Philippa’s heart didn’t pitter-patter or leap for joy or skip a beat or any of the other things it was supposed to do. It just carried on, day after day, year after year, performing the same steady, predictable routine without excitement or drama, or making any deviation from what it had always done.

Much like Philippa. Even if it made her want to scream.

“Pinch your cheeks,” said her mother. “Lord Whiddleburr is riding by.”

Philippa did not pinch her cheeks.

She didn’t care about the old marquess, and he didn’t care about her. Whether they wound up at the altar had nothing to do with the color of her cheeks.

He nodded at Philippa and her mother.

Philippa pretended she didn’t see him.

Mother waved vigorously enough to nearly tumble from the carriage.

Lord Whiddleburr wisely continued on.

“Blast,” whispered her mother. “He rode right past.”

Another bullet, dodged.

It was difficult to believe that people wanted to do this. Hyde Park was relatively sparse at the moment, but during the height of the London season, riders and pedestrians and carriages would fill the park, going round and round in circles for three solid hours every afternoon.

If there was any advantage to being married off against her will at the end of the season, it was the relief that she need no longer parade herself about like a show horse.

“What if I didn’t marry?” she asked tentatively.

Her mother recoiled as though her daughter had just sprouted antlers and unfashionable freckles.

“Not marry?” she spluttered. “Of course you’ll marry. Every woman wants to marry. The trick is selecting the right husband. He must be perfect in every way. Titled, Philippa. You’ll belong to him for the rest of your life. That’s a long time to spend shackled to the wrong man.”

True enough.

Philippa never saw her mother and father in the same room at the same time. Perhaps they were the same person. Perhaps Philippa could wed herself.

“I want you to wed a man you admire,” Mother continued. “Someone with wide shoulders and a strong jaw.”

As much as she appreciated that her mother wanted her to secure a husband she liked, Philippa had never once judged a man by the width of his shoulders or the strength of his jaw. She found swooning over such details as nonsensical as a gentleman choosing a bride based on whether she pinched her cheeks for color.

“Oh!” Mother rapped her knuckles against Philippa’s leg. “Straighten your spine. Here comes Lord Dalrymple.”

Philippa straightened her spine. She would be forced to endure countless mind-deadening afternoons like this one until some hapless lord was dazzled enough by her fortune to offer for her hand. It might as well be Dalrymple.

It might as well be anyone.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. York, Miss York,” said Lord Dalrymple. “How do you do today?”