Would never hear the end of it from her siblings if she gave up now. Graham’s infinite associates were doubtlessly watching every angle of the promenade.

Tommy let out a shaky breath. She was being foolish.

Philippa was not afraid to be Philippa. She wore more lace on her person than most people owned in their entire wardrobe. Philippa was the bluestockingest ringleader of the bluestockingest reading circle in existence. Philippa was proud to be Philippa.

Tommy could give fake Baron Vanderbean a little bit of mettle.

One conversation. She straightened her spine and set her hat at a rakish angle. Twenty minutes.

7

7

Philippa gripped her lace overdress in her fists and tried not to go slowly mad at the glacial pace of her mother’s carriage.

“What is the point of driving around and around the park, purposefully never going anywhere?” she burst out.

“To see and be seen,” came her mother’s clipped voice. “I’ve told you a thousand times.”

“I could stand in the middle of the grass,” Philippa said. “Give everyone a nice long gander and then go home and do something reasonable with my time.”

“See and be seen and converse,” her mother amended.

“There’s the Kimball carriage up ahead.” Philippa leaned forward. “Gracie must be inside. I could talk to her.”

“See and be seen and converse with men,” Mother said in vexation. “Marriageable, titled men. You almost landed a duke, darling, so I shan’t accept anything less than a lord. You know you can manage it. You’re just being lazy.”

Philippa did know she could do it. Rather, her dowry would accomplish it for her. It didn’t really matter what sort of woman was going round in circles in Hyde Park.

She wasn’t delaying her fate out of laziness. She avoided it because she didn’t want it. Why must she choose a husband based on rank? Could not intelligence and character be relevant qualities as well? Should she not bear some modicum of affection for the man who would beget heirs upon her for the next untold number of years?

“Don’t make that expression,” chided her mother.

“I’m not making any expression,” Philippa answered. Indeed, she was often accused of displaying no emotion at all, regardless of the circumstance.

“I know what your lack of expression means,” said her mother. “It means you are displeased with your parents’ guidance.”

Did it mean that? It might mean that.

Mother gasped. “Never say you’ve fallen in love with a commoner.”

Philippa sighed and shook her head.

No, she would never make that claim. She had tried to fall in love. Yearned to fall in love. But no matter how attractive the man or how pretty his words, there were no butterflies in her stomach or flutters in her chest. She was never light-headed or giddy or speechless or trembling with passion when waltzing with the lords her mother selected for her.