As the doors of the reception hall slowly opened, not all the lamps in the main hall had been extinguished. The morning mist outside the window, like a light veil, covered the palace walls, and even the air carried a hint of lingering chill.
The Duchess of Kent, who had just finished washing, was wrapped in a deep purple morning robe, with an olivine earring dangling by her earlobe. Her hair was already tied up, though her temples were slightly disheveled, indicating her hurried arrival.
Her expression was calm, her gaze tranquil, with no signs of fatigue on her face, as if nothing had disturbed the ordinary order of Kensington.
But Arthur knew that the Duchess's composure was mere pretense.
He had seen too many people like this.
Those whose palms were all sweaty, yet they still had to doff their hats and bow.
Those whose steps trembled, yet they still insisted on walking the red carpet.
