Page 57 of The Perks of Loving a Wallflower

Except sometimes…itdidn’t. Sometimes things turned out differently than expected. Sometimes there was a twist in Act Two that you never saw coming.

It would perhaps have been better never to realize that she could feel passion than to know she must spend the rest of her life without moments like these. That first garden, where Tommy had almost kissed her. This garden, where it had finally happened.

Now that she’d experienced passion, shewantedit.

And the world wasn’t built to let her have it.

She could not unlearn this new facet of herself, but she could refuse to indulge it. At least until she’d had time to give these new discoveries proper consideration. She could then decide what to do—or perhaps decide it was best not to change anything at all.

In the meantime, there was plenty else to keep her busy. The illuminated manuscripts, for example. Damaris needed her help. So did Agnes and Katherine. Philippa would concentrate on that.

“I have devised the perfect plan,” Mother said when they were out of earshot.

Trepidation slithered in Philippa’s stomach. “You did?”

“I did.” Mother’s eyes shone. “I’ve just the fish for you to catch. He’s untitled at the moment, which means the others have overlooked him in their hunt to marry well. Butyou, my darling…Youwill strike before the iron is hot, and become a viscountessafterthe fact.”

Philippa’s flesh went cold and her palms clammy. “You cannot mean…”

“Of course I do.” Mother beamed at her. “Youwill marry Captain Northrup.”

20

Today would be different from the last five days. Today would be better.

Tommy hoped.

Five days ago, she had conquered her doubts and given in to her desires and kissed Philippa. And Philippa had kissed her back! Extensively. Exquisitely. They had been locked in each other’s embrace for several long, perfect minutes.

And then Philippa’s mother had limited the baron’s interactions to once a week.

Part of Tommy couldn’t bear to be without Philippa for a single day. The other part worried about reception when she appeared on Philippa’s doorstep days early.

The reading circle felt different now. Before, when the bluestockings discussed topics Tommy didn’t remotely understand, it didn’t matter. No one expected Great-Aunt Wynchester to follow along. She’d devised this costume specifically to be allowed to attend without requiring contribution. Tommy enjoyed sitting back and watching Philippa be extraordinarily clever.

Now that she and Philippa were actively conversing—and kissing—Tommy wished she were just as clever. She didn’t have esoteric knowledge to share, or a gift with ancient languages, or a collection of rare tomes. She was a costumed orphan who happened to be good at pretending to belong in places she did not.

A few months ago, the situation would have been easier. When Chloe still lived at home, she would have been happy to explain bookish things to Tommy over a plate of cakes and glasses of lemonade spiked with gin.

Those days were gone. Thursday afternoon reading circles were not only Tommy’s chance to see Philippa, but also part of her newly finite time with her sister. Chloe and Faircliffe visited the Wynchester home for suppers, but moments like this—moments of just Tommy and Chloe—had become few and precious indeed.

The carriage pulled to a stop before the York residence.

Her sister alighted from the coach, wicker basket in hand. Tommy followed her up the manicured path to the York town house.

Mr. Underwood opened the front door. Before he could greet them, Mrs. York all but knocked him aside with her hip in order to peer at the new arrivals.

“The Duchess of Faircliffe,” she squealed, with a glint in her eyes that did not match her obsequious tone. Tommy supposed Mrs. York never would forgive Chloe for “stealing” the Duke of Faircliffe from Philippa. “And you brought your great-aunt. Again.”

But Mrs. York moved out of the way. As usual, Tommy was accepted…as long as she was someone else.

“Are we early to the ball?” she quavered as she hobbled past the threshold.

Chloe put a protective arm about Tommy’s shoulders. “It’s not a ball, Aunt. We’re attending Miss York’s Thursday afternoon reading circle, as we do every week.”

“I don’t feel like dancing.” Tommy patted her white wig. “I think I’ll just sit.”

“A lovely idea, Aunt. There will be plenty of chairs at the reading circle.”