A Duke for Diana

Book 1: Designing Debutantes

by Sabrina Jeffries

Genres: Historical Fiction; Regency Romance

Synopsis

A successful debut requires a smashing social event, and in this dazzling new series from New York Times bestselling author Sabrina Jeffries, the key ingredient is Elegant Occasions—a talk of the ton trio of creative, enterprising
young ladies who’ve rejected working as governesses to become party planners. And if they, and their wealthy clients, happen to find love along the way, it just makes their efforts more rewarding …
Self-made civil engineer Geoffrey Brookhouse has unexpectedly inherited the dukedom of Grenwood. But he has a secret that could ruin his family. Hoping to save his timid sister from that fate, he seeks to marry her off to a respectable,
protective gentleman. With the London Season imminent, Geoffrey hires Elegant Occasions to orchestrate her debut. Yet Lady Diana Harper, spirited fashion expert, proves more than he bargained for. Suddenly, Geoffrey’s sister is
emerging from her shell, and he is beleaguered with social invitations and gossip! Worse, Diana is attempting to transform him into a presentable duke—when all he really wants is to make her his own …
Diana doesn’t know what to make of the handsome, disheveled duke. The man bristles at the very idea that his fashion faux pas might spoil his sister’s chances.
Yet Geoffrey’s stubbornness simply inspires Diana to ruffle his feathers—by setting him on a course of self-improvement. Although there’s something endearing, even irresistible about his flaws, can a man who hates the ton tolerate
a woman who makes her living catering to them? Little does either know that they have more in common than they suspect—and that two can create a society all their own …

Release date: May 24, 2022

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

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.”

“So I can dance with a succession of gentlemen who are only interested in me for my fortune?”

“That’s nonsense. You’re a very pretty girl.”

She tugged her hands free. “You have to say that. You’re my brother. But I’m stout, and I can’t help noticing that gentlemen don’t like stout ladies.”

“I do.”

“You don’t count. Again, you’re my—”

“Brother. Right. I’m just pointing out that men like all sorts of ladies, including your sort.”

Their mother patted Rosy’s arm. “That nice Lord Winston Chalmers seemed to find you quite fetching at the musicale. Why else would he have called on you the next day?”

“Because he and I both love Beethoven. All we talked about was music and poetry. Oh, and art.” She blushed. “He was very interested in my sketchbook.”

“I’ll wager he was,” Geoffrey muttered.

Rosy shrank down in her seat. “What do you mean?”

He had to bite his tongue to keep from pointing out that art, music, and poetry were generally well-loved by ladies, so the scoundrel had made sure he knew all about them, as any good fortune hunter would.

At his continued silence, she paled. “Now the truth comes out. You think no man of rank would want me for his wife unless it was for my dowry.” With desperation in her voice, she stared down at her gown. “Certainly I’m too dull and plump to hold the interest of a man like Lord Winston.”

“Forgive me, angel, I didn’t mean any such thing,” Geoffrey protested. “And if I thought you boring or ‘plump,’ why would I be willing to spend on Elegant Occasions what will probably amount to a fortune, just so you would feel more at ease for your damned Season?”

“Language, Geoffrey,” his mother murmured, as she did at least five times a day of late.

Rosy merely directed her gaze out the window.

Geoffrey gritted his teeth. If only he could direct his gaze there, too. No, there would be no point. They’d long ago crossed the bridge. He’d have to take a trip out to see it after they were settled into Grenwood House.

Forcing his attention back to the matter at hand, he said, “As for Lord Winston, you are far too good for the likes of him. I asked around about him. Don’t let his honorific sway you—he’s merely the fourth son of a marquess, so he has only an allowance, nothing more, and not a great one at that.” When she blanched and Mother looked surprised, he added, “Neither of you knew that, did you?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Rosy sniffed. “You warned him off, so I won’t be seeing him again anyway.” She nervously tugged at her tight gown, refusing to look at him.

That worried him. “I can’t keep him out of other people’s balls and parties. I merely wanted to caution you about him and others of his ilk.”

Rosy turned to Mother. “You understand, don’t you, Mama? Papa gave up everything to marry you. Not that Lord Winston would necessarily wish to marry me, and I wouldn’t expect it, but if he did—”

“I didn’t realize that Geoffrey had already investigated the man’s reputation,” Mother said, “but since he has, I agree with your brother. We should be careful around the fellow, around all the gentlemen, to be honest.”

Mother released a heavy breath. “As for your father . . . you can’t compare him to Lord Winston. Unlike you, I had no fortune. That was before my own papa became so rich. So there was nothing in it for your papa but me. Lord Winston, on the other hand . . . Why, you barely know the man. It can’t hurt for you to meet a few more gentlemen before you make any decisions.”

“That’s all I’m saying,” Geoffrey put in. “From everything I’ve heard, Lord Winston is best known for his skill at getting into women’s beds.”

“Geoffrey, good Lord!” their mother chided.

“Sorry,” he said, though he wasn’t. “Just being around the man is liable to tarnish your reputation, Rosy, and I’d hate to see that when you have a bright future ahead of you.”

Rosy shot him a sad look. “Admit it—you despise men like him because of Papa. You always say people in high society act as if they’re better than everyone else, the way Papa sometimes acted. But you’re just as bad, talking with Grandpapa about the ‘swells’ in London as if you weren’t born to be one, saying how they don’t have any idea what the world is like. It’s two sides of the same coin. You look down on them and they look down on you. Now that you’re a duke . . . you can look down on everyone, and they don’t dare look down on you.”

That stung, partly because some of it was true. He and his late grandfather had shared a fascination with civil engineering, which was why Geoffrey, and not his father, had ended up a partner in Stockdon and Son, even though his grandfather had left his father the company in his will. But who could have guessed that Father, a mere third son of a viscount, would have inherited the dukedom of Grenwood if not for his untimely death? That Geoffrey would himself end up inheriting the dukedom from his distant cousin?

Suddenly Geoffrey owned a ducal estate—Castle Grenwood in Yorkshire—and the hunting lodge in Richmond. There was also Grenwood House opposite Hyde Park that he’d been given to understand was for the Brookhouse bachelors. He hadn’t had the chance to look it over, too busy with meetings about the Teddington Lock to do so, although he intended to use Grenwood House as the family’s main residence while Mother and Rosy were enjoying the Season. The Richmond hunting lodge was too far from the city to be practical for Rosy’s début.

His traveling coach shuddered to a halt, and he looked out to see that they’d apparently reached their destination. He checked his pocket watch to find it was 10 a.m., not too early for a business call in the City, he’d been told. A groom ran out to take the horses, and one of his own footmen put down the step.

He asked the footman to wait. He had to finish this discussion with Rosy before going inside. “I tell you what, poppet. If you’ll agree to participate fully in your début this Season and put your best effort into it, then if you can’t find a husband you like or you don’t succeed at moving about in society, or even if you merely find yourself miserable at the end, I won’t push it anymore. One Season is all I ask. After that, you can do as you please. Just give it a go. For me. And Mother, of course.”

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.

He’d nearly decided to leave when his mother whispered, “Geoffrey.” He turned toward the doorway and lost all power of speech. Because there, framed by a ray of sunlight, stood the most beautiful creature he’d ever encountered.

Yes, her rich, auburn hair looked as if it had been hastily done up in its simple coiffure, and her frown at spotting him and his family marred the perfection of her wide, pearly brow. But still, all he could do was stare. Like an apprentice engineer confronted for the first time with a skew bridge, Geoffrey wanted to figure out how all her parts fit together to create such a magnificent whole.

Other than being statuesque, the lady had “parts” that weren’t particularly unique: warm, brown eyes, a fetching face with a delicate sprinkle of freckles across her nose, and the requisite curves for a woman, or as much of them as he could see. The very fact that he wanted to see more of them was unsettling. So was the way she ignited a pulsing heat in his temples that coursed straight down to his loins.

That had never happened to him, or at least not immediately upon meeting someone. But under the circumstances, it would be unwise, to say the very least, to acknowledge it or contemplate acting on it or anything of that nature.

She strolled into the room and held out her hand. “You must be Grenwood.”

“And you must be the proprietor of Elegant Occasions.” He took her hand and shook it for a fraction too long. He’d taken off his gloves and she wasn’t wearing any, so the skin-to-skin contact had his pulse racing. Which was absurd, of course. “Mrs. Pierce, is it?” he asked.

With a lift of one elegant brow, she tugged her hand free of his. “Wrong proprietor. I’m Lady Diana Harper.”

He tensed up. “You’re a lady of rank?” By God, he really should have spent more time learning about Elegant Occasions.

Judging from how she stiffened, she agreed with him. “I’m not sure why you’re here if you didn’t know that.”

Though her name sounded familiar for some reason, he couldn’t place where he’d heard it.

His mother stepped in. “Forgive us. We’re a bit out of sorts. I’m Mrs. Arthur Brookhouse. My son asked for this meeting after my good friend recommended you. I believe she’s related to someone who used your services previously? Anyway, she only knew the name ‘Mrs. Pierce’ when telling us how to find you in Mayfair. I assume that Mrs. Pierce works for you?”

“Not exactly. Eliza Pierce is my widowed sister, and this is her home. My other sister is Lady Verity Harper. We three run the business together, but my sisters are still dressing, I’m afraid. You took us all by surprise. We expected you later.”

“So we were told,” Geoffrey clipped out. “I assumed that because businesses usually start early in the day, you would all be available.”

Her frozen expression showed he’d put her on her guard. That gave him a certain churlish satisfaction.

“Our company is unique,” Lady Diana said in a brittle tone. “Most of what we do requires us to be at social engagements well into the wee hours of the morning. So I hope you can understand why we do not operate during the hours of a typical business concern while the Season is going on.”

“Of course,” Mother said, shooting him a warning look. “How could you? And we are very pleased you could see us today.”

Lady Diana smiled at Mother. Apparently, he was the only person she didn’t smile at, for she turned an even brighter smile on Rosy. Every ounce of her seemed to soften, as if she could tell his sister was uncomfortable. “You must be the duchess,” she said kindly.

Before he could correct the woman, Rosy blinked, then gave a nervous laugh. “Perish the thought! Geoffrey—the duke—is my brother. He’s hoping you can help me with my début.”

Lady Diana looked mortified. “Please forgive me, but my sister didn’t say exactly whom we were to help.”

“It’s an honest mistake,” Geoffrey said. “No harm done.”

She gazed at him as if trying to figure him out. “So that’s why you and your mother came here with your sister?”

He nodded. “I should explain. We . . . that is, Rosy . . . Rosabel—”

“My daughter is shy, Lady Diana,” Mother said, looking at him in bemusement. “She’s not used to . . .