Hyde Park at two o'clock was not merely a park; it was a stage.
The gravel paths of the Promenade were the runways. The carriages were the props. And the members of the ton were the actors, each playing a role in the grand theater of Society.
Rowan Hamilton guided his high-perch phaeton through the wrought-iron gates at Stanhope Corner. He sat high above the crowd, gripping the reins with brown leather gloves. The four bay horses moved in perfect unison, their coats gleaming like polished mahogany in the afternoon sun.
He looked every inch the Golden Duke. His hat was tipped at the perfect angle. His driving coat was impeccably tailored. His expression was one of cool, detached mastery.
Inside, however, he was numb.
He scanned the crowd. It was a sea of pastel parasols and tipping top hats. He nodded mechanically to people he knew.
"Lord Winhall," he murmured, tipping his hat.
"Lady Jersey," he acknowledged with a slight incline of his head.
