Did it mean that? It might mean that.
Mother gasped. “Never say you’ve fallen in love with a commoner.”
Philippa sighed and shook her head.
No, she would never make that claim. She hadtriedto fall in love.Yearnedto fall in love. But no matter how attractive the man or how pretty his words, there were no butterflies in her stomach or flutters in her chest. She was never light-headed or giddy or speechless or trembling with passion when waltzing with the lords her mother selected for her.
Philippa’s heart didn’t pitter-patter or leap for joy or skip a beat or any of the other things it was supposed to do. It just carried on, day after day, year after year, performing the same steady, predictable routine without excitement or drama, or making any deviation from what it had always done.
Much like Philippa. Even if it made her want to scream.
“Pinch your cheeks,” said her mother. “Lord Whiddleburr is riding by.”
Philippa did not pinch her cheeks.
She didn’t care about the old marquess, and he didn’t care about her. Whether they wound up at the altar had nothing to do with the color of her cheeks.
He nodded at Philippa and her mother.
Philippa pretended she didn’t see him.
Mother waved vigorously enough to nearly tumble from the carriage.
Lord Whiddleburr wisely continued on.
“Blast,” whispered her mother. “He rode right past.”
Another bullet, dodged.
It was difficult to believe that peoplewantedto do this. Hyde Park was relatively sparse at the moment, but during the height of the London season, riders and pedestrians and carriages would fill the park, going round and round in circles for three solid hours every afternoon.
If there was any advantage to being married off against her will at the end of the season, it was the relief that she need no longer parade herself about like a show horse.
“What if I didn’t marry?” she asked tentatively.
Her mother recoiled as though her daughter had just sprouted antlersandunfashionable freckles.
“Notmarry?” she spluttered. “Ofcourseyou’ll marry.Everywoman wants tomarry. The trick is selecting the righthusband. He must be perfect in every way.Titled, Philippa. You’ll belong to him for the rest of your life. That’s a long time to spend shackled to the wrong man.”
True enough.
Philippa never saw her mother and father in the same room at the same time. Perhaps they were the same person. Perhaps Philippa could wed herself.
“I want you to wed a man you admire,” Mother continued. “Someone with wide shoulders and a strong jaw.”
As much as she appreciated that her mother wanted her to secure a husband sheliked, Philippa had never once judged a man by the width of his shoulders or the strength of his jaw. She found swooning over such details as nonsensical as a gentleman choosing a bride based on whether she pinched her cheeks for color.
“Oh!” Mother rapped her knuckles against Philippa’s leg. “Straighten your spine. Here comes Lord Dalrymple.”
Philippa straightened her spine. She would be forced to endure countless mind-deadening afternoons like this one until some hapless lord was dazzled enough by her fortune to offer for her hand. It might as well be Dalrymple.
It might as well be anyone.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. York, Miss York,” said Lord Dalrymple. “How do you do today?”
Mother fluttered her hands and gurgled something incoherent, then unsubtly elbowed Philippa’s side so that she would flutter her eyelashes and gurgle, too.
Why? Were men biologically predisposed to favor women who looked as though they were blinking dust from their eyes?
