Thursday.The day of her weekly gathering of bookish-and-proud-of-it ladies, and a welcome respite to the monotony of being what her mother wanted.
Philippa strode into the large, sunny parlor that doubled as her private library. Her personal quarters were too small to house her collection, so this was where her friends met. Their conversations spanned a variety of topics, and it was always best to have the book one needed in easy reach.
Philippa adored everything about her collection: the differences in size, weight, colors, content, and of course, the inimitable smell of old pages. She loved the joy of acquiring a new volume she had not yet read, and she loved in equal measure the infinite comfort of rereading a cherished keepsake whose spine opened to all the best parts. She even loved spending a lazy morning reorganizing: this month, by color, next month by size and shape.
And yet…sometimes she longed formore.
Adventure. Excitement. Being part of a grand story in real life, rather than only on the pages of a book.
Striding quickly, Philippa verified that the two dozen plush bergères were arranged in the usual oval. Her guests would arrive at any moment and she wanted everything to be just so.
Philippa’s mother appeared in the open doorway. She cast a disapproving look about the carefully prepared parlor. “Remember, I shan’t offer your friends a formal tea until you take your duty seriously. They can stay for one hour, and not a moment longer.”
This was Philippa’s punishment for failing to marry the Duke of Faircliffe when she’d had the opportunity. Mother would never forgive her. Faircliffe was everything Mrs. York had hoped and schemed for all these years: a lord interested in her daughter.
And Philippa still held out hope that if she said and did the right things, her parents would come to appreciate her for more than the social connections her future husband would bring.
Though the Yorks’ textiles fortune marked themnouveau riche, they lived in a prominent town house on exclusive Grosvenor Square in fashionable Mayfair. Philippa’s father was an important MP in the House of Commons. Their family was highly respected within the beau monde.
Even Philippa possessed her own significant inheritance from her maternal grandparents.
The only thing they lacked was a title.
This was Philippa’s one job, and she had botched it. Her parents would remain unhappy with her until she corrected her misstep.
“No formal tea.” She gave a sharp nod. “I remember.”
Despite Mother’s displeasure, the sideboard contained libations and a tray of cucumber sandwiches. Mother was too irritated with her daughter to allow a more extravagant repast in the formal dining room, but nor could she have gossips claim that respectable Mrs. York had failed in her duty as a hostess. While Mother disapproved of some of the company Philippa kept, a few of the members were Important Ladies, and Mother would never dream of offending them.
Stricter parents would not have indulged Philippa’s interests at all. Her passion for books and learning was horribly unfashionable. Mother undoubtedly regretted allowing her daughter a truly generous five seasons to make her match.
And now Philippa’s time was up.
“One hour,” Mother repeated. “You’ll not have a single additional moment of amusement until you attract—and accept—a suitor your father and I both deem satisfactory. He must be a prominent figure in the House of Lords, or at least eligible. Your father needs stronger allies. This is your duty, Philippa. No more fun until you accomplish it.”
Philippa’s parents rarely agreed on anything…except this.
“No fun allowed,” she murmured. “I remember.”
It was difficult to forget, with the constant reminders.
Ever since Philippa’s come-out, most conversations with her mother centered on which lords were the most marriageable, and how Philippa should best go about catching one of them.
To be fair, her parents very much did their part. Not only did they try to be respectable and unobjectionable in every way themselves, but they had also granted their daughter a dowry large enough to purchase a small kingdom.
The problem was not a lack of offers. Philippa’s father scarcely had time to prepare his parliamentary speeches with the endless river of fortune hunters eager to spend Philippa’s dowry.
The problem was a lack oftitledsuitors. Her parents would have her marry a block of wood, as long as it possessed a coronet. A title in the family would lift everyone’s social status and provide much-needed connections for her father’s political career. The rest of the details were immaterial.
The other problem…was Philippa.
She did not wish to marry a man interested only in her money. Worse, Philippa was dreadful at flirting and liable to scare off a boast-worthy match before he could offer. Bad enough that she was a bluestocking, which repelled fashionable gentlemen at first whiff. She also had no taste, according to Mother. More precisely, Philippa had no interest in starting a romance with any man she’d ever met.
Not that she was naïve enough to believe in a love match. This was business. Her family’s future depended on Philippa’s marital success.
According to both parents, the best thing for all parties was to let the elder generation secure an impressive, titled suitor. All Philippa had to do was sayyesandI dowhen instructed, and her parents and the groom would live happily ever after.
“I was thinking,” said Mother. This was never a good sign. “I could limit your access to this parlor only to the days when your reading circle is in session.”
