Page 47 of Claiming His Christmas Angel

What Atticus had offered her was a passion between them that would be filled with pleasure, even ecstasy, but without love, how could it possibly last? It couldn’t. The day his desire for her died, life would become a living hell seeing him everyday knowing he didn’t love her. She didn’t have the courage to endure such an existence.

Octavia took a quick step back from Atticus, she shook her head, all the while her heart was breaking as she put distance between them. A look of what she thought might be anguish flashed across his face before his expression became that of a marble statue, devoid of emotion.

“I have no doubt we would find the passion you just describe in each other’s arms,” Octavia said in a soft voice. “But I cannot settle, Atticus. I’m sorry.”

The intense desire and passion on his face just seconds ago was gone. There wasn’t a single hint of emotion in his impervious expression. Not even the tic in his cheek she’d seen so often as he fought to control his desire for her was evident. His face revealed nothing. When he didn’t speak, her heart twisted violently in her breast. It created a physical pain that forced her to suppress a cry of agony. Stomach churning, Octavia swallowed the bile rising in her throat.

“I allowed my desire for you to blind me to everything except the thought of the pleasure I would find in your arms, Atticus. I know I haven’t made it easy for you, and I’m terribly sorry for my behavior.”

Octavia paused for a moment, trying to determine what he was thinking. When she failed, she winced. What had she hoped for? His forgiveness? She dragged in a deep breath of air, then released it.

“You’ve acted honorably with me, Atticus, and I have not. I should never have asked you to be my lover. It was selfish and shameful of me to put you in such a difficult position.”

“And the scandal?” His voice devoid of emotion, she watched Atticus’s mouth thin with either contempt or anger, she didn’t know which.

“I’ll leave for the Continent, perhaps even America, before the New Year. Whatever scandal this incident brings, it will be short-lived as I’ll no longer be in England. My absence will silence any gossip.”

Atticus stared down at her without speaking, and Octavia wanted to weep at the pain lashing its way across her body. It was as if someone was whipping her with a riding crop, and it was all the more agonizing as the man she’d been so foolish to fall in love with didn’t say a word. The air in the dining room was frigid and cold as he nodded his head with a sharp, curt acceptance of her decision. Her heart twisted painfully in her chest.

“I’m no longer hungry, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go to my room.”

Without waiting for a response, Octavia turned away and walked out of the room. When she was certain Atticus could no longer see her, she ran up the stairs. By the time she closed her bedroom door behind her, tears were flowing in a steady stream down her face.

Unable to take another step, Octavia pressed her back into the door and slowly slid down to the floor. Curled up in a ball, she began to choke out soundless sobs of pain, knowing she would never feel whole again.

Chapter 14

The moment Octavia disappeared from the dining room, Atticus’s hand grabbed the door frame. Fingers digging into the wood, he fought to remain standing. He’d lost.

You’re a fool, Ashurst. You thought you could convince her to marry you without telling her you loved her.

Atticus shook his head as he rejected the accusation the voice in his head taunted him with. Telling Octavia he loved her wouldn’t have made any difference. Octavia wouldn’t have believed him. She would have seen it as a ploy on his part to try and persuade her to marry him. Any confession of love would have made her even more resistant to his marriage proposal. He didn’t even know if she had feelings for him other than desire.

The memory of the paintings she’d done of him made him release a guttural noise of angry frustration. She had to feel something for him. Why else would she paint three different portraits of him? The flat side of his fist slammed into the wall as he spun around and returned to the kitchen.

He stared at the frying pan and pitcher of pancake batter he’d set aside. Like Octavia, the last thing he wanted was food. Furious at his inept handling of the situation, Atticus set about cleaning up the kitchen. Dishes clanged loudly against each other as he worked. It did little to ease the numbing pain assaulting him.

When he’d finished putting everything away, Atticus sank down into a ladderback chair against the wall, then bent over to hold his head in his hands. What the hell was he going to do without her? God knows, he couldn’t marry anyone else. A voice in the back of his head reminded him of his duty to produce an heir. Atticus dismissed it.

Liza had already received three marriage proposals, and he knew there was one suitor in particular she’d been spending a great deal of time with. He could wait until his sister’s first child was born. If it was a boy, then it would be Liza’s son who’d be the next Duke of Ashurst.

Leaning back in the chair, Atticus stared up at the ceiling with a sense of despair. He’d never experienced this kind of torment in his entire life. Atticus had had mistresses whose company he’d enjoyed a great deal. There had even been the woman he’d met in America that he’d briefly considered proposing to. In the end, he’d realized they were unsuitable for each other. The truth was, Atticus had never been in love until he’d met Octavia.

No matter where he was, he found himself anticipating the moment when she walked into a room. Just the sound of her laughter or the teasing smile she offered him was enough to make his heart clench in his chest. And he loved the way her cheeks became a rosy pink when he teased her. Octavia was the most courageous woman he’d ever met. He loved everything about her, right down to her stubborn nature and hot temper.

She was perfect for him.

They were perfect for each other, and he didn’t know how to make her see that.

§ § §

December 23 1890

The light in the studio had dimmed significantly, and Atticus stepped back from his easel to study his portrait of Octavia. It only needed some small touches and it would be finished. The painting was the best work he’d ever done.

It hardly compared to Octavia’s talent, but he was pleased with the portrait. He’d managed to capture the expression on Octavia’s face from that day at Montford Place. When he’d first begun the painting, he’d been confident in his ability to persuade Octavia to marry him.

But nothing about these past few days had gone the way he’d hoped. He’d not seen Octavia for two days now. After refusing to marry him, Octavia had gone to her room and not come out. He’d knocked on her door several times, trying to encourage her to eat. Octavia had either not answered or told him to go away. The trays of food he’d set in front of her door had hardly been touched.