Page 10 of The Bride Chase

“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…”

“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.