not possibly be her relatives. But if not, what were they doing here, in her drawing room? He was just recalling that she had also made reference to them as her “household” when the realization came crashing down on him that the place was filled with widows … nearly a dozen of them!
Antonia Paxton’s household seemed to consist entirely of older women who had each ensnared, exhausted, and then dispatched a husband. Collectively, he realized with mounting horror, they had polished off more than a dozen specimens of English manhood—some had actually worn out two or three good men!
By the time they came to the old lady in the floozy-red dress and the bizarre fruit-motif bonnet, he was bracing internally. When Antonia’s voice rose and the old woman nodded and cupped her ear, he was already prepared for the worst.
“This is Mrs. Cleo Royal,” she said, bending so that the old lady could pick up her words. “Widow of the renowned actor Fox Atherton Royal. Together they played great halls and theaters all across the continent.”
“Pleased to meet you, my lord,” the old lady shouted, giving him her blue-veined hand. “Landon … Earl of Landon, eh? Then you must have known ‘Pinkie’ Landon. Took up with him briefly before I met Fox Royal. Now Pinkie was one man who—”
“Yes, yes, very good, Cleo!” Antonia said patting the old lady’s hand. “You mustn’t tire yourself now. And the earl has things to do.” With a smile that seemed to pacify the old lady, she steered Remington Carr back to the middle of the room.
“Well, there you have them.” She proudly swept the group with a hand. “Your tutors for the next two weeks.”
“My what?” he demanded, his civility evaporating.
“Tutors,” she said, savoring both his shock and his attempt to hide it. “These ladies will be teaching you the fundamentals of women’s work. Unfortunately, in two weeks we will have time for only the rudiments. The finer points you will just have to acquire on your own.”
“But I understood—” He straightened imperially, his face darkening. “It was part of our agreement that
you
would be my tutor.”
“Oh, but I will be, in a way. I intend to oversee every detail of your education, my lord. You’ll be in most capable hands.”
The full depravity of her plan unfolded in his mind. She intended to make him a pupil—a
lackey
—to a dozen elderly females! It was inconceivable … intolerable … being bossed about by women, truckling after their demands, waiting on them hand and foot. Good Lord, they had already depleted and disposed of more than a dozen men! But most devastating of all, he realized, her devioussubstitution made a shambles of his plans for her comeuppance.
“This is absurd,” he declared with quiet vehemence. “I won’t stand for it.”
“Of course, if you’d rather, you can just yield the wager to me now,” she said in musical tones that hid none of the prickly resolve beneath them. “Just write an article and insert it in
The Times
by the end of the week stating that you recant your previous views and now believe that a woman’s rightful place is in the home. A simple statement on the order of ‘Men everywhere ought to marry and be grateful for the part women play in their otherwise dissolute, bereft, and aimless lives’ would do nicely.”
Yield to her? The thought of abasing himself and compromising his heartfelt convictions in writing made his stomach turn. But the only other escape from this horde of man-consuming females would be to walk out on both the wager and his plan to compromise her. The thought of welshing on a bet was appalling. If word got out, he’d be ruined. And this nasty little gambit of hers was the proof that if there ever was a woman who needed humbling, it was Antonia Paxton.
He could no more abandon this cursed wager than he could fly. And he could see, from her cat-that-swallowed-the-canary smile, that she knew it.
He looked around at the
Antonia Paxton’s household seemed to consist entirely of older women who had each ensnared, exhausted, and then dispatched a husband. Collectively, he realized with mounting horror, they had polished off more than a dozen specimens of English manhood—some had actually worn out two or three good men!
By the time they came to the old lady in the floozy-red dress and the bizarre fruit-motif bonnet, he was bracing internally. When Antonia’s voice rose and the old woman nodded and cupped her ear, he was already prepared for the worst.
“This is Mrs. Cleo Royal,” she said, bending so that the old lady could pick up her words. “Widow of the renowned actor Fox Atherton Royal. Together they played great halls and theaters all across the continent.”
“Pleased to meet you, my lord,” the old lady shouted, giving him her blue-veined hand. “Landon … Earl of Landon, eh? Then you must have known ‘Pinkie’ Landon. Took up with him briefly before I met Fox Royal. Now Pinkie was one man who—”
“Yes, yes, very good, Cleo!” Antonia said patting the old lady’s hand. “You mustn’t tire yourself now. And the earl has things to do.” With a smile that seemed to pacify the old lady, she steered Remington Carr back to the middle of the room.
“Well, there you have them.” She proudly swept the group with a hand. “Your tutors for the next two weeks.”
“My what?” he demanded, his civility evaporating.
“Tutors,” she said, savoring both his shock and his attempt to hide it. “These ladies will be teaching you the fundamentals of women’s work. Unfortunately, in two weeks we will have time for only the rudiments. The finer points you will just have to acquire on your own.”
“But I understood—” He straightened imperially, his face darkening. “It was part of our agreement that
you
would be my tutor.”
“Oh, but I will be, in a way. I intend to oversee every detail of your education, my lord. You’ll be in most capable hands.”
The full depravity of her plan unfolded in his mind. She intended to make him a pupil—a
lackey
—to a dozen elderly females! It was inconceivable … intolerable … being bossed about by women, truckling after their demands, waiting on them hand and foot. Good Lord, they had already depleted and disposed of more than a dozen men! But most devastating of all, he realized, her devioussubstitution made a shambles of his plans for her comeuppance.
“This is absurd,” he declared with quiet vehemence. “I won’t stand for it.”
“Of course, if you’d rather, you can just yield the wager to me now,” she said in musical tones that hid none of the prickly resolve beneath them. “Just write an article and insert it in
The Times
by the end of the week stating that you recant your previous views and now believe that a woman’s rightful place is in the home. A simple statement on the order of ‘Men everywhere ought to marry and be grateful for the part women play in their otherwise dissolute, bereft, and aimless lives’ would do nicely.”
Yield to her? The thought of abasing himself and compromising his heartfelt convictions in writing made his stomach turn. But the only other escape from this horde of man-consuming females would be to walk out on both the wager and his plan to compromise her. The thought of welshing on a bet was appalling. If word got out, he’d be ruined. And this nasty little gambit of hers was the proof that if there ever was a woman who needed humbling, it was Antonia Paxton.
He could no more abandon this cursed wager than he could fly. And he could see, from her cat-that-swallowed-the-canary smile, that she knew it.
He looked around at the
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