Page 24 of Claiming His Christmas Angel

Everything he’d learned about her said she was the perfect wife for him. Atticus was certain they could be happy together, because he firmly believed they would become the best of friends. Whether or not that friendship never went beyond the simple enjoyment of each other’s company, or became something more profound, wasn’t something he could predict. What Atticus was certain of right now was that he wanted to marry Octavia for who she was.

But how could he convince Octavia of that? Atticus shoved a hand through his hair. What the hell was he going to do? The longer this goddamn storm went on, the harder it would become to stay away from her. Turning away from the window, he looked around the studio. The lighting in the room was even better than the studio he’d had built at Ashland Park. His gaze fell on the portrait Octavia had painted of him. He knew damn well she’d not painted it for Liza.

Whatever her reason for doing his portrait, it meant she’d been thinking about him. That was a good sign. He’d not been lying when he’d said she was talented. She would be in high demand the moment someone saw this portrait. Atticus’s gaze swung toward the collection of canvases against the wall. There were splotches of paint on the back of several frames, which meant they were most likely completed paintings.

Curious to see more of her work, he crossed the studio to turn over the first canvas. It depicted a meadow in spring. Wild flowers of varying hues of color were splashed across a field, while the sun spilled over a dark-haired child running toward the viewer. It was exceptional. Atticus reached for another canvas, which was a landscape at the height of fall. With each new canvas he turned over, Atticus’s appreciation for her talent grew.

His fingers wrapped around the edge of another painting. The minute he turned it over, Atticus went rigid. It was another image of him. This one was a relaxed pose of him wearing only shirt and trousers, Arms folded across his chest, with one shoulder pressed into the frame of a tall window, he stared outward at the viewer. The small smile on his lips suggested he possessed a secret that amused him.

Still contemplating the painting, he set it down. The instant he picked up the last canvas and flipped it over, his heart slammed into his chest. The background was a bright cheery room, and he sat on a low stool, holding a small child up in the air.

The two of them were laughing, and Atticus was amazed at the look of happy contentment on his face. It was as if Octavia had looked into his heart and painted a future he’d been dreaming about from the moment he’d found her entangled in the middle of those damn rose bushes.

Atticus leaned the painting against the wall to continue studying it. Did the portrait depict something Octavia longed for where he was concerned? Was it possible she had feelings for him? An optimistic grin tugged at his lips. Perhaps it wouldn’t be as difficult to persuade Octavia to marry him as he had expected.

Returning the canvases to their original position, Atticus noticed it was even colder in the studio now than it had been when Octavia had been with him. In the fireplace, the charred wood had become little more than glowing red coals. He threw more logs onto the embers and stirred them back to life. When the fire was burning steadily again, Atticus moved to stand in front of his blank canvas. Smiling, he sat down in front of the easel, remembering the image he’d been seeing in his head for the past three weeks.

Not quite a month ago, Octavia had plowed into him as he’d been leaving her father’s study. He’d not known she’d returned to town and had been taken by surprise as she’d tumbled into his arms. The moment he’d pulled her into his embrace, she’d taken his breath away.

Dismayed bewilderment had swept across her face, while a wild pink color had flooded her cheeks. She’d not tried to free herself from his arms, and the moment he heard her ragged breathing, Atticus had wanted to kiss her then and there. Soft and pliable in his embrace, Octavia might not have understood what she was feeling, but she’d done nothing to push herself away from him.

Only when Lord Montford had appeared in the study doorway had Atticus found the strength to release her. She’d looked exquisite and adorable in her confusion. Even her cool words of gratitude as he’d released her had failed to hide the stirrings of desire he’d seen in her beautiful eyes.

Her bemusement hadn’t disappeared when the earl had introduced them, while the color in her cheeks had darkened. The woman had made him want to sweep her up off her feet and carry her away to someplace private where they could talk, while he could also steal a kiss or two from her.

Once he started applying paint to the canvas, Atticus lost all track of time. With each brush stroke of color, his subject became more clearly defined. By the time the light had begun to fade, he was much further along than he’d thought possible. Satisfied with his progress, he quickly cleaned up, then left the studio.

In the hallway, he caught the faint scent of gingerbread. With a grin, Atticus trotted down the stairs toward the smell. The aroma of his favorite cookie strengthened as he made his way to the kitchen, which was warm from the cookstove’s heat. For the first time, he realized the studio had been even colder than he thought. Standing in the doorway, he watched Octavia bend over and pull a cookie pan from the stove’s oven.

The soft, rounded curve of her plump bottom reminded him of Boucher’s painting, L'Odalisque Brune. Just like the master painter’s subject, Octavia had some of the most enticing curves Atticus had ever seen. The mere thought of her with nothing covering her splendid, lush figure was enough to make his body harden with need. Everything about her was exquisite, and for the first time since he’d stepped into the cottage, Atticus realized he was in serious trouble.

The woman was testing his willpower in ways no other woman ever had. It was a problem Atticus knew could cause him a severe set back with just one wrong step. As Octavia began removing the cookies from the pan, she turned her head toward him.

“Can I assume you’re here because you’re hungry?” Her mocking tone was softened by her smile.

“The light was beginning to fade in the studio, so I stopped painting for the day,” Atticus said with a shake of his head. “I thought I’d come down to see if you needed any assistance.”

“I’m almost done, but I wouldn’t mind if you would scrub some pots and pans.” She nodded toward a stack of pans next to the large farm sink.

“Then I’m the man for the job,” he said with a chuckle. Atticus rolled up his sleeves and walked towards the sink to fill a kettle with water.

“Oh, dear Lord.”

Octavia made a choking sound as if struggling not to laugh out loud. With a jerk of his head, Atticus glanced over his shoulder. Eyes sparkling with amusement, her hand covered her mouth, her entire body shaking in what was an obvious attempt to stifle her laughter. Atticus arched an eyebrow in puzzlement.

“Would you care to tell me what you find so amusing?”

At the question, Octavia’s hand fell away from her mouth, and peals of laughter poured out of her. It was one of the most beautiful sounds he’d ever heard. Still laughing, she pointed toward his trousers. Twisting slightly, he looked downward and frowned. What the devil did the woman find so comical? Had he somehow managed to sit in some paint? In an effort to see what had caused her unrestrained laughter, Atticus tugged on the side of his trousers to pull them snug against his legs.

“Stop!” she exclaimed. Her order came a split-second too late, and the sound of material ripping made him grimace as he felt air rushing through the split seam and over his buttocks.

“Bloody hell.”

Spinning about on the balls of his feet, Atticus faced her in order to hide the sorry state of his trousers. Octavia’s sparkling gaze met his, laughter still floating past her lips. As lovely a sound as it was, his mouth thinned at being the object of her amusement. Annoyed by her lack of sympathy for his current predicament, Atticus raised his eyebrows, eyeing her with irritation.

“You’ll forgive me if I fail to see the humor in my present condition.” Despite his stiff rebuke, Octavia remained unrepentant.

“You would if you’d seen your face the moment you made things worse,” she said with a mixture of dismayed mirth. When he scowled at her, Octavia winced, then laughed again.