She’d said the wrong thing again. Even after his mourning period had ended, society invitations were their own paradox. One needed to know someone in order to be introduced to someone else, which could keep even a dashing lord like Baron Vanderbean stuck on the outside.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You asked me here today to discuss Damaris’s case for the cipher, not your personal affairs. I have no right to pry.”

“I forgot about the case,” he replied, his expression serious. “I asked you to accompany me because I wanted to spend time with you.”

She gave him a self-deprecating smile. “You couldn’t find a better option than a bluestocking?”

“That’s why I like you.” The baron’s dark eyes didn’t leave hers. “I admire people who are unafraid to think for themselves, and I admire you in particular.”

Her breath caught. That was the single nicest thing a man had ever said to her.

“If you have any flaw that I can see,” he continued, “it is that you are not quite enough of a bluestocking. A proper bookish spinster would have spoken to my horse directly in his native Balcovian Arabic dialect, rather than impose upon a hapless human baron as middleman.”

She giggled and immediately clapped a hand over her mouth.

A giggle? Coming from her? What was happening? Was she flirting?

This was friendship, she told herself. She had never been friends with a man before. None had ever tried, and to be fair, neither had Philippa. She had always preferred the company of women, though try as she might, she’d never shared the compulsion to become giggly and giddy in the presence of a man.

Except she had just giggled in the presence of a man for the first time. What on earth was next?

“Don’t cover your mouth,” said Baron Vanderbean, his brown eyes warm and intent. “It’s one of my favorite parts of your very pretty face.”

Oh.

He did intend to court her.

Philippa’s dead heart hadn’t fluttered, but a giggle was a wonderful, terrible sign. She liked Baron Vanderbean. She might have welcomed his attentions…if he were the sort of man her parents would permit her to marry.

She could not possibly string this sweet, romantic, happy-go-lucky man along for the next three months, only to cold-bloodedly dash his hopes when she turned her back on him to marry someone “better.”

She took a deep breath. “I have a confession.”

“So do I,” he said, “though I’m likely never to make mine. You first.”

“I cannot marry you,” she blurted. “My parents have preemptively rejected any future offer. It was kind of you to invite me to the park today, but ultimately a waste of your time. I’m afraid you never had a chance.”

He looked at her for a long moment.