Chapter 4
Four
It’d been hours since Philippa left Atlas standing in the garden of the Royal Pavilion, and her heart still ached at the memory of it. That last glimpse of him especially, when he’d looked as miserable as she felt.
Good heavens, she’d been a fool.
She’d promised herself that she’d never again allow the sort of melancholy she’d felt in the last couple of months to pull her into its undertow again.
So why was she feeling so bereft? Nothing had truly happened between them.
Certainly, nothing had changed. He’d come here at Douglas’s urging, and now he would go back to London, and she would step into a future that didn’t include him.
Yet there’d been a moment as they’d stood looking at each other, touching each other, when she’d known she could fall right back into his arms and would be happy to do so.
Then a warning bell had sounded in her mind. She’d remembered that Lizzie told her Atlas was in the process of negotiating a match with an earl’s daughter.
Yet, ninny that she was, she’d still wanted to kiss him in the Royal Pavilion garden.
If he’d pulled her closer, she would have let him make her tremble in his arms the way he had that night.
But he would still walk away, just as he had that night, and she’d be heartbroken again.
Heartbroken afresh. For even now, she could admit that her heart hadn’t truly mended.
So she’d come back to her boardinghouse room and cried.
Then she’d paced, forced herself to drink a cup of tea that the landlady had sent up, and now she sat at the little desk in the corner, writing letters to send to her loved ones back in London.
One for each of her sisters, one for Lizzie, one for Douglas—the shortest of the bunch—and one for her aunt in Derbyshire, who she knew would worry about her.
Only one letter remained, and she sat staring at the mostly blank page of the one she intended to send to Atlas.
Her first thought had been to confess everything.
Perhaps she could put down in ink what she couldn’t say aloud.
Then, once she’d boarded a steamer for America and was gone for good, he would at least know the truth of her feelings.
But almost immediately, she’d debated whether such a confession was fair.
What was the point of pouring her heart out when he was preparing to marry someone else? She perceived the selfishness in the impulse. But then she grew angry. How could he not know what she felt?
No words of love had ever been exchanged that night in the garden, but he must have felt the truth of her feelings in her body, seen it in her eyes, known it by the way she kissed him.
They’d clung to each other as if nothing else in the world mattered, searching for bare stretches of skin so that they could be connected without all the layers of clothing between them.
Thinking back on it now, she wished they had gone further.
That they had made love and she’d been truly and utterly ruined by him.
Not because she wanted to force him to make some honorable offer of marriage, but because if they had, she would be able to take that memory with her.
When she sailed across the ocean to America, even if she never fell in love again, she would know what it was to be loved for a moment, for an hour.
That would sustain her. She took up her pen again, dipped it in ink, and then laid it back down.
Was Atlas still in Brighton? Or had he taken a train back tonight?
Suddenly, finding out felt essential. Because if he was still in the city, maybe she could have that memory she craved. That pure, glorious memory to take with her, wherever she ended up. Of course, he might laugh her out of his hotel room, but maybe he wouldn’t.
Today, in the garden, he’d been on the edge too. His gaze had locked on her lips. If she’d given him the least bit of encouragement, he would have kissed her.
Maybe it could be a parting gift they gave to each other.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she went to the chair where she’d laid out the three dresses she’d brought with her.
She selected the one that was a bit more elegant than her day dresses.
Within twenty minutes, she’d donned the gown and put her hair up a bit more artfully than she had that morning.
She studied herself in the mirror, wondering if she was mad for even contemplating this bold plan.
In the eyes of Society, this would make her a ruined woman.
A wanton. But what did that matter if she was leaving English Society?
If she went as far as America, no one would know who she’d been before.
The whole point was to create a new life.
But before she did, she wanted to know. No, she needed to know what it was like to truly be loved by Atlas.
Despite promising himself that he’d heed Philippa’s wishes, the minute she’d strode away at the pavilion and disappeared from sight, Atlas had started after her.
He’d kept his distance, feeling only a need to ensure that she got to where she was going safely.
Then he’d begun feeling terrible for not letting her go as she’d asked him to.
But the truth was that even if he never saw her again, never spoke to her again, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to let her go. Not in his heart or in his thoughts.
Then, just when he’d told himself to accept her decision, he’d watched her return to the same street the tea shop was located on and enter a boarding house. He’d waited another half an hour, fearing he might see her carrying her luggage out and heading to the train station.
When she didn’t emerge, however, he’d started off toward his hotel.
Now, hours later, he’d accomplished nothing besides composing a telegram message to Douglas that he’d yet to send. He’d abide by Philippa’s request to wait at least a day before alerting anyone in London as to her whereabouts.
He glanced over at the meal tray the hotel had sent up, all of it untouched.
Instead, he went to his traveling case and pulled out a flask, then swigged down a few swallows of whisky.
He knew liquor could never fully deaden the misery he was feeling, but the burn down the center of his chest was a satisfying distraction.
Tossing the flask aside, he considered again whether he should go to her boarding house and plead with her.
If he told her of his feelings, would it be enough to persuade her to stay?
To return to London with him? If he were to offer for her, they’d have Douglas to contend with and he’d have to smooth matters with Halford to avoid any kind of social embarrassment.
Halford had friends in high places, but that was precisely why Atlas was confident the man would find a more advantageous match for his eldest daughter.
He had to at least tell Philippa the truth. Didn’t she deserve to know? Yet he still hadn’t left his room. Fear held him back. As it stood now, she was leaving England to avoid marriage to Kelmscott. If he confessed his feelings and she still left, it would be to avoid marrying him.
“Good God, you’re not a coward,” he said to himself aloud, then immediately reached for his suit coat and turned toward the door of his hotel room.
Before he reached it, someone knocked on the other side.
He frowned, opened the door, and wondered if he might have drifted off and was dreaming.
Philippa stood on the threshold wearing a different gown than the one she’d worn in the morning. This one was a dark green velvet that made her eyes sparkle like finely-cut emeralds.
And in those eyes, he saw an openness that made his breath snag in this throat.
Last time he’d seen her, hours ago, she’d closed herself to him. When she’d told him goodbye, he’d felt a finality in it. He could not imagine never seeing her again, but he’d heard something in her voice that made him fear she didn’t feel the same.
But now here she was, just when he was on the cusp of going to her. As if there were some unseen thread that tied them together, and she’d sensed his feelings and his decision to seek her out.
“May I come in?” she asked quietly when he simply stared at her in silence like an awestruck fool.
“Yes, of course.” He stepped back from the threshold. His mouth watered when she swept past him and he caught that sweet floral scent he associated only with her.
He closed the door and turned to her.
“There’s something I must say to you,” she blurted.
Atlas smiled. “There’s something I must say to you too.”
“May I go first? If I don’t, I suspect I’ll lose courage and bolt out the door again.”
He nodded. He certainly didn’t want that. “By all means. You go first.”
She twisted her hands together and her cheeks began to pinken. “What I’m about to say may shock you, but will you allow me to get it all out before you give me your reply?”
“Very well. I’ll listen.”
“Earlier, we mentioned the night we kissed. And we both agreed we do not regret it.”
Atlas knew she didn’t want him to speak, but he nodded to encourage her to continue.
“But I do regret one aspect of that night.”
Atlas’s mouth went dry and his heart began to thud wildly in his chest. He didn’t want her to regret any of it, but he wouldn’t blame her if she did. He’d acted completely without propriety and then made it worse by not speaking to her afterwards.
She hesitated, seeming to weigh how that declaration had fallen.
“Go on,” he told her quietly.
“What I regret is that we stopped.” She notched up her chin after those words were out, almost as if she was daring him to disagree with her. “If I am going away, then I would like to take that with me.”
Atlas was suddenly confused. “Take what with you, Pip?”
“The memory of one night with you.”
Flames licked along Atlas’s skin and he’d never felt such a powerful ache of longing in his life.
Philippa dipped her head. “Perhaps you think me shameful.”