Philippa yearned to be like Tommy’s family, part of them, one of them. It had to be better than sitting alone at an empty dining table for the five hundred and sixty-third time this year.

The number would have been even higher if Philippa didn’t break her fast in her bedroom.

When she’d finished the final course, she made her usual route through the ground floor in search of her parents.

Underwood handed her a stack of letters and tipped his head meaningfully toward the cerulean sitting room.

Mother? Or Father?

Philippa tried not to feel hurt that neither of them ever came to the dining room in search of her. She smoothed her lace overdress and presented herself at the threshold.

Father. Presumably. An open broadsheet hid everything from his lap up. Only his fingers were visible on either side of the newspaper.

Philippa hesitated, then cleared her throat.

Her father did not lower his paper.

Was it too soft? Had he thought her sound the noise of a horse from a passing carriage?

She cleared her throat again, with gusto this time. A very clear, obvious, female throat-clearing. The most theatrically exaggerated throat-clearing ever heard off a London stage.

Father shook his paper pointedly and did not lower it.

Her shoulders sank. He had known it was her. Or at least, he’d known it was someone, and did not care enough to find out who, even if it was his own daughter.

She wanted to tear the paper from his hands. Would he notice her then? Or would she be irrelevant and worthless until she landed a lord? The match was as much for Father’s sake. Unlike peers, Father actually had to campaign to keep his seat in the House of Commons. A familial connection in the House of Lords could cement his career.

A connection like…the Duke of Faircliffe, whom Philippa had failed to marry when she’d had the chance. Guilt ate at her. Father would have put down the paper if she’d been a more dutiful daughter.

Instead, she’d caused him more stress, just like Mother always did. Philippa sighed and turned away. She would not bother him now. Once she had a husband, Father would be proud of her. She would have proved her worth. Wasn’t that what she’d told Tommy she wanted? To be helpful?

She made her way upstairs to her bedchamber and glanced down at the correspondence Underwood had given her. Part of her wondered whether one of the letters would be from Tommy. Why would it be? She wasn’t a real baron or a real suitor. Nor would she have any idea how constantly she had remained in the forefront of Philippa’s mind.

She stepped into her room and closed the door. Philippa liked Tommy. There was no one she’d rather find herself in a fake courtship with for the next three months.