The winter air biting at Rosalind's cheeks did little to cool the heat of her thoughts. She alighted from the carriage with grace and dignity, though her gloved fingers tightened ever so slightly on the footman's. Sophia Tremaine alighted after her. Mainecroft Hall was glorious in the winter, or so she always thought.
She walked past the doormen and entered the front hall, the familiar scent of polished wood and quiet order met her. As soon as the butler saw her, he rushed forward to take her coat.
"Your Ladyship, His Highness and Her Highness are in the dining room," he said, taking Sophia's coat too. "I will inform them that you have come calling."
Rosalind's lips thinned as anger overcame her.
Her Highness?
She had known, of course, that her son had been taken by that poor widow, but to marry her, and crown her was beyond reason. It was positively outrageous.
