Page 14 of Claiming His Christmas Angel

The loud sound of her stomach growling made her start. Toes toasty and warm, she hurried downstairs. Ravenous, she filled a large bowl with stew while adding several slices of bread to a plate. Minutes later, she was enjoying the hearty meal in the dining room. Octavia savored the flavor of the stew, knowing her aunt would have declared it as good as hers.

At least she would have a somewhat festive holiday meal if the weather didn’t allow her to go home for Christmas. When she’d visited the village three days ago, the owner of the only store in the small community had convinced her to take more produce than usual. The shopkeeper had also convinced her to buy five pounds of flour and a jar of honey that was larger than the one she usually purchased. Then Mrs. Barton from Galloway Farms had seen her leaving the village and insisted Octavia follow her home to replenish her supply of milk, but she’d refused the eggs the woman offered, knowing her hens provided more than enough for her use.

The only real problem was her supply of firewood. Although she’d filled all the wood bins in the house yesterday afternoon, last night had made her realized it might be a day or two before she could replenish her supply again. It had been a mistake to tell Mr. Barton to delay his usual delivery until after Christmas. The man always stacked several days of wood near the back door, but she’d used the remainder of that supply yesterday.

Perhaps she should have taken her father’s suggestion to install a boiler for heating and cooking. She dismissed the idea without a second thought. The thought of coal leaving black soot everywhere in the cottage made Octavia resistant to installing the boiler. But her pragmatic nature reminded her it was inevitable she would be forced to make the change. Until then, Octavia intended to enjoy the comforting sound of a fire crackling in the fireplace as it spread heat out into a room, or as wood burned in her cook stove, warming the kitchen.

Slathering a slice of bread with butter, Octavia closed her eyes and took a bite. The hearty wheat flavor tugged a sigh of pleasure past her lips. It was almost as good as Aunt Sarah’s. She’d just swallowed another spoonful of stew when she heard what sounded like someone knocking on the back door. Jumping with surprise, Octavia’s body grew rigid with tension. Who could be foolish enough to be outside on a night like this? This was the kind of storm where people died if they lost their way in the snow.

Octavia dismissed the sound as the wind rattling a window. She took another bite of her stew, followed by a drink of wine. The abrupt pounding on the back door made her heart skip a beat, and several drops of wine sloshed out of her goblet onto the table cloth as she set the glass down. Frowning with concern, she hurried into the kitchen. The moment her hand wrapped around the doorknob, Octavia hesitated as her fingers brushed over the key in the lock.

Shifting toward the window, she pulled the curtain away from the wood frame a small amount to peer out at whoever was banging on her door. Snow swirled around a tall man, but he was hunched over as if trying to remain warm. She was all alone in the cottage, and the idea of letting a stranger into the house made her heart skip a beat in fear.

“Who is it?” she demanded.

“Lord Montford, sent me.”

Startled by the aristocratic inflections in the man’s voice, Octavia frowned in puzzlement. If her father had sent one of the staff to check on her, she would have recognized them the minute they spoke. The man on the other side of the door was a stranger. In the back of her mind, a whisper of a memory said she should recognize the man’s voice.

Still hesitating, her fingers hovered over the skeleton key in the lock. The stranger might be an aristocrat, but it didn’t mean it was safe to open the door and let him in. As she stared down at the key, she frowned. Perhaps she should tell the stranger to sleep in the barn. A voice in the back of her head derided her mercilessly. It was far too cold out to make someone stay in the barn.

“Open up the damn door, Octavia, before I freeze to death on your back doorstep.”

The strong, authoritative command made Octavia suck in a small gasp of disbelief. It wasn’t possible. She had to be mistaken. Fingers shaking, she fumbled with the key in the lock. Iron scraped loudly against iron as she turned the key, then pulled the door open.

Snow blew into the kitchen through the open doorway, accompanied by an icy wind. Octavia shivered not from the freezing temperature, but because of the tall, imposing figure in the doorway. The impossible had happened. A second later, her heart slammed into her breast as she met the Duke of Ashurst’s dark blue gaze.

Chapter 5

Atticus knocked on the cottage’s back door a second time. Lips twisted in a sardonic grimace, he corrected himself. No, the first time he’d politely rapped his gloved knuckles against the wood. When it hadn’t opened as quick as he wanted, Atticus had pounded the side of his fist against the door in sharp, vicious beats.

Was the woman already in bed? The well-lit cottage said it was warm and cozy inside. Something he wasn’t at the moment and hadn’t been for the past five hours. A low growl of irritation rumbled out of him as a clump of snow slid off the eaves and splattered him with the wet stuff. He tugged his hat off his head and slapped the snow off its black silk material.

For not the first time in recent weeks, Atticus wanted to wring Liza’s damn neck. If not for his sister, he wouldn’t be worried about the reception he was about to receive from Lady Octavia Stapleton. In fact, if he’d met the fiery-tempered woman under different circumstances, he was confident he wouldn’t be standing outside this small cottage in the middle of a blizzard, freezing to death.

The morning after the Ealing soirée, Atticus had presented himself at Montford Place, hoping Octavia would be in a more conciliatory mood. She hadn’t been, as he’d been informed she was not receiving callers. But when he’d seen Octavia in the upper floor window of her house, he’d experienced the hope that her determination not to receive him was wavering.

Atticus had known an apology was just the first step toward earning the woman’s forgiveness. Once he’d convinced her of his deep remorse, then he could find a way to earn her trust. He could only imagine how deep her humiliation must have run that night. Knowing he’d played a role in her embarrassment was not a pleasant experience.

The first week after the Ealing affair, Atticus had called at Montford Place every day. Each time he asked for Octavia, the butler had said she wasn’t receiving callers. By day five, Atticus had realized he needed to implement a different strategy. If she wouldn’t receive him, then he would have to find another way into the house.

From that day forward, he’d offered to be Liza’s escort whenever she called at Montford Place. If he was unable to take her, he made it a point to be the one who fetched his sister whenever she was visiting her friend Clara.

He’d followed that plan for two weeks, with no success. Toward the end of the second week, Liza had questioned his behavior. Jaw clenched, the memory of the conversation rolled through his head as if it had happened this morning. Liza had been talking away about an upcoming ball, and Atticus had not been paying much attention to her chatter. She’d exhaled a sound of exasperation.

“The least you could do is make a pretense at listening to me, your grace.”

“What?

Startled, Atticus jerked his gaze from the row of neat, well-manicured houses on Thayer Street to stare in surprise at his sister, seated opposite him in the carriage. They were almost at Montford Place, and he’d been contemplating whether or not to confess his interest in Octavia to her father if she wasn’t at home today.

“Not only that, but I am beginning to think you don’t trust me, Atticus.” At the odd statement, he frowned at her in bewilderment.

“What the devil makes you think I don’t trust you?”

“For the past two weeks, you’ve made a point of escorting me to and from Clara’s house, but nowhere else,” she said. “Do you suspect my visits to Montford Place are nothing more than an excuse to see some man without your knowledge?”

Liza’s coolly spoken question made his mouth fall open in surprise.