“There might be a messenger falcon,” Tommy mumbled. “I didn’t think—”
Philippa’s eyes were glassy. “I don’t want to be the fair maiden to your knight. If you can be your own heroine, why shouldn’t I want it, too? I thought you of all people would understand.”
The dining room door swung open and Mrs. York burst inside.
“What is the meaning of this impudence?” she demanded. “I will inform you when I am ready to preside over formal tea.”
“No tea necessary, Mother,” Philippa said. “Perhaps you can show Great-Aunt Wynchester to the door. She was just leaving. And I must return to my friends.”
21
From the moment Philippa was announced at the Oglethorpe ball, her senses were alert for any sign of Tommy. Would she come? Or would she stay away because of their row? Once Philippa had calmed, she regretted sending Tommy off like that, and had wished she could call her back.Tonight would be their first chance to make up. Presuming Tommy wanted to do so.
Philippa lifted herself onto her toes, then returned to her heels before her mother caught her behaving inappropriately. The entire reason she had accepted her mother’s tall stack of invitations was out of hope Tommy would be at the same events. And now…
Philippa was supposed to be hunting Captain Northrup.
He was laughably simple to locate, holding court with a bevy of sycophants eager to claim they had long been particular friends of the new viscount, even before he was awarded his title.
Baron Vanderbean should have been just as easy to spot, if for different reasons. Rather than positioning herself in the center of an adoring crowd, Tommy tended to swagger right past them with little more than a word and wink, because her eyes were only for Philippa.
At least, theyhadbeen.
“I hope you’re not looking for that upstart Vanderbean,” said Mother. “You’re not to dance with anyone until after you’ve had your set with Captain Northrup.”
“Technically,” said Philippa, “Northrup is the upstart. Baron Vanderbean was always his father’s heir.Northrupis the newcomer to rank and consequence. Or will be. He doesn’t yet have his title. I suppose that makes him a not-even-started.”
“Technically,” said her mother, “I don’t give a jot what your dictionaries say.Isay you’re to dance with Northrup before you even look at Vanderbean.”
“The baron isn’t here,” said Philippa. “It appears you’ll get your wish.”
But she couldn’t stop looking for Tommy.
Philippa lowered her heels. What was wrong with her? She was angry with Tommy and at the same time desperate to see her again. Going days without a sign was torment. What was Tommy doing? Glooming out of her rain-spattered window like Philippa? Or off scaling battlements and stealing illuminated manuscripts?
The worst part was, after several hours of throwing herself into charity work to numb her hurt at not figuring in Tommy’s plans, Philippa was forced to admit that she was an illogical choice for a partner in daring escapades. Shewasn’ta Wynchester. Shedidn’thave practical experience, or any sort of special skills to aid and abet a burglary in progress. She would be an anchor, not an asset, weighing down the team when they most needed to be agile.
Inviting Philippa along on a caper would have been the least practical, most inefficient decision Tommy could have possibly made.
And yet Philippa wished she’d made it anyway.
She sent her anxious gaze about the ballroom for the hundredth time. What if Tommy was here tonight as a great-aunt rather than a gentleman? Might Philippa have missed her? Or what if she’d come not as belligerent, colorful Great-Aunt Wynchester, but as…Miss Thomasina? What might that look like? Would Philippa even recognize her?
Her eyes scanned and discarded each person in turn. Young, old, male, female, fat, thin—
The voice of the Oglethorpes’ butler rang out. “Baron Vanderbean.”
Philippa’s head jerked toward the entrance on the opposite side of the ballroom.
“Humph,” said her mother. “The evening only wanted this.”
Philippacertainly had wanted it.
Her heart galloped furiously. Tommy had come, and she looked magnificent.
Black breeches clung to tightly muscled thighs that moved with confidence. An emerald green waistcoat disguised the chest that had brushed tantalizingly close to hers. The black superfine of Tommy’s tailcoat hid the arms that had once wrapped tightly about Philippa. The dazzlingly white cravat drew the eye up to Tommy’s supple mouth, and to the baron’s usual expression of impishness and amusement. Either her argument with Philippa hadn’t bothered her, or the coy looks Tommy gave others had always been an act. Perhaps Outrageous Flirt was just as much a mask as Great-Aunt Wynchester.
Philippa could no longer claim to be passionless. She had spent years trying to solve the wrong puzzle. It wasn’t a matter of “finding the right man” after all.
