“Why? I’m the one who inherited the damned title.”
That prompted more scribbling in her notebook. He could only imagine what it said, probably something like, Make His Grace stop cursing. Which only made him want to curse all the more.
When she lifted her gaze to him again, her lips were drawn into a tight, prissy line. “The rules of address for titles have their idiosyncrasies, and one is that when a man inherits a title, his siblings inherit whatever form of address they would have had if their father had lived to take the title himself. That’s assuming you have gone through the process to obtain a warrant. If you have not, then we should set about doing that at once.”
“I have not. And if you think it will help Rosy’s chances, then by all means do so. Does that make Mother a dowager duchess, then?”
“The rules don’t extend to your mother, because she married into the family. Just your sister. So your mother is still Mrs. Brookhouse, but your sister is now Lady Rosabel Brookhouse.”
“That makes no sense.”
“The rules aren’t designed for the sort of unusual circumstances your family finds itself in. In such a case, they are bound to seem nonsensical.”
“Nonsensical sums it up, to be sure.” He checked his watch and noted that they’d been there three-quarters of an hour already. He rose to pace again.
“I’ll make this quick, because you seem impatient to get it over with.”
“How could you tell?” he said sarcastically. “I could have designed a bridge in the time I’ve spent here.”
“A whole bridge?” She matched him sarcasm for sarcasm. “Either you are a very accomplished engineer or you waited for me far longer than I realized. I couldn’t have designed a single gown in that time.”
The tart words surprised him. She certainly had more backbone than any society woman he’d ever met. “I . . . may have exaggerated a bit.”
“Imagine that—a man exaggerating. I’ve never seen that before.” She pointed her pencil at him. “Look here, if you’re sincere about wanting our help, we have to be sure what you need, which you don’t seem able to tell me.”
She licked the tip of her pencil, and he stifled a groan. While she wrote something in her notebook, he gazed at her lovely mouth, wondering what it would be like to kiss those full, seductive lips.
When she spoke again, it took him a moment to register what she was saying. “So perhaps I should tell you everything we do to ensure that a young lady has the best possible début. Then you can pick and choose which things you’d like us to do for her.”
“Very well.”
“Perhaps you’d prefer to sit while I go over everything?”
“I’d prefer to stand. I get restless when I sit. Especially on that flimsy piece of furniture.” He gestured to the settee.
“You roaming around is making me restless,” she bit out. “And don’t let that Sheraton settee’s looks deceive you. It is built sturdily enough to outlast even a robust fellow like you.”
“If you say so,” he grumbled and took his seat again. “Can we get on with this?”
“Of course.” She picked up another notebook and began perusing it. “Generally, if we are helping a young lady through her entire début . . .”
Thus began Geoffrey’s descent into hell.