Page 26 of Claiming His Christmas Angel

“Perhaps you’d like to order me to kiss you again,” he murmured. “I’m more than willing to do so.”

“You are a scoundrel, your grace. Do you know that?” she whispered.

Husky and soft, her voice emphasized the desire flaring in gray eyes. In a split second, his cock stirred in his trousers. Christ Jesus, the longer they were alone in this damned cottage, the closer he was to seducing her. Almost as if she could read his thoughts, Octavia’s gray eyes softened and took on a slumberous look.

Desire glowed in the depths of her gaze as her mouth tipped upward in a sultry smile, Did the woman realize what a tempting morsel she was or that any other man would have viewed her expression as an invitation? Other men would already have had her partially undressed.

Hell, at the moment, he was ready to take her right here on the kitchen table. But he knew that would be a mistake. Once they started something, Atticus wasn’t sure he’d have the strength to stop. All too aware of how close he was to devouring her, Atticus swallowed hard, then smiled.

“While I’m most definitely a rogue, I’m an obedient one, my lady. And I believe you ordered me to put dinner on the table.”

“Yes, I did,” she whispered.

Disappointment replaced her sultry look, and Atticus wanted to drag her into his arms. Instead, he took a step forward and leaned down to brush his mouth across her lips. When he stepped back, the sultry look had returned to her features, and Atticus offered up a silent prayer of thanks to the almighty that his hands were otherwise occupied.

Chapter 8

Frustration tugged a repressed sigh from Atticus as he strode into the dining room. Tension had his muscles pulled so tight it was almost painful. He wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take. Remembering his ultimate goal, Atticus steeled himself with a soundless grunt of determination. He’d be damned if he’d throw away all the progress he’d made with Octavia in the last twenty-four hours making her comfortable in his company. All he needed to do was remind himself what would most likely happen if he lost control of his senses.

Octavia set a place for him at the head of the table, then moved to the opposite end to arrange hers. He growled with irritation. Just because he refused to act on his base needs didn’t mean he had to avoid being near her. Without saying a word, he collected his place setting, then carried it to the seat next to Octavia’s. Startled, she jerked her head up to stare at him in surprise.

“Conversation is difficult when we’re at opposite ends of the table,” he muttered, feeling awkward. Sunshine couldn’t have been any brighter than her smile, and he grinned, relieved he’d moved his place setting. Atticus knew it had been the right choice.

The two of them sat down and filled their plates to eat in companionable silence. For several minutes, Atticus tried to think of something to say. Octavia appeared more distracted than usual as she stared off into space between bites. Reaching for an apple in a bowl set on the table, Atticus cored it, then sliced the apple into manageable slices. Picking up a piece, he leaned back in his chair and took a bite of the fruit.

“You seem very far away. What are you thinking?” Atticus took another bite of apple followed by a small chunk of cheese as she jumped, then turned her head toward him.

“I was trying to think of what to paint next.” Frustration furrowed her forehead, and he arched his eyebrow.

“You could paint a landscape after a snowstorm,” he pointed toward the window and the snow dancing across the glass panes while beyond the flakes it was dark.

“I suppose, but I doubt Mr. Martin will be too happy with me.” Octavia glanced over her shoulder at the window, while Atticus stiffened at the unfamiliar name. Damnation, did he have competition?

“Mr. Martin?” he asked through clenched teeth.

“He’s a London art dealer who’s bought several of my paintings. I told him I would have five new canvases to offer him at the end of January, but I’m short by two.” Her explanation made him relax.

“There were a number of canvases facing the wall in the studio. Are they completed works?”

Atticus kept his tone even, not wanting to reveal he already knew the answer. Instead, he made it sound as if he was just curious. Avoiding her gaze, he reached for another slice of apple. The small inhalation of misgiving she breathed in didn’t surprise him, but Atticus ignored the sound.

“Only three of them are suitable for sale,” she said with a hint of panic.

“Would you care for me to give you an unbiased opinion about the two you think are inappropriate? It could be you’re mistaken as to their quality.” Atticus smiled pleasantly. “We both know every artist is their own worst critic.”

“No.” Octavia’s immediate response didn’t surprise him. Tension pulled her mouth tight before her mouth curved upward in a strained smile. “It’s kind of you to offer, but even if I wanted to sell them, they’re unsuitable for Mr. Martin’s gallery.”

“I see,” he murmured.

Elation swept through him. She didn’t want to sell his portraits. It meant they were special to her. The question was, did her refusal to part with the paintings mean she had feelings for him? If so, were they strong enough to convince her to marry him? He could only hope her refusal to part with the paintings meant she had feelings for him. Atticus bit into a piece of cheese to keep from smiling broadly. Octavia drew in another quiet breath, and he turned his gaze toward her. Before he could speak, she smiled.

“You’re painting something quite special, aren’t you?”

Her question effectively redirected the conversation, and surprise shot through him. Eyebrows arching upward, he stared at her. Pink color invaded her cheeks as she averted her gaze. “I brought you tea this afternoon, but you were oblivious to everything except the canvas in front of you.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“I didn’t want to interrupt your concentration,” she said with a smile. “I know how easy it is to forget everything, but what you’re painting. And it’s only when the light begins to fade that you realize how long you’ve been working.”