Her gaze narrowed on him. “What if I decide at the end that I want to marry Lord Winston, assuming he would even offer for me?”
It infuriated him to think of such a thing, but how else could he get her to put her best foot forward for her début? He only hoped that after meeting several other eligible gentlemen, she wouldn’t be as inclined to fix on Lord Winston for a husband. “That would be your choice,” he said, trying not to choke on the words. “But he still isn’t allowed to call on you until you’ve had a decent Season.”
She cocked her head, as if trying to make out if he meant it. Then she nodded, looking for all the world like a princess regally bestowing a gift on him.
“Swear it, Rosabel Marie Brookhouse,” Geoffrey said. “On Father’s grave.”
“Geoffrey!” their mother hissed. “She shouldn’t be swearing, and certainly not on Arthur’s grave. It’s not genteel.”
He snorted. As if his mother had any idea what genteel was, although he wouldn’t say that to her for all the world. Thanks to Father, gentility was important to her.
But Rosy said primly, “My word is my bond.”
Geoffrey fought the urge to laugh. “You don’t even know what that means.”
That took some of the starch out of her spine. “Fine. Then I swear—on our father’s grave—that I will give my début a good chance. All right?”
He probably should take that for the olive branch she meant it to be. “That will do nicely, angel.” He would simply have to hope that some respectable fellow offered for her before the end of the Season.
After jumping down from the coach, he helped them both out. But when he turned to face the building, he realized that the offices of Elegant Occasions were apparently in an impressive town house on a grand-looking street in Grosvenor Square. How peculiar. Then again, the company was run by a woman, so perhaps she preferred a more “genteel” setting.
He escorted his mother and sister up the steps. When they reached the top and he knocked, the door remained firmly closed. He knocked again. Nothing. Only after the third knock was the door opened by a butler who looked decidedly unsociable, especially after he surveyed them all and apparently found them wanting.
“I’m Grenwood,” Geoffrey said, “here to consult with Mrs. Pierce of Elegant Occasions.”
That didn’t change the fellow’s expression one whit. “Wait here.”
When the butler started to close the door, Geoffrey thrust his foot forward to block it. “We are expected.”
The butler looked as if he might contest that. Then he sighed. “Very well.” Opening the door wide, he gestured to them to enter. “I shall still have to consult with my mistress. She and her sisters assumed you would arrive later, during the usual hours for paying calls.”
Sisters? Had he come to the wrong house? But no, given the butler’s surliness, the man would have sent him packing if Geoffrey had come to the wrong place. Instead, the butler pulled aside a footman and whispered something in the fellow’s ear that had the footman scurrying up the stairs.
Geoffrey stared the butler down. “You realize this isn’t a social call. These are the ‘usual hours’ for conducting business, are they not?”
“Of course, Your Grace.” The servant chilled him with one look. “But the ladies were out quite late last night at an important affair for a very important client.”
Before Geoffrey could ask what client’s importance trumped a duke’s, Mother said, “It’s fine, Geoffrey. I believe Gunter’s is nearby, and I’ve been wanting to try their ices and find out what all the fuss is about. We can return later in the day.”
He could hear the embarrassment in Mother’s voice and it fired up his temper. Continuing to hold the butler’s frigid gaze, he told her, “We are not leaving. Or if we are, we’re not coming back.”
“That’s fine by me,” Rosy said under her breath.
Damn it all. Through clenched teeth, he told the butler, “Is there somewhere we can wait?”
“If you must. I am sure the ladies will be down forthwith.” The high-and-mighty butler called for tea, then showed them into a nicely appointed drawing room more fashionable than anything Geoffrey had ever seen in Newcastle, filled with spindly furniture that would no more hold a man of his size than would a newspaper. Between that and the bright yellow taffeta curtains, he felt like a seagull lost over land. This was much too fancy for him.
Grandfather’s house and offices had been furnished in goods of solid English oak, Leeds leather, and burnished brass fittings—a man’s home and a man’s place of business. Perhaps it had been different in his grandmother’s day, but Geoffrey would never know, because his grandmother had died bearing Geoffrey’s mother. Perhaps she’d have furnished it like this room, but somehow he doubted it. She’d been a farmer’s daughter until she’d married an ironmaster.
In any case, Geoffrey found the whole place suspect. He roamed the Aubusson carpet, his annoyance exploding into anger the longer they waited. What kind of business did these ladies run anyway? He was a duke, for God’s sake. Dukes were supposed to be given entry anywhere, or so he’d been told, yet Mrs. Pierce’s butler treated him and his family as if they were imposing upon Elegant Occasions by attempting to give the company their business.
No man who ran a business would get away with such havey-cavey practices. Geoffrey had expected some sort of shop, not what was clearly someone’s home. Then he remembered the butler’s description of the ladies as sisters and conceded that the familial connection somewhat explained their working out of a town house.
A servant brought tea at last, but Geoffrey was still too irritated to have any. No doubt this shabby treatment of them had come about because Elegant Occasions had discovered he was one step away from being a commoner. Or worse yet, they’d learned he was in trade.
While Mother and Rosy had their tea, he paced over to the window, his temper further fueled by the sight of his carriage being held in front by a groom who seemed to be awaiting a signal from the butler before taking the carriage and horses around to the mews.
How dare they? Mrs. Pierce had agreed to this meeting, for God’s sake. It wasn’t his fault that she’d meant him to come later in the day.