Tommy turned away before her blurring eyes could blot out Philippa’s face.
Anyone but Tommy Wynchester. She was leave-able. Abandonable. Unimportant. A fine distraction for a month or two, but ultimately unnecessary. She was not nearly as enticing as the roles she played. Fiction was better than the real person.
“The ‘new’ Baron Vanderbean is a lie,” Tommy ground out, “and marrying him is a fairy tale. It is not reality.”
“Tommy—”
“I am flesh-and-blood. I don’t want to only be useful when playing a role. I’ve been acting my entire life. I am real. I want to be myself with the woman I love.”
“You said you were happy to be Baron Vanderbean,” Philippa said. “The word we used was ‘indefinitely.’”
“We were talking about this season. I was willing to play a baron as much as you needed within the context of those three months. ‘Ninety-one days,’ you said. I agreed to atemporaryruse. I did not agree to cease being Tommy for the rest of my natural life. It was just supposed to be—”
Tommy raked a hand through her hair. What had she expected? Philippa was a Proper Young Lady. Used to giving orders and having every whim granted. She was haut ton. Born with the silver spoon. And everyone knew Polite Society did not mingle with Wynchesters.
Much less voluntarily give up their high social class for a dalliance.
There was no possibility of Philippa choosing Tommy for herself.
Tommy had just wanted it to be true so much that she’d let herself keep dreaming.
It was time to wake up.
“If we cannot both be ourselves,” she said, her chest tight. “If we both don’twanteach other for ourselves, then we shouldn’t be together.”
Philippa’s eyes were glassy as she slowly set the kitten on a chair and gave his head one final pat. “I’ll see myself out.”
36
Philippa took a step toward the door, then turned around. “I wouldn’tratherhave Baron Vanderbean. It’s that I can only accept—”
The stoic expression on Tommy’s face was more than eloquent. The answer was no. No to Philippa’s wild, desperate proposal. No to Philippa. There was nothing to be said, nothing that could be done. She had made a hash of it, and her time with Tommy was over.
She stumbled across the dressing room to the door.
“Philippa…” Tommy’s voice was raw, but she made no move to chase after her.
Good. Philippa was already on the move. Already running. Already—
—smacking headlong into Graham Wynchester, knocking a tall stack of his precious albums clattering to the floor, and sending a spray of broadsheets into the air in all directions.
Philippa let out a choking sob. She dropped to the floor to pick up the fallen papers. The man was just trying to exit his bedchamber, and she’d managed to botchthatfor him as well. The best thing she could do for this family was never to bother them again. Her words had wounded Tommy, and her very presence was enough to—
Graham swept his journals and papers into his room with his foot and touched Philippa’s elbow. “Where are you going?Whyare you going?”
“I’m leaving,” she blurted out. “I’m…I’m sorry. Look at what I did to your books!”
“One could argue the fault is mine.” Graham sent a rueful glance over his shoulder. “I cannot tell you how many times Bean told me not to walk with a stack so high it obstructs my vision. Are you certain it wasn’t me who ran into you?”
“Pretty certain,” Philippa mumbled.
“Come with me.” He shut the door to his bedchamber and led her down the corridor. “This is the Planning Parlor.”
“I remember.” Even if it had been Philippa’s first time in the room, the enormous table with its myriad compartments, the wide array of globes and maps, the bookcases full of intelligence gathered, the chalk outline of what appeared to be an escape route from a dairy farm drawn upon the slate floor…itlookedlike a room where plans were made.
“Sit.” Graham released her wrist and pointed at the chairs and settees arranged artfully about the fireplace.
Philippa waited to see which armchair Graham would take before choosing one opposite him.
