Two women in a brougham laughed and flirted with him from beneath their lacy parasols, as they waited to enter the park in the queue of traffic. Both pretty women, he admired their lavender and yellow carriage gowns and their bonnets trimmed with flowers. He pulled his horse up alongside and doffed his hat. “Good afternoon, Lady Bakewell, Mrs. Andrews. You both are the personification of summer.”
“Thank you, Lord Strathairn, we were discussing how well you look,” said Lady Bakewell, the elder of the two. “I must say you have the finest seat on a horse I’ve seen for many a long year.”
Mrs. Andrews put her gloved hand to her mouth, unsuccessfully hiding her grin, as Strathairn bowed in the saddle and rode on.
A gallop was frowned on in the Row. Some riders cantered, others ambled along at a trot while in conversation with their companions. Strathairn greeted several acquaintances as he looked around for Sibella, but he did not find her amongst the crowd. She always rode on Wednesdays. Where was she? He suffered an annoying, disappointed jolt.
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