Bullheaded dolt. Oh, dear, she mustn’t use such language even in her head or she might call him that to his face. “I take it you disagree.”
He stood up to pace. Again. She ought to do the same, following him around the room like a teacher with an unruly student.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t remotely her student. He was too large, too overbearing, too . . . omnipresent. Like her strict, demanding father, Grenwood put her on her guard with every word. But Papa didn’t have the added dimension of the duke’s size. She could handle Papa . . . sometimes, but she wasn’t sure about the duke. Although she was tall for a woman, she would guess Grenwood was over six feet, with a broad chest and muscular arms, judging from how he filled out his clothes. That made him feel more dangerous to her.
And more attractive.
Goodness, what was she thinking? He was not attractive. It was just that he lacked the softness she associated with gentlemen of his rank. He was all sharp edges, from his chiseled jaw and high cheekbones to his pointed Hessian boots. Coming from a family of ironmasters, he was a gentleman in name only. She got the feeling that if all his clothes were stripped off, she’d find not an ounce of fat on him. That made sense, given how he’d apparently spent the past few years, but it didn’t make her feel any easier around him.
Not that she would be seeing him without clothes. Heaven forbid!
On the other hand, as a woman who sketched everything, she could appreciate the male form in all its glory. And he looked to have quite the impressive one, although it was hard to be sure. Lady Rosabel wasn’t the only Brookhouse who needed better attire.
He halted to glare at her, his eyes a peculiar shade of Prussian blue, no doubt accentuated by his cobalt-blue wool coat. And he did have the most beautiful head of wavy, raven hair just begging to be riffled by some enterprising lady.
Like her. She winced. Not on her life.
“Let me see if I have this right,” he said. “My sister will need a new wardrobe. Various people—she and her maid, for example—will need to be trained in the vagaries of high society. After her presentation, I’ll be hosting a dinner for important people who can introduce her to eligible gentlemen. Sometime later, I will host a ball to which many of said gentlemen will be invited. As if that isn’t enough, I should contrive to get Rosy a voucher, whatever that is, to Almack’s, whatever that is.”
Diana hid how impressed she was that His Arrogant Grace had paid that much attention. He had certainly learned the high-handed manner of a duke to perfection. “You have it right, indeed. And without even taking notes.”
“I don’t need to take notes. My brain is in good working order. Besides, when I’m in the woods surveying a route for a canal, it helps to be able to make mental notes.” He scowled at her. “And my mental notes tell me this will all require a great deal of money.”
“You’re a duke,” she said archly. “It shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Money is always a problem, dear lady. I’ve suddenly inherited a woefully mismanaged estate and other properties that require refurbishing. Who knows what any of that will cost?”
“A gentleman should never talk about money so blatantly, you know. It makes him seem boorish.”
To her surprise, he chuckled. “Aren’t dukes always boorish?”
“No. They’re condescending. It’s not the same thing.”
“Right.” With a glint of mischief in his eyes, he waved his hand to indicate repetition. “Keep going. You’re demonstrating condescension quite well.”
She didn’t know whether to laugh or to chide him. She settled for shaking her head. “Now I see why your sister is ‘shy.’ She’s intimidated by you.”
“What? Never.” A troubled frown crossed his brow as he seemed to consider the possibility. Then his brow cleared. “Not Rosy. It’s just as you said—she’s . . . self-conscious. She thinks no one would ever look twice at her, no matter how much I tell her otherwise.”
That softened Diana toward him a bit. “As her brother, you’re biased.”
“That’s what she said. And I told her there were plenty of men who would find her attractive.”
“Did you mean it, or were you just trying to make her feel better?”
“Of course I meant it! My sister is an angel—she’s too good for most men in society. Still, I’d like to see her wed to a respectable fellow of her choosing. That’s where you and your business come in.”
“Quite right,” she said. “And we’re happy to oblige.”
“For a large fee.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “It depends on what you mean by ‘large.’ At the very least we expect you to cover the costs of her new wardrobe and the various entertainments.” While a bit of their fee would go to supporting her and her sisters, the rest would go to the Foundling Hospital and the Filmore Farm for Fallen Females, their two charities of choice at present.
He sat down again, thank heavens, and crossed his arms. Did she prefer him sitting because it made him seem less overbearing? Or did she simply find it wiser to stare at his face than at those powerful thighs and calves, molded quite effectively by his tight buckskin breeches and well-worn riding boots? When he paced, she felt a savage and unexpected desire to sketch him unclothed.
Heavens! She’d never had such thoughts before. It was a trifle unsettling.
Plenty of men had flirted with her, or teased or kissed her. Before the Incident, she’d been rather popular with gentlemen despite her cursed red hair and freckles. But their advances had always left her cold.