Philippa longed to be included. So she’d created her own society. A sisterhood of women as curious and intelligent as any man.

And instead of dedicating themselves to any one thing, they covered hundreds of things. Every month featured different books. It might be a delightfully torrid novel, a detailed tome on the inner workings of the Leyden jar condenser, or the latest theories and applications of chemistry.

These were the best and cleverest women of Philippa’s acquaintance. The friends had become a family. She would do everything in her power to keep the group together.

Even marry the fusty old titled bore her parents selected for her.

3

3

Must be the right place,” quavered an ancient voice from the doorway. “This room smells like old books and expensive wine.”

Philippa was pleased to see Chloe and her unruly, white-haired great-aunt Wynchester enter the parlor. One might presume Philippa and Chloe would be on acrimonious terms because Chloe had stolen the duke Philippa was supposed to marry.

One would be wrong.

Philippa was eternally grateful not to have to wed a man whose ambivalence to their union matched her own. The new Duchess and Duke of Faircliffe had wanted to marry each other.

If Philippa ruled the world, that would be the only requirement for marriage.

“Do you want to know a secret?” Gracie whispered, her eyes bright and shining. “I’m to be an aunt!”

Cries of delight and congratulations filled the parlor.

“I cannot wait until it’s me,” Gracie said with a happy sigh. “Just think. A husband…a wedding night…a house full of babies…”

None of those ideas sounded appealing to Philippa.

She knew that made her strange, even among a group of lady outcasts. They were ladies, and many women wanted certain things. Such as being pawed by the same man for eternity, or filling a peaceful house full of crying babies.

It was fine to want those things. Why wasn’t it also fine not to want them?

“Don’t worry,” said Florentia. “At the rate you’re flirting, you’ll find yourself at the altar soon enough.”

“I hope so,” Gracie said. “That’s why I do it.”

It was also a fair part of why Philippa didn’t do it. Not only was she horrid at the art of flirting, she had no interest in the inevitable outcome. She could look at a person and objectively acknowledge his attractiveness, but no manly face had ever inspired a passion any more profound than a pretty flower or a beautiful sunset.