Philippa’s flesh tingled, as though it could feel each of Tommy’s kisses all over her body. A brush of the lips here, an openmouthed kiss there. Or perhaps it was Tommy’s hands that Philippa wanted to feel on her body. Or hands and kisses both, never knowing how or where the next delicious contact might land.

It occurred to her that she could be the one to touch and to kiss Tommy’s body. The thought filled her with power and terror and desire. Philippa wasn’t certain which would be better—exploring or being explored. She wanted to do both. Perhaps at the same time. She wanted to know what else Tommy’s hands and mouth could do, and then she wanted to try those tricks herself. To make Tommy feel the quickening that was building inside her, a sort of throbbing between her legs.

Her heart wasn’t cold and dead after all, she realized with joy. No part of her was. Her body had just been waiting for Tommy. She pressed closer.

Distant footsteps sounded behind them. “Tommy!”

She and Philippa broke apart and spun to look.

Marjorie Wynchester raced onto the path, waving her arms. Elizabeth was not far behind her. Marjorie made several strange hand gestures as she ran.

“Your mother is coming,” Tommy said. “Apparently Faircliffe had all the amusement he could handle.”

Philippa stared at her. “You got that from a hand gesture?”

“Signs,” Tommy corrected. “Marjorie can hear, but not well. The entire family learned to sign in case her hearing worsened, and it turned out to be a wonderful method of communication.”

“Should I speak louder around her?”

“Just face her. Don’t shout or exaggerate your diction, because that makes it harder for her to understand.”

Philippa nodded. “Thank you for telling me.”

Marjorie had paused several yards away to wait for her sister to catch up.

“Your mother,” Elizabeth called out, panting. “Two hundred yards.”

“I know. That’s what Marjorie just said.”

Philippa made a mental note to acquire literature on signs as soon as possible and learn it, too. She never wanted Marjorie to feel left out of a conversation.

She and Tommy hurried to join Elizabeth and Marjorie. It was a good thing they did, because Philippa’s mother strode onto the path a scant moment later.

“There you are,” she said. “Come along, Philippa. That’s enough Wynchesters for one day. In fact, once a week is more than enough.”

The back of Tommy’s hand grazed Philippa’s. “We can talk about this later,” she murmured.

Could they? Should they?

No. Philippa was supposed to be in control of herself. She was in control of herself. This experiment could not be repeated. She might want Tommy, but she couldn’t have her. It didn’t matter that Philippa’s body had come alive and pulsed with want.