The following afternoon, the drawing room of Hamilton House had been transformed for tea time. The porcelain teacups, the cucumber sandwiches. And the steady stream of hopeful debutantes in pastel muslin were ready.
Rowan sat on the velvet sofa. He was wearing the blue coat, as ordered. He looked handsome, rich, and utterly miserable.
In the far corner of the room, standing by a potted fern like a gray armored guard, was Delaney Kingsley. She held her notebook. Her face was a mask of professional calmness, but Rowan could see her foot tapping a rapid, irritated rhythm against the floorboards.
"Miss Charlotte Basset," the butler announced.
The first candidate walked in. She was petite, with golden curls and a dress the color of a lemon tart. She giggled as she curtsied.
Rowan stood up and bowed. "Miss Basset. A pleasure."
"Oh, Your Grace!" Miss Basset squeaked. "It is such an honor! I love your house! It is so… big!"
Rowan forced a smile. "Yes. It is large. Do take a seat."
