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Atlas shifted in his chair, his whole body heating at her perusal. Not that she intended his reaction. He knew she was weighing whether or not to trust him. Yet having her green gaze roving his features made his pulse speed beneath his skin.

“I’m not going back, Atlas.” She stood abruptly. “If you care for me at all…” Her voice cracked and she swallowed. “If you ever did. Please don’t tell Douglas that you’ve found me.”

Atlas got to his feet too. She was going to leave, and the prospect of it made any plan he’d had when he’d boarded the train at Victoria Station entirely irrelevant.

Suddenly, she frowned at him. “You haven’t sent a telegram to him, have you? Telling him you know where I am?”

“No.”

Her jaw tensed and she tipped her head.

“I swear it, Pip. I’ve told him nothing.”

“Thank you for that,” she said in the softest tone she’d said anything since they’d sat down. “Goodbye, Atlas.”

She lingered, as if she might say more, but then turned and began walking away from him.

Atlas felt like a knife had been wedged between his ribs.

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.