Tommy wasted no time closing the distance between them. She pressed her lips to Philippa’s. Everything else disappeared, until all that existed was Tommy’s sweet kiss. Her mouth was hot, her lips soft and yielding.

Philippa knew these kisses now, gloried in them. They made her feel like a flower coming to bloom. Tilting toward the sun and unfurling each petal, presenting her innermost self for the taking. Kissing Tommy was like opening a window on the first day of spring and breathing in the scent of nature quickening to life.

Her favorite moments were the ones in which her arms were locked about Tommy, and their mouths were lost in a kiss. It didn’t matter whether Tommy was old or young, man or woman. She felt and tasted like Tommy. Her embrace was warm and secure, her mouth sweet.

The feel of Tommy’s tongue against hers awakened Philippa’s body in ways she had once believed inaccessible. Her breasts felt larger, heavier, her nipples straining as if in search of even greater closeness. Desire pooled between Philippa’s legs. Tommy wasn’t even touching her there, and it was happening.

Every part of Philippa’s body was flickering to life.

But time was running out. Philippa’s parents would marry her off before the end of the season. She was determined to grab on to Tommy with both hands for as long as she could.

“You realize you could attend this reading circle as Miss Thomasina,” she said when at last they pulled away from each other. “My mother isn’t here, and Chloe’s door is always open to Wynchesters.”

Tommy shrugged. “If I must disguise my true self to attend either way, then what does it matter which role I choose? Great-Aunt Wynchester is more fun than Miss Thomasina.”

Philippa’s lips parted. Tommy’s ease with costumes was a good point. An excellent point. In fact…choosing the right one might matter very much.

After all, it wasn’t as though Miss Thomasina could propose. But if Philippa rejected Captain Northrup and all other offers, mayhap her parents would then consent to a courtship with a baron.

“What is that clever brain of yours ruminating about?” Tommy tilted her head. “You’re making the queerest expression.”

“I was thinking how unfair it was that only men can propose to women.”

Tommy grinned. “Who needs to be married? The ‘Ladies of Llangollen’ have lived happily together for four decades and counting. They are both mistresses of their shared home, and exemplary hostesses to fashionable and unfashionable alike. Lord Byron, the Duke of Wellington, and so on. And then there are romantic partners like the actresses who—”