Page 25 of Claiming His Christmas Angel

“Oh, I am…sorry, Atticus. I meant no offense, but surely…you can see…the irony,” she stammered in between gasps of laughter. “While my dress was beyond repair, your trousers will be easy to mend.”

That Octavia could even compare his situation to hers that night in the Ealing’s garden astonished him. Although he wasn’t happy about his wardrobe malfunction, it was nothing compared to the pain and humiliation she’d suffered that night at the Ealing’s soirée. Octavia was a remarkable woman in so many ways, and far too many men had failed to see the woman beyond her dowry. Atticus rolled his shoulders in a sheepish shrug, then chuckled.

“You’re correct,” he said with a grin. “Although it was your unladylike and inappropriate language that made me laugh.”

Pink color flooded her cheeks, and she averted her gaze as her laughter faded. The woman had no idea how she’d bewitched him that night. All he’d wanted to do then, and now, was pull her into his arms and tell her how much he admired her for being herself. How much he liked the fact she possessed none of the affectations other women did. Most of all, he wanted to make her understand how much he cared about her happiness. With a small smile, her gray-eyed gaze locked with his.

“I did manage to sound quite unrefined that night, didn’t I?”

“I found it quite amusing. Charming, in fact. It said you are capable of blunt honesty when speaking your mind, even if others find it shocking.” Atticus’s teasing words made her blush deepen, but a mischievous smile curved her lips as she met his gaze.

“Then allow me to be blunt now,” she chuckled. “You need to change, and bring those trousers back with you, so I can repair the damage.”

“I bow to your wisdom,” Atticus said with a grin as he sidled past her and backed his way out of the kitchen, which made another laugh part her lips.

It didn’t take long for him to change, and when he returned to the kitchen, her smile was filled with mischief as he handed her the torn trousers. Sitting down at the table, she opened up a small box filled with thread and other items necessary for sewing.

Atticus adjusted his shirt sleeves and began to tackle the pile of dirty dishes. As he worked, he occasionally glanced over his shoulder at Octavia. Head bent over his trousers, she pulled a threaded needle in and out of the material. He’d just finished drying the last pan when he heard her utter a sound of triumph.

“There, good as new, perhaps even better, since the thread I used is of better quality than what was used when these were made.” Octavia held up the repaired trousers and smiled at him when he turned around.

“Thank you,” he said with a grin. “Although how I ripped them in the first place is beyond my comprehension.”

“The chair you were using is rickety. I imagine the head of a nail was pushed up just enough to snag at the seam.” Octavia frowned. “I think it best if you use the chair that is in your bedroom next time. It’s in much better condition.”

“I’ll do that,” he said with a nod as Octavia stood up and drape the repaired trousers over the back of the chair.

“I imagine you’re hungry, since you missed tea. Supper won’t be much,” she tossed over her shoulder as she disappeared into the larder then returned a moment later with a plate of cold mutton, cheese and bread. “I didn’t anticipate a storm keeping me here for Christmas, so the larder is low on some things. But I’ve enough staples to prepare a somewhat traditional holiday dinner.”

“You may still be home for the holiday,” he said gently as he heard the forlorn note in her voice. “I doubt this storm can keep up its momentum.”

“Perhaps, but I shall miss the pheasant Mama always has Mrs. Tavers prepare.” Octavia nodded at his attempt to bolster her spirits, a faraway look on her face.

“Another thing we have in common.”

“What?” She cocked her head to eye him with curiosity. “Pheasant?”

“Yes, I prefer it or chicken over beef. And what do you have planned for dessert?” he asked, his mind wandering to a dangerous image of a particular delicacy he’d been craving for quite some time.

“Oh, I would never forget dessert,” she said with a laugh, but he glimpsed resignation flickering in her gray eyes that puzzled him. “I made a number of things today, including a plum pudding. It’s soaking in some brandy I keep on hand for whenever Papa stops for a visit on his way to Stapleton Hall.”

“And these gingerbread cookies?” Atticus’s hand hovered over the cookies on the table. Octavia narrowed her gaze at him, and he let his arm drop. He shrugged and grinned. “Well, they happen to be a favorite of mine.”

“Favorite or not, they’re for Christmas Eve tea. So don’t even think about touching them,” she said with the sternness of a nanny. Octavia thrust the plate of meat and cheese into his hands. “Now take this and the bread into the dining room.”

“I’m yours to command, my lady.”

“I have serious doubts about that,” she quipped with a laugh. “I suspect you’re far too fond of giving commands, not following them.”

“For you, Octavia, I’m more than willing to please you, no matter what you asked of me,” Atticus said softly as he met her gaze.

A delicate flush spread across her cheeks, but she didn’t look away from him. Their gazes locked, and he ached to demonstrate just how much he was willing to please her. They stared at each other in silence for a long moment, and in his head, he urged her to step forward and kiss him of her own volition. For a fraction of a second, she appeared poised to do just that, before she shook her head and smiled.

“All I ask right now is that you carry our dinner into the dining room.”

“Ahh, so you have other commands you intend to issue in the near future.”

At his playful comment, Atticus watched her cheeks become a rosy red. The moment Octavia bit down on her lower lip, he was grateful he was holding their dinner. Unable to reach for her, he eyed her with a hunger that surprised him.