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. Shewasin 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.
Tommy wasn’t a baron, and Philippa would be forbidden from marrying her even if she were. Tommy wasn’t even a man. And yet Philippa was strangely glad of it. She didn’t need Tommy to have male parts. She just wanted Tommy.
But there was no road forward. Only a brick wall and a forced detour in another direction.
“There’s nothing to discuss,” Philippa said. “It was nothing.”
“It felt like something to me.” Tommy’s voice was soft.
“Philippa,” Mother shrilled. “Answer when you’re spoken to!”
“I have to go,” Philippa said, then called out, “Yes, Mother, I’m coming now.”
She forced herself to hurry away from Tommy, to stride past Elizabeth and Marjorie, to accept the picnic basket from her mother and pretend her interruption hadn’t been the absolute worst timing in the long and storied history of her mother’s unwanted interruptions.
Was this how her friend Gracie felt when she sneaked off for stolen kisses with the rake of the week? Until Tommy, Philippa hadn’t known shecouldfeel this way.
She felt as though she’d been lied to her entire life. She’d missed out on so much. Philippalikeddancing with the right person, and kissing, and touching. She even liked banter and being giggly. It was fun and romantic.
The only way to make it through the rest of her life was to pretend this hadn’t happened. That she was still emotionless Philippa with the cold dead heart.
Shehadn’tliked the rules she’d been born to follow, but she’d known how to navigate them. Mother had implied a nice library was the best a bluestocking could hope for.
Philippa’s acceptance of her staid life was predicated on that assumption. That therewasn’tsomething better, something different she could have. That “a nice library” was a fair trade for the autonomy of her body, a vessel for which she had little use anyway. Why not let some man climb atop her and then raise his children? It was how things were done. It was the way the world worked.
