Even if it meant disappointing her parents. Even if it meant the loss of her reputation. Even if it meant no longer being part of Polite Society. Love was worth it.

Tommy was worth it.

“Carpe diem,” Philippa said. “Carpe vitam. Carpe amorem.”

“That’s the stuff.” Graham held out his hand and pulled her to her feet. “Seize the day, seize life, and seize love.”

As he had suggested from the beginning.

“Do Wynchesters always win?” Philippa grumbled.

“You’ll find out. If you manage to become one of us.”

Philippa rolled her shoulders. It might be impossible. It might be too late. She might have already destroyed Tommy’s trust in her.

But she wouldn’t walk away again without doing everything in her power to prove to Tommy just how much Philippa loved her.

“Before I go…” She bit her lip. “Might I ask for one tiny, peculiar favor?”

Graham’s brown eyes glittered with mischief. “Anything.”

37

37

Tommy flung herself atop her freshly made bed and stared up at the canopy.

She could not bear to make small talk with her siblings, who were all having a perfectly fine day and had not just watched the woman they loved fleeing in horror at the thought of being together as partners.

Philippa had left half an hour ago. Tommy could have gone after her. Would have, once. But if Philippa didn’t love her—not enough to want Tommy for and as herself—then what good was chasing a dream that was already over?

A knock sounded at the door.

She ignored it. One’s private chambers were sacred space. If Tommy had wanted to come out of her room, she would have done so. She was not ready for smiles or hugs or well-meaning optimism.

The knock came again.

Tommy placed her pillow over her face. At least she didn’t have curls to ruin or cosmetics to smear. She was just Tommy.

Alone. Again.

The banging at the door penetrated the feathers of her pillow.

Tommy cast the cushion aside and lurched toward the closed door.

“Not now, Graham!” Had her voice cracked? Oh God, it had cracked. Now he would never leave her alone. He would sit out there in the corridor, his back against her door so that he would tumble inside the moment she opened it—

“It’s not Graham,” came a muffled voice. “It’s me, Sir…Philip.”

Tommy’s heart banged against her chest in hope and confusion. She ran a hand over her hopelessly tousled hair and opened the door. “Sir…Philip?”

Philippa swaggered into the bedroom with her blond ringlets shoved inside a beaver hat and what looked like Graham’s frock coat over her lace dress. A glass of port dangled from her fingers and a large cigar protruded from one corner of her mouth.

Tommy tried her best not to be charmed.