Lady Farrington sat on the main sofa, her silk skirts spread out like a royal canopy. Beside her sat Lady Celine, looking like a breath of spring in her blue muslin.
Opposite them sat Rowan, the Duke of Ford. He looked dashing, composed, and entirely at ease.
And in the corner, seated in a high-backed wing chair that offered a strategic view of the entire room, sat Delaney Kingsley.
She had opened her notebook. She held her quill poised over the paper. She was not smiling. She was not frowning. She was a statue of serious detachment.
Since the incident in the carriage, Delaney had locked her heart away in a steel box. She had a serious conversation with herself. She was here to earn sixty thousand pounds. She was here to execute a contract.
"The tea is delightful, Lady Farrington," Rowan said smoothly. He lifted the cup to his lips, took a small sip, and set it back on the saucer with a gentle clink.
