Page 11 of The Bride Chase

“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.

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.