Page 1 of Claiming His Christmas Angel

Chapter 1

August 5, 1890

Agentle breeze brushed over Lady Octavia Stapleton’s skin as she walked through the open French doors leading out to Lord and Lady Ealing’s patio and the gardens beyond. Inside the ballroom, the heat had slowly made her skin feel clammy, and her corset seemed more constricting than usual.

Looking up at the night sky, she made out the constellation Cassiopeia then spotted the plough. Trees near the patio blocked part of the sky, and Octavia made her way down the terrace steps to cross the lawn for a better view of the stars. It didn’t take long for her thoughts to drift toward the topic she’d been mulling over for some time now. Yesterday, after months of contemplation about her future, she’d reached a decision.

This was her last season.

She would be happier living as a spinster at the cottage Aunt Sarah had bequeathed to her than trapped in a loveless marriage. Over the past few months, Octavia had come to accept certain facts. After three seasons, she’d yet to meet a man who possessed even two or three of her father’s wonderful qualities. Nor had she met a man who didn’t need her money. It was a well-known fact her father’s wealth would ensure she and her sisters would have substantial dowries.

Most of all, and as unrealistic a hope as it was, she wanted a man who would love her whole-heartedly, despite her plump figure or the fiery temper she’d inherited from her paternal grandmother. The painful truth was that her prospects had dwindled significantly, and the only men seeking her company now were noblemen in need of a bride with a large dowry.

Never, in even her worst nightmare, would she agree to marry a single one of them. For months now, her polite refusals to dance, accept callers, or any other attempt to avoid them had daunted their pursuit of her. They hunted her like bloodhounds chasing a fox. Several of them had even been bold enough to point out marriage was better than spinsterhood.

Many of her suitors had stressed their willingness to overlook the scandalous nature of her mother’s background. Most in the Set envied the Earl and Countess of Montford’s more than twenty years of marital bliss. But for some, not even an earl was exempt from breaching society’s rules when it came to marrying his household maid.

The scandal had always made certain circles in the Marlborough Set shun Octavia and her family. But if a man’s pockets were light, money made any woman acceptable as a wife. With every obsequious compliment, Octavia was finding it harder and harder to control her fiery temper as one unacceptable suitor after another tried to curry her favor. Worst of all, every single suitor treated her as if she were a child or an imbecile. She was far from either.

Octavia had become so irritable with the situation, even her parents had begun to notice her sharp tongue. While they understood her refusal to marry a man she didn’t love, she knew they still held out the hope she would find a love as meaningful as theirs. They were destined to be disappointed, especially when she informed them of her plans. A husband wasn’t necessary to building a full and happy life for herself, especially when it gave her the freedom to do what she loved best—painting.

Her sisters could give their parents grandchildren when they married. Octavia would be quite satisfied painting portraits. Three years younger than her, the twins had been an unexpected, yet joyous, addition to the family. Octavia had worried the Marlborough Set would find them lacking as they had her, but it had proven a moot point of concern.

Her sisters were quite popular, and their first season was a glowing success. Unlike her first season, a voice in her head pointed out. She uttered one of her father’s favorite oaths beneath her breath, then winced. If Lady Montford had heard the unladylike curse, her mother would have eyed Octavia with stern disapproval.

Lord Montford would have immediately fled the room, struggling hard to contain his laughter on his way out the door. Clara and Serena would have mimicked their mother’s appalled expression. However, Serena would have been forced to bite back a laugh, while Clara’s stoic features would have been contradicted by the laughter sparkling in her lovely violet eyes.

Heavy footsteps echoed off the brick floor of the terrace. Seconds later, Lord Stanfield called out her name. No matter how often she refused to acknowledge the man, he was the most tenacious bloodhound of the lot. Anger spun its way through her. She couldn’t even enjoy the night sky in peace.

Ready to serve up the man’s head on a platter, Octavia took two steps back toward the patio, then abruptly changed course. Skirt raised to the indecent level of her calves, she raced toward the cluster of trees bordering the patio’s sidewall. If she eviscerated the man verbally, it would make a scene. Whether or not another guest overheard her or the man spread the rumor himself, the outcome was inevitable. It would make her mother the subject of ridicule and derision. After all, what could one expect when one’s mother had been a maid who’d dared to marry up the social ladder? In seconds, she reached the cluster of trees.

The foliage that had blocked her view of the sky when she’d first walked out onto the patio became a cloak of darkness and scented pine that kept her well-hidden from the viscount. Stodgy, balding, and condescending, Lord Stanfield made her skin crawl whenever he was near. Octavia shuddered as she heard him lumber down the patio steps to the pebbled walkway leading into the garden. Grateful to hear his voice receding deeper into the grounds, she sighed. In another moment or two, when she was certain the toad hadn’t doubled back, she could return to the ballroom without him underfoot.

Resting the back of her head against the patio wall, Octavia stared up at the night sky again. It was beautiful tonight. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen, which allowed the stars to shine brighter than usual in London. Although she knew it would be even lovelier in the darkness of the meadow beside the cottage.

The abrupt sound of male footsteps on the terrace made her close her eyes in disgust. Someone else to spoil her enjoyment of the night sky. Octavia bit back a fierce sound of angry frustration. It was clearly time to go home, if only to avoid a scandal the instant she lost her temper, which was close at hand. A moment later, the heavy tread of male footsteps carried the stranger back toward the French doors.

Minutes later, the man’s footsteps moved away from her. Whoever he was, the man had failed to find who he was looking for and had decided to return to the Ealing’s ballroom. Time to find Lady Ealing and plead a headache so she could escape this infernal affair. Octavia released an irritated sigh of disgust, then peeked around the corner of the patio’s sidewall for any sign of Lord Stanfield.

Relief made her muscles relax when she saw the empty lawn and garden path. While Lord Stanfield might emerge from the garden at any moment, she was willing to risk outrunning the doddering old fool back to the ballroom. Relieved she’d outwitted Lord Stanfield, Octavia headed up the grassy slope to the patio stairs. She was halfway there when quick, light footsteps echoed off the brick pavers above her right shoulder.

“There you are.”

“Here I am,” a man growled.

“Oh for the love of God,” Octavia muttered beneath her breath as her footsteps slowed to a halt. The man hadn’t returned to the ballroom, after all. Now she could either interrupt a lovers tryst or risk Stanfield catching her on the patio as she raced back inside. Uncertainty swept over her as she tried to decide whether to reveal herself or return to the shadows.

“Good Lord, I’ve not seen you scowl at me like that in ages.”

“I am not scowling,” the man growled. Despite his dissent, his sharp reply made it hard for Octavia to believe he wasn’t glaring at his companion. Whatever his facial expression, she could tell he was quite put out by the woman’s amusement.

Despite his annoyed tone, the warm, silky notes layered beneath his aggravation were easy to hear. Transfixed, Octavia experienced a rush of pleasure. It was a voice one wouldn’t forget, and she’d never heard it before. Dark and rich, his words echoed off the patio to spin a web of fire around Octavia’s senses.

It was as if someone had wrapped her in velvet that had been left out in the hot sun. Heavens, any woman he made up his mind to seduce would give way to that voice without a word of protest. Every word and inflection would reduce a woman to a state of complete submission.

“Yes, you are, and you cannot look so grumpy when you go back inside.”

“Why the devil not? And I do not look grumpy.” A weary sigh accompanied the last part of his response.