Page 18 of Claiming His Christmas Angel

Not willing to risk her slamming the door in his face, Atticus stepped over the threshold into the warm kitchen. The moment he entered the cottage, Octavia retreated several feet, then put even more distance between them as he closed the back door. In silence, he dropped his small satchel of clothes on the floor. He always carried two changes of clothes with him for emergencies, and tonight’s snowstorm fit that qualification. With a hard tug, Atticus pulled his gloves off, then shoved them into his coat pockets.

Snow fell off the wool overcoat the moment he shrugged the heavy garment off his shoulders. Grimacing, Atticus darted a quick look in Octavia’s direction, before his mind wrapped itself around the fact she was wearing her night clothes. The notion that only a few pieces of clothing covered her voluptuous curves knotted his muscles until they hurt.

Atticus expected to find her glaring at him, but was startled to see her stunned expression hadn’t changed. Clearing his throat, he steeled his senses to ignore her state of dress. It was difficult to do, but he succeeded.

“Your parents wanted to ensure you were safe.” He didn’t add he’d also been worried, or that he’d promised to return to Stapleton Hall with her in time for Christmas. “I stabled my horse with yours before coming to the door.”

Octavia’s mouth moved as if she was struggling to speak. A soft sound escaped her before she turned and went to a kitchen cupboard. In seconds, she’d pulled out a bowl, plate, and silverware and laid them on the table. Bowl in hand, she crossed the floor to the stove and nodded toward the bread he’d seen through the window.

“Slice what you want,” Octavia said in an emotionless voice as she ladled hot stew into the bowl.

When finished, she collected a goblet off the cupboard’s open shelf, then carried it and the stew out of the kitchen. Bread plate and silverware in hand, Atticus followed her through the open doorway into a small dining room. Octavia was pouring him a glass of wine, and he noted she was trembling.

As he set his plate down, his arm brushed against hers. The innocent touch caused her to jump, and a small amount of wine splattered the white tablecloth. Octavia uttered something incoherent, and the wine bottle made a loud thud as she set it on the table with restrained force. Without a glance in his direction, she moved to the opposite end of the table, then sat down in front of a meal his arrival had interrupted.

Atticus followed her example and sank down into his chair, watching her for a long moment. The woman seemed oblivious to his presence as she ate in silence. Everything about her demeanor made her look as if she was eating alone at the table. Atticus’s jaw tightened. He’d known it wouldn’t be easy to earn her forgiveness or gain her trust, but her chilly reception made him think it might be even harder than he’d expected.

The soft clinks of silverware on china was the only sound in the room as they ate. Octavia sat rigid in her chair, and Atticus tried to think of a way to ease the tension between them. Octavia was the first to finish eating. Her movements rushed and jerky, she disappeared into the kitchen with her dishes. A loud screech blistered its way through the air into the dining room, and he heard the handle of the water pump moving up and down at a vicious pace.

“Damnation,” Atticus muttered.

The woman was furious he was here. He wasn’t surprised. The entire way to the cottage, he’d known he was the last person she’d want to find on her doorstep. Not only that, Octavia was stubborn. Convincing her to marry him wouldn’t be easy.

Atticus froze as his gaze swept from Octavia’s place at the end of the table to the kitchen doorway. Was that what he’d been doing all these weeks? Had he been trying to find her not just because he wanted to apologize, but because he wanted to marry her? The question made him wince.

Of course, it was why he’d been searching for her. Atticus’s mouth twisted with self-disgust. If Liza were here, his sister wouldn’t hesitate to box his ears for being so dim-witted. From the first moment he’d seen her glaring at him while entangled in those damn rose bushes, he’d known Octavia would make a wonderful duchess.

Her actions that night had revealed a strength of character he admired, as well as the fire burning just beneath the surface. Then there had been her desperate struggle to hide her vulnerability. It had aroused his protective instincts. But over the past couple of months, he’d learned much more about her. Atticus had come to see her through the eyes of those who loved her best.

Almost as if aware he wanted to know everything about her, Octavia’s family had regaled him with numerous stories. Her twin sisters had taken great delight in sharing how quick she was to anger and just as quick to laugh. When Lord Montford had confirmed Octavia’s fiery temper, he’d revealed her occasional use of unladylike phrases, a fact Atticus was well-acquainted with.

Lady Montford had gasped, then chastised her husband for sharing one of their daughter’s less than favorable qualities with Atticus. The earl had shrugged as he’d offered his wife a cheerful grin before pointing out he was under no illusions as to his eldest daughter’s foibles, which he believed were far outweighed by her good heart.

Almost every visit to Montford Place expanded his knowledge of who Octavia was. Atticus had heard stories of how she would bring home stray animals and nurse them back to health before finding them good homes. Then there had been the time she’d caught a man beating his horse. Octavia had become so incensed she’d taken the whip out of the man’s hand to use it on him before paying him for the horse and bringing the animal home.

Lady Montford had told him the story of how Octavia had brought home a fox cub when she was ten. She’d been adamant in her insistence that she be allowed to care for it until it could return to the wild. Her parents had agreed with great reluctance, fully expecting the animal to disappear into the woods when it was old enough. Instead, the small creature had refused to leave Octavia’s side until the day it died. Every story her family had shared emphasized Octavia’s generous nature and kind heart.

“But will she be generous enough to forgive your stupidity, Ashurst?” he mumbled as he ate another spoonful of stew.

Not one day had passed since that night in the garden that he didn’t lambast himself for failing to realize who Octavia was. While he knew it was unlikely she would have believed him, if he’d been thinking with a clear head, he could have apologized for his role in Liza’s well-intentioned meddling.

Atticus wanted to string up every man Octavia had met who hadn’t appreciated how beautiful she was. In the garden that night at the Ealing’s affair, he’d found her as lovely as Aphrodite. But he’d realized the injustice he’d done her the day she fell into his arms in front of Lord Montford’s study. For the first time, he’d seen her features free of shadows.

The sunlight from the windows flanking the front door had revealed how exquisite she was. The reddish highlights in Octavia’s brown hair had absorbed the sunbeams and shimmered with fiery glints of color. Gray eyes, wide with astonishment in her oval face, had been filled with warmth. Another emotion had shimmered there, but he’d failed to decipher it.

Pink lips parted in surprise, she’d looked as tempting as an unexpected dessert. And Christ almighty, her curves. A grand master would have fought the devil himself to paint Octavia’s Rubenesque figure. But Atticus didn’t intend on fighting the devil when he committed her to canvas.

It wasn’t just Octavia’s body that aroused him. Her fiery spirit and the passion sizzling beneath the surface had captured his imagination. Atticus was certain Octavia didn’t have the slightest inkling as to the power she possessed when it came to holding a man enthralled. But he knew first-hand just how captivating she was.

Metal clashed against metal in the kitchen, sending the harsh sound into the dining room. Atticus grinned. He could think of more useful ways for the woman to release her anger. His amusement died almost instantly as he saw the darkness beyond the dining-room window.

All he could see was snow edging the window pane. If the weather cooperated and kept them snowed in for two or three days, Atticus might be able to convince Octavia that his intentions were honorable. Somehow, he needed to make her understand he wanted to marry her for who she was, not her dowry.

It wouldn’t be easy to make Octavia see he wasn’t like other men. It had become second nature for her to believe every man seeking her company was no different from the last. The one thing he knew with all certainty was Octavia would have captured his attention anywhere, just as quickly as she had in the Ealing’s garden that night.

Swallowing the last bite of his stew, Atticus wondered where she’d learned to cook. Not even his cook, Mrs. Danvers, could make a lamb stew this flavorful. Gathering his dishes, he carried them into the kitchen. Octavia had her back to him, but the way her spine grew rigid said she was aware of his presence. Stopping mere inches away from her, he set his dishes down. At the soft clink of his china, Octavia slowly turned to face him.

“Since I cooked supper, you can clean up. Of course, that’s assuming you know how.”