“I don’t want to dance with a man who aspires to look like a caricature,” said Philippa.

Her mother sighed. “I thought you were clever, darling. Is the world truly so difficult to understand?”

No. That was the problem. Philippa understood perfectly well what her role was destined to be, and the steps to take to achieve it.

Be an obedient daughter. Follow society’s rules and expectations. Be a proper young lady. Attract a suitor. Become his betrothed. Get married. Be his wife. Have his children. Send her own daughters down the same path regardless of their wishes, no deviations allowed.

Become despondent.

Philippa was a busy, bookish spinster of means, who hosted wonderful bluestocking gatherings every week, in the beautiful Grosvenor Square town house she’d lived in all of her life. Why would she give that up for a man? As much as she longed for adventure, there were some stories she’d rather not unfold. Such as losing the best parts of being Philippa.

“Good afternoon,” came a rich tenor. “I don’t suppose you could point me in the direction of the loveliest bluestocking in Hyde Park?”

In tandem, Philippa and her mother jerked their gazes toward the unfamiliar voice.

A slender, well-dressed gentleman sat astride a handsome steed, easily keeping pace with the Yorks’ carriage. He had dark hair and laughing brown eyes and lips that seemed in constant danger of turning up in a smile.

In short: He was attractive. Objectively handsome. It was an inarguable fact.

Philippa waited for a flutter in her heart or in her stomach or in any other region that could flutter.

Nothing.

As usual, her body was broken. No matter how often she placed herself in the paths of eligible bachelors and tried her best to obey the rules, she had never felt the flutterings of desire she read so much about. Other friends developed new tendres every fortnight. Philippa yearned for a romance of her own.

The gentleman saw her looking at him, and at this, his lips did curve into a smile.

It was a fine smile. An excellent smile.

It just…did nothing.

There was no hope.

Philippa had glimpsed the handsome stranger once or twice this afternoon during their endless laps about the park. He looked vaguely familiar, as if they might have crossed paths at Gunter’s or Almack’s, but she did not know his name.

Speaking without an introduction was—according to Mother—an appalling breach of etiquette. Blatantly alluding to his potential interest in Philippa, however, was a magic balm that healed all rifts in decorum. And if she were being honest, referring to her mind rather than her rosy cheeks had caught her attention as well.

“Ohh.” Mother fluttered her hands and her eyelids and the entire carriage. “I daresay your search is over. Of course you must mean my Philippa. But you have us at a disadvantage, young man. I don’t believe we’ve met.”