ready for Madame DuPont.” She raised her gaze above the guests moving around them toward the garden room, to look for a servant bearing refreshments. “Now, what can I get you before we join the others for the musicale?”
“A proper introduction to that gentleman over there,” Antonia said after a moment’s hesitation. She cast a discreet nod toward a striking male figure in the doorway. “That is the Earl of Landon, is it not?”
She didn’t need an answer; his dark hair, angular features, and deep-set eyes were instantly recognizable, as was the insufferable self-assurance of his stance. He wore traditional male evening wear: a black swallowtail coat, white-on-white brocade vest, matching white silk tie, and slim-fitting black trousers with satin piping. But on him the uniform of the upper-crust male seemed somehow different, more imposing.
Scrutinizing him, she realized that it was the fit of his garments that made the difference; his shoulders were just a bit too broad to be purely fashionable, and his exquisitely tailored evening coat had been cut to minimize them, with only partial success. It wasn’t the clothes, then, it was the shape of the man inside them that she had found so impressive. And the fact that in her mind she had just separated him from his clothing appalled her.
“Landon? You cannot be serious.” Lady Constance stared at her in surprise. Antonia gave her a determined look, and, intrigued by the volatile possibilities in such a meeting, Lady Constance promptly escorted her to the conservatory doors and introduced her.
“A pleasure, Lady Antonia,” Remington said, his eyes lighting as he took her stiffly offered hand a bit too warmly and held it a bit too long.
When he bowed his head over their joined hands, then raised his gaze to her, she felt her heart give an extra thud in her chest. At such close range his clear brown eyes were even more devastating than she remembered; meeting them felt like being immersed in warm chocolate. And his faint, knowing smile said that he was fully aware of their effect on women.
“Then the pleasure is all yours, sir,” she said, abruptly withdrawing her hand and scrambling for something to say. “I am here to enjoy the music and then to set you straight on a number of matters concerning the marriage bill before Parliament. I trust you will make yourself available.”
He blinked, appearing surprised by her bluntness, then smiled in a way that proclaimed to all watching that he was indulging her. “As you wish, Lady Antonia. I shall make myself available to you … anytime you say.”
The suggestive tone of his comment raised an alarm in her as she turned away. But it wasn’t until she was seated among the other guests on the far side of the conservatory that she realized the full extent of its effects on her. Her heart was pounding so that she could scarcely get her breath, and her hands were icy inside her twenty-button evening gloves.
He was one of those men who had an irritating knack for reducing every normal and necessary interaction to something appallingly intimate. His every word, movement, or expression was borne along on undercurrents of male presumption and sensuality that were meant to smooth the way for his will. She had experienced more than her share of such men while she was still a green young girl, and she knew exactly how to handle them. With devastating candor.
Stealing a look across the room, she glimpsed him sauntering toward a seat on the far side. He charged the very air around him as he moved, and he knew it. Averting her eyes, she snapped open her fan and made brisk use of it.
Before Madame DuPont’s second aria ended, word of Antonia’s prickly introduction to the earl was slowly passed behind fans and between bent heads, through the Ellingsons’ guests. Attention focused covertly on the pair of them, seated on opposite sides of the room but intensely aware of each other. Few of the gossip-hungry guests would remember much about the rest of the ample soprano’s musical selections.
Lady Constance rose to lead the applause, then declared that the cold buffet was now being served in the dining room. She hurried to take Antonia’s arm and steered her toward the food, intent on knowing what was behind her audacious request for an introduction to the radical earl.
“Come, come, Toni dear,” Constance crooned next to her ear. “After years of declining my invitations, yesterday you all but demand one. And in your first minutes under my roof you insist upon an introduction to the most infamous bachelor in London, and demand he make himself available to you. You simply must tell me all or I’ll expire of curiosity!”
“It’s very simple, Constance,” she began, selecting her words carefully. “I have taken an interest in the marriage bill that is before Parliament now. Just yesterday I sat in the Commons gallery while the members debated and then tabled it, and afterward—”
“Afterward, I caught her defaming me before a number of House members.” A silky baritone poured over their shoulders. They whirled to find Remington Carr standing behind them, adjusting his immaculate cuffs and wearing a knowing look that said he had been closer and heard more of their conversation than was strictly proper.
Antonia stepped back and raised both her chin and her guard. “You seem to have an unsavory habit of eavesdropping, Lord Carr, and of barging into conversations that do not concern you.”
“Forgive me, Lady Antonia.” He smiled that devilish, polished smile of his. “Damned cheeky of me to think a conversation about me is my concern. But then, I am known for my brass.” Then he turned to Lady Constance and proceeded to demonstrate some of it. “Lady Antonia was roundly denouncing both my flagrant hedonism and my views on women and marriage outside the Commons Lobby a day or so ago … when I heard my name being bandied about and paused to hear what was being said.”
“Your views on marriage should be denounced, you rogue,” Lady Constance said, giving him a flirtatious rap on the wrist with her closed fan.
“And my hedonism?” he teased, giving Antonia a stroking glance that sent a mild shock rippling through her senses. Alerted, she braced for what came next. “I’m a freelover, you know. A callous, unfeeling bore who abuses his women.” He nodded with mock gravity in response to his hostess’s shocked expression. “Indeed, I was a bit surprised to hear it myself. But Lady Antonia here is apparently something of an expert on my vices. I was intrigued to learn what other deplorable weaknesses I might possess and suggested we meet here.”
Antonia
’s face flamed. He had just employed the time-honored male strategy of bringing all disagreements with a woman down to an insultingly personal level, and she was not about to let him get away with it. Having uncovered his game and feeling more in control for it, she leveled a scorching glare on him. And she knew the minute she did that it was a mistake.
He caught her fiery gaze in his, absorbing its heat, relishing its intensity, visibly savoring its determination … serving notice that he would take pleasure from whatever passion he roused in her, even her anger, indignation, and outrage.
“Your vices—numerous as they undoubtedly are—are of no concern to me, sir,” she said as icily as possible. “It is your politics that I find offensive.”
“His politics?” Lady Constance said a bit too loudly. Her laughter carried softly around the dining room, giving her other guests an excuse to investigate her mirth. They drew nearer with polite smiles that scarcely cloaked their raging curiosity. “My dear Antonia, politics are far too dreary ever to be truly offensive.”
It was the perfect womanly retort, one which implied that the world of politics and government was both beyond a lady’s comprehension and beneath her proper interests. And Remington Carr’s responding smile—with its duality of approval and condescension toward his hostess’s view—raked Antonia’s nerves like cat’s claws. It was more evidence of his contempt for women and their rightful place in the world.
“I would say, Constance, that ‘dreary’ does not quite capture the essence of Lord Carr’s political program.” Antonia seized the initiative with fierce pleasantry. “ ‘Absurd’ is the term that first comes to mind. ‘Alarming’ and ‘destructive’ certainly apply … and ‘vile,’ ‘loathsome,’ and ‘ridiculous’ follow quickly on. He doesn’t believe in marriage, you see. He proclaims it a relic of our primitive past—an ‘onerous and inequitable arrangement’ that unfairly burdens the members of his sex.” Her voice and manner began to heat. “And he’s not too keen on women, either. If he had his way, he’d ship the lot of us to Bora Bora and be done with us … indolent creatures that we are.”
“Hold on, now … that is a bit extreme,” he said, smiling. The way his eyes danced in the candlelight made it clear he was more pleased than perturbed by her vehement characterization of him. “I have never seriously advocated Bora Bora. France is plenty far enough. And what’s this nonsense about my not being keen on women?” He gave her a raking glance that said he was quite appreciative of certain aspects of femininity. “Why, I’ll have you know, my mother was a woman.”
A wave of laughter around them alerted Antonia to their growing audience, and she looked around to find at least a dozen wine-warmed faces staring at her, some with disapproval, some with expectation. She hissed privately. She should have known he would make some sort of spectacle of their encounter.
“And what would your mother have thought of your proposal to tear women away from their children and force them to work in coal pits, sweatshops, and woolen mills?” she demanded. “For that is your proposal, is it not? To degrade women … to belittle their rightful place in the home … to drive them into the streets and make them earn their keep?” She was gratified by the way the satisfaction in his smile faded.
“It has never been my intent to degrade women,” he answered in an annoyingly reasonable and sincere tone. “It is my goal to set women on an equal footing with men in every aspect of life—including the vote and the necessity of working for a living.”
“And just what makes you think women don’t already work for their living, Lord Carr?” she demanded.
“Experience, dear lady. Experience,” he declared, edging closer. “The women of my acquaintance—indeed, more than half the women of this land—are supported in such a fashion and to such an extent that they need do precious little toward their own maintenance. They have housekeepers for managing their homes, maids for housework, and nurses for child rearing. Seamstresses do their sewing, laundresses clean their clothes, and the public schools educate their children. The men they have sunk matrimonial hooks into both earn their living and do their thinking for them.” He paused and cast a wicked look around him, preparing his audience for something outrageous.
“The most strenuous things they have to do are stir their morning chocolate”—he whirled a finger daintily around in an imaginary cup—“and decide whether to wear the yellow bonnet today or the blue.”
The laughter, both male and female, that welcomed his summary of women’s work outraged Antonia, but she knew that to show her anger here would only play into his hands. He flaunted his contempt for women under the guise of humor, making light of his views in order to make hers seem heavy-handed and puritanical.
What a perfectly devious man he was, she realized. And how delicious it would feel to bring him to his clever male knees!
“Then your experience, like the size of your female acquaintance, must be rather limited. Understandably so, considering your hostile attitude toward women and the home.” She took a step toward him, outdoing his smile with a fierce one of her own.
“The women of my acquaintance work every bit as hard as their husbands,” she continued, her eyes flashing. “Or harder. Few have more servants than a maid-of-all-work or an elderly house couple. And even fewer can afford a nurse for more than a few weeks past a lying-in. They manage their homes and their children by themselves, and seldom have to worry about whether their morning chocolate has settled or if their yellow or blue bonnet would suit better … for they have neither morning chocolate nor an abundance of hats.”
“Females who actually work? It gives one pause to consider just what sort of women you consort with, Lady Antonia.” He stepped still closer and looked down his straight, aristocratic nose at her. “No lady of my acquaintance would be caught dead with a mending needle in her hand, wiping a child’s nose, or dealing firsthand with sweaty tradesmen. They prefer to languish on their divans, spend money as if pound notes fall from the sky like raindrops, and complain endlessly that their husbands spend too much time at their clubs. To my way of thinking it would do women a world of good to have to learn some of the stern realities of the world outside their pampered nests.”
“Pampered nests?” She nearly choked on the words. “I fear, my lord, that you are in dire need of an education where women are concerned. You haven’t a clue as to what women’s lives and women’s work are really like … for if you did have, you would never spout such drivel about women and their place in our nation’s homes. And you would certainly never air such monumental ignorance in public.” There were several gasps, a few titters, and a hearty chuckle or two from the guests around them.
“Oh?” He poured his dark, liquid gaze over her in a way that made her send a trembling hand to cover the buttons that trailed down her waist. “Ignorant and in need of an education, am I? And just who do you propose should educate me in the work and contributions of women?”
She hoped her pleasure wasn’t too obvious. He had walked right into her trap!
“Me.”
“You?” He glanced around him with widened eyes that elicited suggestive murmurs and chuckles from the men present; then he focused his unsettling attention on her. “An intriguing possibility, I will admit. But I am afraid I must decline, madam. I am long past the schoolroom regimen, and I haven’t the slightest desire to apprentice myself to a skirt … no matter how fetching it may be.” He slid an appreciative glance down the side of her panniered skirt, and there were gasps and titters. Her pulse fluttered disconcertingly, but she pressed on.
“I would never suggest anything quite so rudimentary as a schoolroom for you, my lord. What I propose for your education is more along the lines of … a wager.”
“A what?” He leaned back on one leg with a surprised but wary look.
“A wager, sir. A bet. A gamble. The risk of something of value upon an uncertain outcome.” She glanced archly at the men around them. “Come, come … surely you’ve heard of it. It is my understanding
that the gentlemen of London fritter away a majority of their time and money concocting and carrying out wagers of one sort or another.”
He frowned. Clearly, he had not expected this. “What sort of wager?”
She smiled, hoping that none of her vengeful urges showed in her expression. “Two weeks of your time, my lord.”
His frown deepened. “Against what?”
“Against two weeks of mine.”
The rumble of consternation around them gave voice to the confusion in his expression. For a brief moment her heart all but stopped. Everything hinged on his next words. Was he arrogant enough or sufficiently challenged by what had passed between them to consider such an involved undertaking?
“Two weeks of my time?” Interest edged into his scowl. “Doing what?”
She had him!
“Women’s work, my lord.”
All went silent around him while he blinked, stared at her, then dissolved into a surprised laugh. “Women’s work? You wish me to lie around all day, eating chocolates and ordering servants thither and yon?” The tension around them erupted into laughter. Antonia also smiled, though from a very different cause.
“What I propose, my lord, is that you do an average woman’s work each day for a fortnight. If at the end of that time you have changed your mind about women’s place in the home—if you have learned how varied and arduous the average woman’s duties truly are—you will say so publicly and give wholehearted support to the Marriage Bill.”
“And if I haven’t changed my mind?” he asked, folding his arms over his chest and tilting his head to study her.
“Then I will agree to do men’s work for a fortnight.”
An even more raucous wave of laughter went through their audience, and he grinned as he gave voice to their common thought: “And what makes you think you could do a man’s work?”
Antonia was prepared. “Oh, I don’t think I should have any difficulty doing men’s work. After all, what is so difficult about going to an office by ten and quitting it at two, to spend the rest of the afternoon at the races? And if it comes to that, I think I would have no problem spending evenings at the club, swaggering, bragging, and wagering.” She lowered her voice to a confidential tone, and when she leaned forward, so did their audience, straining to catch her words. “Though I will admit that smoking cheroots may take a bit of getting used to.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully with her closed fan. “And I am willing to admit that hefting a glass of Scotch whiskey and shifting chips back and forth across a playing table may indeed be more taxing than I have imagined.”