Page 6 of Claiming His Christmas Angel

“I thought it best if we covered the back of your gown.” Atticus kept his voice quiet and patient as he held up his coat.

Gray eyes studied him in silence for a moment before accepting his explanation with an abrupt nod. In a sharp movement, she jerked the coat out of his hand. Pain tightened her sweet mouth as she pressed one coat sleeve against her waist, then tried to reach the coat sleeve dangling down her side.

“If you’d allow—”

“I am quite capable of doing it myself,” she snapped. Changing strategy, she sent the coat flying over her head while holding onto both sleeves. With the coat in place, she looped the sleeves together.

“So you are,” he murmured with sarcasm.

“Do not mock me. I am most definitely not in the mood.”

Staring down at her waist, she knotted the sleeves of his coat together in jerky movements. What the devil had he done to offend the woman? A voice in the back of his head snorted. He’d been eyeing her like a delectable treat he wanted to bite into.

It was a fair analogy, but the level of her outrage was more than that of a woman insulted by his blatant stares of appreciation. The voice snorted again. His looks had leaned more toward ones of lust than appreciation. Once more, his behavior disgusted him. Clearing his throat, he narrowed his gaze at her.

“It appears I’ve angered you.”

At his quiet statement, she stiffen then slowly raised her head. Gray eyes met his in a guarded look. The anger she’d displayed vanished, and her features became stoic once more.

“You have not angered me,” she said without emotion. Atticus glanced down to see her hands were tight fists. They were clenched so tight her knuckles were white.

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“I don’t care what you believe, but I am telling you the truth.”

“Then who or what has made you so angry you jerked free of that damn rose bush as if you didn’t care how badly it hurt?” She didn’t respond to the question. Instead, she took a step forward as if to go around him, but in a swift move, he blocked her way.

“I think my assistance has earned me the right to know why you’re angry, and why you were trapped in those rose bushes.”

“Your assistance has not earned you that right, but if telling you why is the only way to make you step aside, fine,” she bit out in a tight, bitter voice. “I’m furious because I don’t need anyone’s—”

Soft pink lips became a mutinous line of color as she stopped speaking. Chin tilted upward at a defiant slant, it was clear she had no intention of expanding on her explanation. Her outward manner was calm, but her gray eyes glittered with fury. Exasperated by her less than accommodating manner, he grunted with frustration.

“Why the devil do women have to be so stubborn?”

“I would imagine that’s because men fail to—”

Pebbles crunching beneath the weight of someone of substantial size on the walkway behind him stopped her in mid-sentence. Whatever she’d been about to reveal, Atticus knew he wasn’t going to hear it as her gaze shifted toward the sound. In the blink of an eye, her features became devoid of emotion, and a wild tremor whipped through her.

Alarmed by her reaction, Atticus glanced over his shoulder to see Viscount Stanfield headed their way. He’d met the man a few weeks ago at his club, and his initial impression of the man had been one of distaste. The viscount was a pompous, self-centered braggart.

Beside him, his damsel in distress was shaking with a suppressed violence he found alarming. At first, he thought it was fear, but something about her demeanor made him discard that notion. Staring down at her, Atticus saw the flat, glacial look in her beautiful gray eyes. Christ Jesus, she looked as if she wanted to kill the man. Had the bastard forced himself on her? Dark fury rumbled in Atticus’s chest at the thought as he caught her hand in his.

“Do you know him?” he murmured.

“Yes.”

It was a cold, detached reply whispering through the air, as her gaze didn’t waver from the viscount. The abrupt confirmation didn’t surprise Atticus. Rather, it strengthened his initial assessment of the man. Now, watching the woman’s reaction to Stanfield, Atticus’s gut twisted with an anger that made his blood run hot. If the bastard had touched her—he squeezed her hand again to catch her attention.

“Has he touched you?” Atticus bit out between clenched teeth. There was no doubt in his mind he would drop the viscount to the ground without hesitation if she answered yes.

“Fortunately for him, no.”

The words crackled past her lips as if they were a thin layer of ice ready to give way and break apart. The viscount might have escaped her wrath in the past, but Atticus was certain the man would not be so lucky tonight. Whatever the man had done to incite this woman’s ire could not have been the behavior of a gentleman. The moment the thought filled his head, he sucked in a soft breath of fury.

“Has he tried to compromise you?”

His question made her jerk her gaze toward him as if startled by his anger. In seconds, her features became a façade of cold detachment.