Chapter One
London
Spring 1811
Geoffrey Brookhouse, the newly minted Duke of Grenwood, lowered the window of the Grenwood carriage and thrust his head out so he could better view the heavily trafficked Putney Bridge. Each time he’d traveled into the City from the Grenwood hunting lodge in Richmond Park, he’d crossed the Thames by a different bridge so he could examine its engineering. Regrettably, this would be his last crossing for a while. Today they were moving into Grenwood House in London.
Determined to see every bit of this particular bridge, he slid over to the other side of the carriage and looked out. Just as he was marveling at how admirably the wooden structure had held up for over eighty years, his timid sister, Rosabel, cleared her throat. Again.
Reluctantly, he stopped pondering why the engineers had used twenty-six arches in a river that had regular barge traffic. “Yes?” he asked, keeping his gaze out the window. “Do you need something, Rosy?”
The pet name seemed to give her pause. That was when their mother, also seated across the carriage from him, chose to intervene. “She needs your full attention, Son.”
Damn it all. “Fine.” He sat back to gaze at Rosabel.
At nineteen, she was a woman in every respect. But at eleven years his junior, she was still a child to him, the little girl with curly black hair and green eyes who’d giggled as he’d hauled her around the house in a miniature carriage. It didn’t help that she was wearing one of those white muslin dresses that never failed to remind him of christening gowns and innocence.
Although she’d been sheltered from birth, he’d been a bone of contention between his late father and late maternal grandfather—Josiah Stockdon, owner of the largest ironworks in England. Father and Grandfather had fought over his future until his grandfather had won.
Geoffrey didn’t regret having chosen his grandfather’s path—not one whit—but if he’d known then what he knew now . . .
No, it wouldn’t have made a difference. All it would have done was make him fight harder to protect his little sister from the catastrophe looming if anyone ever learned . . .
“I don’t want to go,” Rosy said in a small voice.
“Go where?” he asked.
“To this Elegant Occasions place.” Her fingers worried the white lace trim on her dress. “They’ll talk about me behind my back as everyone else does, and—”
“They won’t dare, and I won’t let them in any case. Your brother is a duke now, remember?”
“You were a duke at that musicale last week and it did no good, did it?”
He sighed, remembering the whispers and condescending looks. To London society he wasn’t really a duke. He certainly wasn’t one of them. So he understood how she felt, what it was like not to belong in one’s proper sphere, to be a river trout lost in an ocean of expectations and responsibilities that one wasn’t equipped to meet. Just yesterday—
This was not about him, blast it. It was about Rosy. And their mother, too, whether she knew it. Given how intently Mother watched the conversation, perhaps she did. Was she feeling the same about giving Rosy a Season in London?
It didn’t matter. He had to protect them, even if it meant kicking them out into the real world. Mother was still in mourning for Father, so her hiding could be excused for a while, but Rosabel had to find a husband now that her own mourning period was over. It was the only way Geoffrey could be sure she wouldn’t end up worse off than she was presently. In England, a titled husband would be the best kind of protection money could buy.
“You’re right,” he said. “That musicale was . . . difficult. But none of us were prepared, having never been to anything that grand in Newcastle. That’s precisely why we must hire people to help you . . . us.” He forced a smile. “So you don’t spend another social engagement hiding in a corner where no one can notice you. And you heard Mother’s friend—Mrs. Pierce’s company, Elegant Occasions, can ensure that.”
He hadn’t been in town long enough to do the research he customarily did with anyone whose business he meant to frequent, but even if he could have taken the time, it would have made no difference. London was a place all its own, where he had no friends except some engineers, and none of them moved in high society. But since Mrs. Pierce had surprised him by agreeing to his request that he meet with her and her staff today, he’d seized the chance to survey the company in person. At the last minute, he’d decided to bring his mother and sister along, which he probably should have planned to do in the first place.
Being an older brother began to wear on him.
Rosy stared down at her hands. “I don’t have to have a Season. I could stay at home the rest of my life with you and Mama. Or I could travel with you to anywhere you want to build tunnels and bridges and all that. I can keep house for you.”
That was out of the question. Unfortunately, he dared not tell her why. Rosy wasn’t the chatty sort, but if she slipped up and revealed the truth about Father to Mother or anyone else—
He shuddered at the thought. Realizing his mother had noticed his reaction, he reached out to clasp his sister’s hands. “And when I go to Belgium and stay there months at a time? What about Mother? Would you leave her alone when I can’t be with her?”
“Don’t drag me into this,” Mother said. “I’ve already tried—unsuccessfully—to win her over to the idea of having a Season.”
He squeezed Rosy’s hands. “In any case, you deserve a home of your own, poppet, with a husband and children you cherish. I firmly believe you will find someone who suits you if we can merely prepare you for a London Season. I daresay once you meet the staff of Elegant Occasions and feel comfortable with them, half the battle will be won.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Have you ever known me to feel comfortable with strangers?”
“No,” he conceded, “but perhaps it’s time you learned.”