Chapter 3
Three
Philippa stepped out of the tearoom and laid a hand on her chest where her heart was rattling wildly. She knew she should keep moving and get as far away from Atlas as she could. He would no doubt return to London forthwith and tell her brother that he’d found her.
But her legs felt like jelly, and she couldn’t seem to drag in a full, deep breath.
She’d cried herself to sleep so many nights after that transcendent evening in the Ballentines’ garden.
Then the weeks of silence had stretched out, and her heart had felt more and more jagged, even as she told herself none of it was a surprise.
Of course, Atlas would not offer for her.
She was his best friend’s sister with little to no dowry, and Lizzie had told her many times that he was seeking a wealthy bride.
Yet in those moments between them, none of that seemed to matter. They’d belonged to each other for those moments, without fear or shame or denial of what was between them.
She heard the bell above the tea shop door ring and finally forced her feet into motion. Turning away from the shop, she started down the pavement at a quick pace.
“Philippa.” He was behind her in an instant.
His scent, his heat, that deep voice that seemed to rumble straight through her.
Ignoring him, she kept walking, though her gait was a bit unsteady. It was as if a part of her would always bend toward him, even if she was determined not to.
“Pip, please.”
Stopping and balling her hands into fists, she swung around to face him. “Stop calling me that! I have not given you leave to call me that. You forfeited that privilege.”
“Forgive me.”
If he’d said anything else, she would have turned her back on him and kept walking away. But he said the two words in a low voice, roughened with emotion. She knew he wasn’t speaking of this moment.
“Will you?” he asked even more quietly. Nearly a whisper.
Everything around her faded—the buildings to her right, the promenade and the channel waters stretching out on her left. All she could see was Atlas.
The rain had stopped and the sun had come out, and his hair had curled rebelliously as it dried.
It shouldn’t have charmed her so much. Her hands shouldn’t be tingling with the need to draw her fingers through the gilded strands.
His hair was thick and soft and had sifted through her fingers deliciously that night two months and four days ago.
The night she’d vowed to stop thinking about, but still did. Every day it came to mind. He came to mind. She knew she was being a fool. Knew she shouldn’t be so eager to step closer, to get lost in his gaze.
She took a step. Then he stepped closer.
They stood but a few inches apart, and he tipped his head to look down at her.
Sun glinted in his eyes, and his hand came up.
With a whisper-soft touch, he slid a loose curl away from her cheek and tucked it behind her ear.
He let his fingers linger a moment before lowering his hand.
Philippa felt the stroke all the way to her toes.
“Maybe it’s not fair for me to ask,” he said softly.
“No, it’s not.” She tried to infuse even an ounce of the anger and heartache she felt into her reply, but her voice emerged as soft as his.
“Where are you going?” he asked, voice still gentle. “And may I join you?”
Philippa huffed out a little chuckle. “Now we’re to promenade together as if we’re on holiday?”
His eyes widened as if she’d shocked him. “We could.”
“Time to spare until your return train to London, have you?”
“Yes,” he said quickly, then amended to, “no. I booked a room at the Carlston and have not yet purchased a return ticket.”
Philippa licked her lips. There was something in his eyes. A dangerous glint. She’d seen it only once before and it had led them to…
“I don’t want to part from you yet,” he rasped out. Then he stared at her, waiting.
The words were like an arrow that found the chink in her armor and pierced the part of her that felt the same. The part that had not wanted to part from him that night in March. The part that wanted more closeness with him, not the silence that had stretched between them.
“I was going to visit the Royal Pavilion.” Philippa didn’t know why she told him, why she was all but inviting him to join her. But she still felt his words rumbling through her mind and chest. I don’t want to part from you yet.
“May I join you?”
“On one condition,” she said, her body already humming the way it had whenever he was near in the last few years. “I don’t wish to speak of Douglas and his marital plans for me, or about me returning to London. No attempting to convince me of anything.”
His mouth shifted as if a grin was trying to break free. “Very well. We shall not speak of returning to London or of your brother.”
Atlas felt like he’d won some prize, one that he didn’t even know he’d been seeking. But when he’d watched her stride out of that tea shop, it hadn’t only been an impulse to follow her. It had been a need. He’d had no other choice but to trail after her.
She’d spoken of going to Europe. Of boarding a steamer to journey to America.
And fear sat in his chest now like a millstone.
Trepidation at the thought that if he let her out of his sight, she might give in to that impulse.
Within the hour, she could secure a ticket and board a boat to cross the channel or a ship to begin her trans-Atlantic escape to the states.
He’d never see her again. And his mind—and his heart—could not even begin to grapple with that possibility.
He’d followed her, not knowing what he was going to say.
But then it struck him. What he wanted most was to simply spend time with her.
It was what he’d been yearning for during the last two months, and yet it was, ironically, why he stayed away.
He’d even kept his distance from Douglas.
He’d feared that if he mentioned Philippa, his friend would see it all on Atlas’s face, or hear his feelings leaking into his voice.
And now he was here with her and they’d been walking for a quarter of an hour. Making small talk. Talking about the weather. Talking about Brighton. Talking about the things that she wanted to see in the city.
She’d even dragged a few stories out of him about his own family’s visits to the seaside when he was a child.
The Royal Pavilion was in sight now, rising up ahead of them.
The design created a unique silhouette against the horizon that was gradually clearing of clouds and revealing the bright blue sky beneath them.
The pavilion’s domes, arches, and narrow minarets were stunning, set amidst lush lawns and a well-manicured garden.
“It’s quite a feast for the eyes, isn’t it?” Philippa said a little breathlessly.
The building was lovely, but Atlas couldn’t help thinking the description was more apt for the lady beside him.
She hadn’t bothered to fix her hair and several glossy strands hung loose.
His self-control where Philippa was concerned had already been proven to be all but nonexistent, but even so, he tried to resist the urge to reach out again and tuck the dark-brown wavy strands behind her ear.
Not to tidy, just to have an excuse to touch her.
As they walked along, he’d tried not to stare and to keep his focus ahead of him.
But when she spoke in her usual animated way, her hands gesticulating to emphasize her descriptions, he couldn’t help but look over.
He’d always liked her company, but after that night in the garden, he’d come to crave it. For today, he was going to let himself bask in it. Yet he didn’t want it to only last for today. He didn’t want it to end. To hell with Douglas and his stupid scheme to marry her off to an aged earl for money.
Why couldn’t it be this gloriously simple between them? Could he not find a way to have her with him always?
“I think we can go inside,” she said, pointing toward a queue of people forming outside. “Or we could walk around the grounds.”
“We should do both,” he said, grasping at a way to extend their time together.
“Let’s start with the grounds. I do like a lovely garden.” She looked back at him, eyes widened and appearing suddenly chagrined.
It seemed any mention of a garden between them now would bring thoughts of that night. That one incandescent moment that he could not forget, no matter how hard he’d tried.
He didn’t want the unease between them, but he didn’t know how to broach the topic so they might discuss it as friends. Yet, of course, he wanted more than friendship with Philippa now. He couldn’t help but wonder if she did too.
Mostly, he was pleased to find she didn’t hate him. He’d convinced himself in the last couple of months that she must. He’d bungled all of it. If he were an honorable man, he’d admit that he let things go too far that night. But he couldn’t bring himself to regret any of it.
“Do you regret it?” The question was out before he could stop it, before his brain even realized that his tongue was forming the words.
“Beg your pardon?”
“What happened between us,” he whispered because now that he’d brought those stolen moments up, he needed to know.
“Oh.” She slowed her pace so quickly that she almost lost her footing.
Atlas reached out, and she placed a hand on his arm to steady herself.
“I’m sorry,” Atlas told her. “Forgive me. We need not speak of it.”
She lifted her head and locked her gaze on his. “I think perhaps we should speak of it. I’d…hoped we would.” Then she stared down at the grass beneath their feet and said nothing more.
Atlas heard the pain in her voice, and he felt that pain like a cut to his own skin, sharp and aching.
“I asked you earlier if you would forgive me, but I know I don’t deserve forgiveness,” he said. “I handled all of it poorly. I should have spoken to you afterwards. I should have…”