Page 11 of Claiming His Christmas Angel

The odd behavior continued for several minutes before he shook his head and strode up the steps of the house. Atticus disappeared from view, and in the distance, Octavia heard the soft chime of the front door bell drifting up to the second floor. In that brief instant, she’d found herself wishing she was dressed so she could go downstairs and receive him.

Octavia sucked in a sharp breath, her hand flying up to the base of her throat. Had she lost her mind? It would be a foolhardy thing to do. The Duke of Ashurst was no different from Standfield and the rest of the bloodhounds pursuing her. No, that wasn’t true. Atticus was the most dangerous man she’d ever met.

The man wasn’t just beautiful to look at, he was likeable, so much so that it would be far too easy to lose her heart to him. Worse, the man was far too persuasive. She’d made that discovery last night as he’d refused to take no for an answer when he had insisted on helping her. But none of that changed the fact the man was in need of funds, and she had a large dowry that would satisfy that need.

For reasons she couldn’t fathom, the thought made her heart ache. Deep inside a voice gave her a reason, but she refused to listen. Atticus’s tall, masculine form reappeared on the pavement, where he resumed his pacing before halting with a sharp jerk. He wheeled about on his heel to stare up at the house’s façade. Instinctively, Octavia jerked back from the window a small distance. The frustration on his handsome face indicated he knew her refusal to meet with him had been deliberate on her part.

Curiosity swept across his face, and Atticus tipped his head to one side. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought he was staring at her bedroom window. Octavia went rigid. He couldn’t possibly see her—could he? The moment his gaze narrowed, her heartbeat skidded out of control to pound a frantic beat in her chest. A second later, he resumed his pacing in front of the house, and her taut muscles relaxed as her tension abated.

Atticus completed four passes in front of the house, then came to an abrupt halt directly below her window. He looked upward again, and her heart began beating a frantic rhythm in her chest. Dear Lord, he could see her. He knew she’d been watching him.

Mesmerized, she watched him bow, then straighten with a fluid masculine grace that radiated power and strength. The somber look on Atticus’s handsome face made her frown in puzzlement as he continued to stare up at her. Was his bow a gesture of defeat?

Unable to shift her gaze away from him, she watched Atticus settle his hat on his head in a firm gesture. Octavia inhaled a swift breath at the slow, confident smile curling his lips upward. Dear God, he had been awarding her victory today, but his smile said he had no intention of giving up.

Wheeling about on his heel, Atticus strode away without a backward glance. As he disappeared from view, Octavia realized the terrible truth. She wanted him to win this battle of wills with her. She wanted to let him apologize. No, she wanted more than that. She wanted to hear his rich, sinfully wicked voice ringing in her ears again. Octavia wanted to hear him laugh. She wanted to know for certain if it would sound as deep and husky as she imagined it would.

Octavia’s trembling hand stretched out to clutch at the window frame as she swayed on her feet. A second later, she collapsed onto the window seat’s flat cushion. God help her. She couldn’t be here when he returned. She needed to leave for the cottage—today.

Chapter 4

December 19, 1890

“Bloody hell,” she muttered, throwing her paintbrush down on the worktable. “What in heaven's name are you thinking, Octavia Stapleton?”

Irritated, she stared at the oil painting in front of her. It was good. No, it was better than good, and she hated it. Almost as if aware of her annoyance, the Duke of Ashurst stared back at her, a roguish smile twisting his sensual mouth. Even on canvas, the man could make her feel things she didn’t want to feel.

Disgusted, she jabbed her paintbrush into a small jar of turpentine and swished it around in the cleansing liquid several times. When finished, she pulled the brush out and dragged it through a linen cloth before repeating the process.

“I can’t even sell you,” she snapped as she glared at the man in the painting. Brush still in hand, Octavia sprang to her feet and crossed her cozy studio to the fireplace, and the jar of water that sat on the mantel to ensure it stayed warm. Vigorously swirling the brush around in the water with its dissolved soap shavings for several moments, she pulled it out, then returned to her easel.

With a careless gesture of annoyance, she wiped the moisture off the brush and dropped it onto another cloth for it to air dry. Scowling at the portrait of the Duke of Ashurst one last time, Octavia stalked out of the room and down the stairs. It had been warm in the studio, but she was shivering by the time she entered the parlor. All that was left of the fire she’d built this morning was a few chunks of charred wood and a bed of glowing embers.

It was no wonder the fire had died out. She’d been in the studio all day, not even stopping for lunch or tea. Octavia stirred the dark layer of blackened wood until there was a large section of coals spitting and flaring. Adding logs to the few flames dancing among the embers, she waited for the fire to begin licking hungrily at the new wood.

Poker still in her hand, Octavia stared blindly into the flames crackling in the fireplace. She’d been at the cottage for almost three months, and had almost nothing to show Mr. Martin the next time she saw him. Instead, what she had were three mediocre landscapes and three paintings of the Duke of Ashurst.

Unfortunately, the portraits were far better than those she’d painted of the surrounding countryside. Why on earth couldn’t she stop painting the man? Octavia grimaced in frustration. She knew why. Placing Atticus’s features on canvas had been her attempt to push all thought of the man out of her head and her dreams.

While it was impossible not to think about the man when she was painting his handsome features, she had managed to banish him from her dreams until three weeks ago when she’d gone to London for a week as part of the agreement she’d made with her parents. In one brief instant, that hard-fought battle had been lost. It was one of the reasons she’d just completed her third portrait of Atticus. Irritated she was still thinking about the man, she muttered an oath of exasperation.

“Damnit, Octavia. Enough. Let it go. The man will fade from your mind as soon as you stop painting his portrait.”

Mumbling another curse of aggravation, she jammed the poker back into its stand with a vicious thrust. Turning toward the window, she gasped at the sight on the other side of the glass.

“Oh dear God,” she breathed.

Dismay sped through her at the amount of snow blanketing the earth. Dusk was settling in, but she could still see how deep the snow was. She’d been so involved in her painting, she’d failed to check the weather this afternoon. When she’d climbed out of bed this morning, she’d been greeted by a thin layer of white covering the ground and flurries hitting her window.

Octavia’s initial reaction to the overnight snowfall had been one of delight. The light dusting of snow meant it would most likely be a white Christmas at Stapleton Hall this year. Memories of holidays past had flooded her head with images of hot toddies, childish fun throwing snowballs at the twins, and using the toboggan her father had brought home a few years ago.

Sunlight had bounced off the white blanket of snow this morning, and the thought of missing such wonderful lighting in her studio had made it impossible to resist staying for just one more night. It had been easy to convince herself she could rise early tomorrow and return to Stapleton Hall in plenty of time for the holiday festivities. It had been a poor decision.

The snow didn’t appear too deep, but Octavia could tell it was thick and heavy enough to make it difficult to see any hazards on the ground. Her original plan had been to ride home across the fields, but she had no intention of risking an injury to Napoleon. That left her with only one other choice. She would have to follow the roads home, which would make her journey twice as long.

Nibbling at her bottom lip, Octavia noted the snow wasn’t falling too hard. Hopefully, it would stop in a few hours. Her parents had been expecting her today, and she knew they were probably worried that she’d not arrived yet. But they knew she had a good head on her shoulders and wouldn’t try to travel if the weather were bad.

At least that’s what she hoped they would think. They’d not thought her so level-headed when she’d announced her plans to retire to the country the morning after Lord and Lady Ealing’s soirée. Octavia winced as she remembered their reaction when she’d informed them of her intentions.