Chapter 3 #2
“I don’t regret it,” she rushed out. “If you’re going to say it was a mistake or that you feel guilt over those moments, then I’m not sure I want to hear it. Because I…don’t regret it. I never will.”
“I was only going to say I regret how I behaved afterwards, not the moment itself. Perhaps that makes me dishonorable or a poor friend to your brother.” He took a step closer. She did not retreat. “But, Philippa, I don’t regret it either.”
For a moment, he thought she might bridge the short distance between them. Some part of him willed her to. He wanted her in his arms again like he wanted his next breath.
Instead, she tore her gaze from his and looked at the garden surrounding them. “We should explore, don’t you think?”
“Yes, of course.” He would let her lead. If she indicated she didn’t wish to speak of what happened between them, he wouldn’t force the issue.
As they took in the neatly arranged beds, Atlas mostly took pleasure in watching the delight bloom on Philippa’s face. When she stopped to bend and smell a rose, he did too. Not because the scent particularly interested him, but because he enjoyed sharing the experience with her.
Admittedly, the pink-petaled roses did have a lovely smell.
Atlas fought the urge to say something utterly foolish about how their scent was nothing compared to Philippa’s.
Whether it was a perfume or a soap she used, the sweet floral scent he’d tasted on her skin was one he’d begun to crave.
That night behind the townhouse, he’d found it equal parts comforting and enticing.
That was how he felt about her presence too.
Constant temptation and yet there was comfort in how right it felt to have her beside him.
As he watched her flit from flower to flower like a hungry bee, he got lost in a daydream. A fantasy of how the rest of their lives could be, stretching out like this. The two of them together, talking, walking, enjoying each other’s company.
He didn’t want to marry Jane Caulfield. After spending an hour with Philippa, the prospect was unthinkable.
And once that possibility was discarded, another thought rose in his mind.
The idea of pushing aside every doubt, every fear, and every argument he made to himself about duty and finances.
Who the hell cared if he made a match that Society saw as beneficial?
All the rest fell away and only one certainty remained.
Somewhere along the way, between her first Season out and those perfect moments in the garden when he’d held her, kissed her, touched her, he’d fallen in love with Philippa Morgan.
“Atlas?”
Philippa stood some distance away, staring at him quizzically. “You look very strange. What’s the matter?”
“I don’t feel strange,” he told her honestly.
She tipped her head as if his words made no sense. “I said you looked strange.” She approached until they stood close again. “You look as if you’ve just remembered something important. What did you forget?”
“Nothing.” He smiled at her. “But I have realized something.”
At his smile, her eyes widened a bit, and a lovely pink blush stained her cheeks.
“Oh. Well.” Turning away from him, she gestured again towards the beds of flowers. “Shall we continue?”
“Do you not want to know what I’ve realized, Pip?”
When she looked back, it wasn’t curiosity he saw in her green eyes. More like anxiety, or perhaps annoyance. “Perhaps later. For now, we’ve come to see the garden.”
Later. Atlas quite liked the sound of that because it implied this would not be the end of their time together. He could be patient for later with Philippa.
“What are you those?” He pointed to a tall, pink towering assembly of plants at the back edge of one of the beds.
Atlas knew she loved flowers and had become particularly interested in them after the death of her mother, who’d been an avid gardener.
Philippa had once told him how she’d been reading her mother’s books on various plants and garden design.
“They’re foxgloves.” She shot him another look over her shoulder. “There are many in the Ballentine garden. Don’t tell me you do not recognize them.”
“I don’t pay as much attention as I should, apparently.
” There was too much to worry about since the death of his father.
Too many responsibilities that demanded his time.
He felt a bit foolish for not bothering to appreciate the blooms in his family’s garden, and yet it was in that garden when he’d become a different man.
She said she didn’t regret that moment, and he never could. In truth, it was as if he could divide his life by that encounter. All that had come before kissing Philippa Morgan, and now the blind fool he’d been since.
“Tell me about them,” he urged because he suspected she knew all sorts of details about each flower she encountered.
“You really want to know?” she said, glancing back at him once more.
“I do.”
“Well, the Latin name is digitalis,” she began, slowing so that they could walk side by side.
“The medicine,” Atlas said. “Our family doctor prescribed it for my father.”
“Yes, exactly. Though too much is dangerous, so foxgloves are quite toxic.” She sounded a bit like a governess reciting details for a pupil, and he couldn’t help but smile.
Catching sight of his grin, she leaned into him briefly. “Stop laughing at me. You’re the one who urged me to talk to you about flowers.”
That brief brush of their arms only made his smile deepen. “I’m not laughing at you. I’d be content to listen to you ramble on about almost anything.”
Stopping mid-stride, she turned to him and planted her hands on her hips. “Rambling on?”
“Yes.” He stepped closer. So close he heard her inhale sharply. “The key point is that I am content to talk to you, regardless of the topic.”
Philippa’s lips fell open just the slightest bit. Just as they had that night. He hadn’t been able to resist then any more than he wanted to now.
“Atlas…” she breathed, then reached out to lay a hand against his chest.
He wasn’t certain whether she meant to push him away or connect them to each other, but he knew what he wanted, so he reached up to cup her cheek.
She swallowed, and her eyes fluttered shut for a moment. When she opened them and looked at him again, she looked suddenly sad.
“We shouldn’t do this,” she said quietly. “I…can’t do this. It hurts too much. You should return to London, and I should continue on my journey. I’ll be of age in a year, and maybe I’ll return to London then. Or perhaps I’ll find I like life elsewhere better.”
“Philippa, please—”
“No, listen to me, I beg you.” Her fingers curled around the edge of his suit coat’s lapel. “I will not blame you if you tell Douglas where I am. Indeed, I want you to tell him that I’m safe and well and know my own mind.”
“Pip—”
“No.” She tightened her hold on him and her voice grew louder.
“What happened in that garden was wonderful, but both of us knew it would go no further.” She looked up at him again, eyes glittering.
“Give me a day at least before you tell Douglas, and I’ll write to you once I’ve reached my destination safely. ”
“What destination?” He swept his hand down, curving his fingers around her nape. Her skin was warm, so soft, and he didn’t want to let go. Beneath his palm, he felt her pulse hammering.
“If I don’t tell you, then you won’t have to lie.”
With a deep exhale, she loosened her grasp on him and dropped her hand. Then she slipped out of his gentle hold and took two steps back, away from him.
“Goodbye, Atlas.” Her lips curved up into the barest of smiles, though her eyes still held a look of the same devastation he felt. “Please let me go this time.”
Atlas did. Because loving her meant he’d give her anything she asked of him, even if it meant watching her walk away and feeling as if his own heart was shattering.