Page 5

As she approached the pier, she noticed people milling about, and more seemed to come every few minutes. Everyone in Brighton, it seemed, was drawn down towards the water.

Stepping onto the pier, she marveled at the sense of walking on water, striding out above the sea. Even with the clouds above, there was a shimmer off the water itself as it rippled toward the beach and then back again.

She kept going, far, far out, and felt as if she could walk straight into the horizon. The notion of it made her exhilarated and a tiny bit anxious. Looking straight ahead, she knew that France lay beyond the horizon, and she wondered if she was going to have to take the step of leaving England.

Standing at the pier’s farthest edge, she noticed the storm clouds darkening the sky overhead and then felt the cool tickle of a raindrop on her cheek. Then another dropped onto her forehead. She swiped them away, hoping the rain would soon pass, but it only increased. Soon, it was bucketing down. The battering raindrops fell so swiftly onto the wooden pier that the sound grew loud. Philippa reached up to lift the collar of her coat at the same moment a shadow fell over her, and the steady patter of raindrops on her head stopped. Now the pattering fell on a wide black umbrella someone had lifted over her head.

Swinging around, she looked up into blue eyes as deep as the channel’s waters. Raindrops dappled his gold-blond hair that was always enticingly overlong. And most dastardly of all, he wore the hint of a smile on his full lips.

“What—? How—?” She couldn’t get out anything she wanted to say. All the air in her lungs had become tangled, and her heart thrashed in her chest so hard she could hear the thump of it in her ears.

“Hello, Pip.”

Philippa gasped. Oh, damn him. No. No, she wasn’t doing this. Wasn’t ever going to allow herself to fall back into the well of those blue eyes, into the heat of his muscular arms. And how dare he call her Pip? That was a nickname only he used, and she’d allowed it because he was special to her, as she was to him. Or so she’d once believed.

“No,” she said, but it emerged too breathy. Too quivery. “No!” she said more loudly.

He swallowed hard at that, and she watched the muscles shifting beneath his perfectly square jaw. She shouldn’t have noticed the perfection of his jaw or his lips, or anything else about him. Yet there was a bit of golden stubble on that sharp jawline that glittered and caught her eye. It made her wonder if he’d been up late at some Society soiree.

When she could finally bring herself to look into his eyes again, they were searching over her face, then down her frame. Not the way they had that night in the garden. There was no heat amid the blue, just worry.

“You’re all right?” he said, his inflection turning it into a question.

As if he cared. As if he hadn’t walked away from her and then ignored her for two months and four days.

“As you see,” she said with as much pertness as she could muster while he was standing so close that she could smell the rich spice and citrus scent of his shaving soap.

“I need to speak to you,” he insisted.

Her heart, ridiculous, traitorous thing that it was, leapt at those words. Hadn’t it been what she’d wanted since that night?

“Why?” Philippa crossed her arms and took a step away from him. Feeling the cool rain on her neck, she shivered.

As if he’d noticed her shiver, Atlas Ballentine, Viscount Stonefield, stepped back and slipped off his dark overcoat, then approached.

Philippa was too stunned to do anything but stare at him as he flicked the coat out and wrapped it around her shoulders. She pressed her lips together to stifle any reaction to how lovely and warm the heavy wool garment felt around her shoulders. Or how enticing his scent was as it wafted up from the fabric surrounding her.

“You left London without a word to anyone.”

Philippa narrowed her eyes as she watched him. Did he truly care?

“Douglas came to me, and he asked me⁠—”

Philippa pulled the coat from her shoulders and shoved it at him, then started to stride past him. Of course, he’d come because Douglas sent him to fetch her. Of course, it had nothing to do with Atlas and his feelings about her, whatever those were.

He reached for her, his long fingers closing around her wrist.

“Please, Philippa, let us find someplace dry and talk.” He spoke quietly. It almost sounded like a plea.

Turning back, she saw a beseeching look in his eyes too.

He truly did want to talk, and she knew it was to convince her. He might as well have been her brother standing before her. They’d been friends since childhood. Of course, Douglas would send him as an emissary. Her brother was clever enough to know she wouldn’t have stood still this long for him.

She dropped her gaze to where his hand held her wrist, his signet ring glinting in the sliver of sunlight that had slipped out from behind the clouds.

The rain had slowed, turning to a light drizzle.

“There’s a tea shop,” Philippa heard herself say. “We can talk there.”