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To marry for love was impractical.
Unbidden, the thought of another young lady arose in his mind. Just as quickly, he pushed the thought away, as he’d been doing for two months.
He could not think of her. Would not. She was his best friend’s sister, had no dowry to speak of, and her brother had already arranged a marriage for her with a man who…
No. Atlas pushed that thought away too. If he pondered Philippa Morgan’s match with Lord Kelmscott too long, he was liable to tear something to shreds or put his fist through the nearest flat surface.
The idea of Philippa and Kelmscott…
Terrible images flashed in his mind, and white-hot rage began to coil in his belly. He breathed deep, forcing air from his lungs, wrestling with his meandering thoughts until they ceased.
Yet her face remained in his mind’s eye like the flare of the sun on a bright day. Open, lovely, everything reflected in her expressive moss-green eyes.
A new notion struck, pushing thoughts of her away. Did he even know the color of Miss Caulfield’s eyes? He’d spoken to her several times. He should, and yet he couldn’t recall.
“I say, Stonefield, are you quite all right?”
“Of course,” Atlas snapped.
Halford’s bushy white brows arched. “You look rather distressed.”
As soon as the words were out, both of them turned their attention toward the door of Atlas’s study. Someone had begun shouting on the other side of it, and Atlas recognized the voice.
A moment later, the familiar double-rap of his butler sounded at the door.
“Come,” Atlas barked, his emotions far less controlled than they should have been.
Barclay stepped into the room. “My lord, Sir Douglas Morgan insists—”
The elderly retainer didn’t get to finish his sentence. Douglas stormed in the room past him.
“I need to speak to you, Stone. Urgently.” Only after getting the words out did his long-time friend seem to notice the other man in Atlas’s study. “Forgive the interruption. The matter is of the utmost urgency.”
“Let us reconvene at a more convenient time,” Atlas said to Halford, who’d already gotten to his feet.
The nobleman didn’t look pleased about the abrupt dismissal, but he gave Atlas a nod of leave-taking. He gave Douglas a less amiable look and strode from Atlas’s study.
“Forgive me, my lord,” Barclay said from the threshold, his wizened face pinched in dismay.
“It’s quite all right, Barclay,” Atlas told him. “See that we aren’t disturbed.”
Barclay dipped his head once, then departed, shutting the door behind him as he did so.
Only then did Atlas notice the state his friend was in. Circles shadowed the skin beneath his eyes, his hair and clothes were disheveled, and there was a desperate look in his gaze.
“Good God, what’s happened?”
“I need your help, Stone.”
Atlas gestured toward the chair Halford had vacated. “Sit. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Douglas waved a hand at the chair, as if the prospect of lowering himself into it was almost offensive. “This must be handled with the utmost discretion.”
“You know that you can trust me.” Atlas had never seen his friend so rattled.
“It’s Philippa.”
Just the sound of her name sent a little shiver down Atlas’s back, and the anger he’d felt earlier turned to dread. “What about her?”
