Become despondent.
Philippa was a busy, bookish spinster of means, who hosted wonderful bluestocking gatherings every week, in the beautiful Grosvenor Square town house she’d lived in all of her life. Why would she give that up for a man? As much as she longed for adventure, there were some stories she’d rather not unfold. Such as losing the best parts of being Philippa.
“Good afternoon,” came a rich tenor. “I don’t suppose you could point me in the direction of the loveliest bluestocking in Hyde Park?”
In tandem, Philippa and her mother jerked their gazes toward the unfamiliar voice.
A slender, well-dressed gentleman sat astride a handsome steed, easily keeping pace with the Yorks’ carriage. He had dark hair and laughing brown eyes and lips that seemed in constant danger of turning up in a smile.
In short: He was attractive. Objectively handsome. It was an inarguable fact.
Philippa waited for a flutter in her heart or in her stomach or in any other region that could flutter.
Nothing.
As usual, her body was broken. No matter how often she placed herself in the paths of eligible bachelors and tried her best to obey the rules, she had never felt the flutterings of desire she read so much about. Other friends developed new tendres every fortnight. Philippa yearned for a romance of her own.
The gentleman saw her looking at him, and at this, his lips did curve into a smile.
It was a fine smile. An excellent smile.
It just…did nothing.
There was no hope.
Philippa had glimpsed the handsome stranger once or twice this afternoon during their endless laps about the park. He looked vaguely familiar, as if they might have crossed paths at Gunter’s or Almack’s, but she did not know his name.
Speaking without an introduction was—according to Mother—an appalling breach of etiquette. Blatantly alluding to his potential interest in Philippa, however, was a magic balm that healed all rifts in decorum. And if she were being honest, referring to hermindrather than her rosy cheeks had caught her attention as well.
“Ohh.” Mother fluttered her hands and her eyelids and the entire carriage. “I daresay your search is over. Of course you must mean my Philippa. But you have us at a disadvantage, young man. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“You may have met my father,” the gentleman replied. “Baron Vanderbean.”
Mother’s gasp could be interpreted as either delight or dismay. She had a horror of the entire Wynchester family…but “Baron” was indeed a title.
“OfcourseI knew your father,” Mother gushed.
She had never met the man.
“I have long desired to meet the new Baron Vanderbean,” Mother continued. “I am overjoyed to have my wish granted at long last.”
This was a bald-faced lie, but at least it let Philippa know how her mother expected the conversation to proceed.
“You have a nice horse,” Philippa offered. “It’s very…equine.”
Mother closed her eyes.
Baron Vanderbean widened his, and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Did you notice that, too? I wonder if he enjoys his lot in life. What do you think my horse really wants?”
Philippa blinked.
Baron Vanderbean smiled back at her expectantly.
“Maybe he hates being a horse,” she said. “Maybe he thinks walking about in circles is a dreadful use of his time. Maybe he’d rather be home reading.”
Mother opened her eyes. “Horses cannotread, Philippa.”
“How do we know?” asked Baron Vanderbean good-naturedly. “I, for one, have never invited a horse into my library in order to find out. The moment I return home, I shall rectify this error at once.”
