Page 13 of Claiming His Christmas Angel

But it had been her father’s smug look of satisfaction the evening she’d accompanied her parents to the ball that made Octavia keenly aware Lord Montford had been the director of the scheme. Her mother had been a willing, although somewhat reluctant, accomplice. It had made her entire visit draining. The most trying moment of all had been seeing Atticus outside her father’s study the day before she returned to the country.

“For heaven’s sake, Octavia, forget the man. The only difference between him and all the other fortune hunters is his handsome face.”

And the way he makes you feel when he comes anywhere near you. The whisper drifting through her head made her release a sound of annoyance. Casting the thought aside, Octavia glanced out the window again.

Frost coated the corners of the glass panes. It was a sign tonight wouldn’t be fit for man or beast. She needed to ensure Napoleon was well-fed and warm throughout the night, and check on her hens. She made her way through the dining room into the kitchen and stopped for a brief moment in front of the stove. Before starting to paint this morning, she’d started a pot of lamb stew.

It had been simmering all day, and after a quick stir, she tasted it. The savory dish was delicious, and her stomach growled. Ignoring the sound, she glanced at the bread on the table next to the stove. She’d baked it yesterday, and had set it out next to the stove to warm it. While she knew it wouldn’t be quite as good as a loaf fresh out of the oven, she was certain it would come close. Octavia’s stomach growled again, and she hurried toward the back door. The faster she completed her chores, the sooner she’d be able to eat.

Throwing on her coat, the first step Octavia took into the snow sent heavy, white crystals spilling over the top of her ankle-high shoes to slide down over her feet. It melted into her stockings until her feet were soaked in an icy slush. In seconds, her feet were bitterly cold.

Octavia grimaced with annoyance, then muttered an oath. The sudden image of her father laughing at her verbal expression of discomfort made her smile as she imagined him cursing the snow as well. Heavy and wet, the snow was deeper than she’d expected, and her heart sank. If the weather worsened tonight, she might not be spending Christmas with her family.

Determined not to yield to such a depressing thought, Octavia reminded herself Christmas Eve was four days away. The weather was certain to be better by morning, and she’d be home by tomorrow night. As quickly as she could, Octavia waded through the thick snow to reach the small stable with its attached hen house.

The wet snow making her feet so cold was an incentive to work fast. Although she knew horses easily weathered cold weather, thanks to their thick coat of hair, Octavia still draped a blanket over Napoleon. Worried the storm might prevent her from reaching him tomorrow, she ensured he had enough hay to last him for the next two days.

To keep his water from freezing, she wrapped a heavy horse blanket around the water bucket, then nestled it in a substantial amount of straw to keep as much of the cold out as she could. Almost a half-hour later, she was satisfied Napoleon would be warm and comfortable through tomorrow night. Before leaving the stable, she made her way to the hen house that opened into the back of the small structure.

She’d laid fresh straw yesterday, but laid more on top to further insulate the hens roosting in their beds. Before she left, Octavia grabbed the egg basket and collected fresh eggs to join the ones already in her pantry. Satisfied she’d made all the animals as comfortable as she could, Octavia’s cold feet thanked her as she left the stable. The door latch dropped into place with a quiet clack, while heavy, wet snowflakes fell on her face. Rapidly blinking snow out of her eyes, she stared in dismay at the small yard between the cottage and barn.

When she’d left the house, the snow had been falling heavily, but there had been no wind. That was no longer the case, and she frowned at how drastically things had changed. Less than half an hour ago, the small stable’s weathered planks, and the cottage’s cheery light-filled windows had been sharp contrasts against the snow-covered landscape.

Now, a thin curtain of white obscured the cottage until it looked like the blurred focal point of a Cézanne painting. Muttering a vicious protest at the havoc nature had decided to inflict on her, Octavia followed the path she’d made from the cottage to the barn a short time ago. To her dismay, her tracks had already begun to disappear, and halfway to the cottage, her foot hit a rock hidden beneath the snow. Stumbling forward, she landed face down in the wet blanket of white.

“Bloody hell,” she exclaimed as she rose to her feet.

Brushing off the icy crystals clinging to her coat, Octavia uttered another curse beneath her breath. This time, she heard the note of fear in her voice. Brushing her apprehension aside, she reminded herself she would be fine in the cottage. Even if the storm lasted for a day or two, she had more than enough food.

The only thing she might have in short supply was fuel. Octavia glanced over her shoulder. The wood pile was just several yards away from the side of the barn, but she couldn’t see it and assumed it was buried under snow. Worse, unlike the cottage with its warm glow of light shining out of its windows, the barn was already fading behind the falling snow.

She debated whether or not to bring a few more logs into the house, but decided against it. Usually, Napoleon served as a draft horse, pulling a small cart filled with wood to the cottage. But with the weather rapidly deteriorating, it would be foolish to spend any more time outside of the cottage. She would simply be more frugal than usual with her wood fuel.

Her decision made, Octavia resumed her slow trek back to the house. The wind had begun to blow harder, and she shivered as it drove the bitter cold through the lightweight coat surrounding her plump curves. The moment she stepped through the back door and into the warm kitchen, she breathed a sigh of relief.

Octavia hung up her coat, then hurried into the salon to remove her shoes and wet stockings. Peeling her hosiery off, she hung them over the fire screen to dry before she realized the front of her gown was soaked through. Without thinking twice, Octavia undid the buttons running down the front of her gown.

Shedding the wet garment, she draped it over the back of the ladderback chair close to the fireplace. Shivering, she realized her undergarments were also wet. With a sound of disgust, she collected her shoes and hurried upstairs. She should have listened to her father almost a week ago, when he’d stopped for a visit, on his way back to the Hall from a day of business in London. Octavia winced as she remembered Lord Montford expressing his concern about the weather. She’d dismissed his worries with a promise she’d be home today. Regret spiraled through her.

For a moment, she mourned the fact she’d refused to let her father send a carriage yesterday so she could leave for the Hall this morning. It was less than a two-hour ride on horseback across the fields to Stapleton Hall. The travel time by coach was twice the amount. She preferred riding Napoleon, and if she’d accepted the carriage, it meant a coachman would have to spend the night in the cottage.

The last thing she wanted was someone under foot. She’d come to treasure the peace she’d found here, and the freedom to do as she pleased without any rules. Whether she spent her days painting as long as she wanted, riding Napoleon for hours, indulging in decadent cranberry crepes for breakfast, or reading into the wee hours of the morning, she was happy.

In the back of her head, a whisper pushed forward to remind her of the occasional bouts of loneliness she’d experienced. Octavia blew out a harsh breath of disgust, reminding herself marriage would be far worse. But the thought of not being able to spend Christmas with her family was a dismal one. She’d never spent Christmas alone before.

Tying her heavy wool robe closed, Octavia added another log to the fire in her room. Stirring the embers with a poker, she stood watching the flames flaring to life in the fireplace. Still shivering with cold, she dragged a chair over to the hearth and sat down. Even though she was hungry, she didn’t enjoy being cold.

Hands and feet extended toward the flames, Octavia glimpsed a silver frame on the mantel reflecting the firelight. Her gaze swung upward to stare at the small portrait she’d painted of her aunt.

Sadness spun through her. Even after five years, she still missed Aunt Sarah’s bright, vivacious manner. Octavia had spent many happy hours in the cottage with her aunt. Every summer, she’d spent several weeks visiting her mother’s sister. When her aunt had seen a watercolor Octavia had done one afternoon, Aunt Sarah had set about converting the cottage’s third bedroom into a small artist’s studio.

Octavia had always possessed a talent for painting, but her true skill lay in portraits. That much was evident by her most recent portrait of Atticus. She swallowed hard as an image of another of his portraits filled her thoughts. It was the most intimate of all the paintings she’d done. Octavia had painted him as he’d appeared that night in the garden after he’d given up his coat to cover her damaged gown.

The portrait didn’t just depict Atticus’s masculine beauty. It reflected the raw, seductive, passionate nature of the man. Beneath his shirt and trousers, his powerful muscles were sharply defined, while the sensual line of his mouth was curved in a small smile. It reflected the amusement he’d exhibited when she’d lost control of her tongue, and it held the same wicked twist that implied he knew something the viewer didn’t.

How she’d managed to capture so much in a single portrait was beyond her comprehension. But it was his eyes that made Octavia feel things she knew she shouldn’t feel. Just looking at the painting was enough to make her ache with need. Perhaps worst of all, she’d known that if Atticus had entered her studio while painting his portraits, she would have surrendered to him without hesitation.

Every night, her dreams only confirmed how quickly she would submit to his touch without any thought of the consequences. Octavia’s body tightened everywhere as images from her dreams fluttered into her head. Visions of Atticus making her writhe beneath him as his mouth explored every inch of her. Every time she awoke from those dreams, her sex had ached until she’d been forced to alleviate her hunger.