Page 7 of Claiming His Christmas Angel

“Not yet, but of all the bloodhounds, he’s the worst of the breed. Regrettably for me, the man’s too much of an imbecile to realize the fox has sharp teeth and isn’t afraid to use them.”

Beneath the flat, bitter reply, a dark rage ran like a wild river in her voice. Atticus studied her icy expression. The vicious response made him believe she was most likely an heiress. No doubt, she’d been the prey of far too many men seeking to pay debts or line their pockets by marrying her. It would explain why she’d been trying to evade the rotund viscount this evening, and he imagined she’d been doing it for quite some time.

“Let me handle this,” he said with a quiet fury.

Atticus squeezed her fingers in a tight grip to make her focus her attention on him. She winced, and he eased his grip. Surprise made her beautiful eyes widen as she stared up at him. The astonishment reflected in the gray depths said she found his anger unexpected. Atticus didn’t like the guilt that caused his muscles to tighten as he remembered Liza questioning him about the family’s finances.

“I am not the man you think I am, Aphrodite,” he said. Behind him, the bombastic sound of Viscount Stanfield’s voice filled the air.

“My dear Octavia, what has happened? Is his grace bothering you?”

In the back of his brain, something about the man’s words struck Atticus as important. The thought vanished as he registered the fact Stanfield had suggested he was forcing himself on the woman at his side. Raw fury made Atticus’s go rigid as he turned toward the viscount. The moment his damsel in distress tried to step forward, he threw his arm out to block her.

“I don’t think I appreciate your insinuation, Stanfield,” he said in an icy voice, but the man didn’t even flinch. “The lady had a slight mishap with the rose bushes.”

The viscount’s gaze swept over the woman, and it was obvious the man hadn’t even bothered to look at her until now. Lord Stanfield took several steps forward, and Aphrodite stiffened.

“Oh my dear, look at your arms and shoulders,” the man clucked with a concern that didn’t ring true. “Let me take you home, where we can tend to those cuts.”

“I do not believe the lady would be amenable to that suggestion.” At his cold objection to Stanfield’s offer, the viscount bristled indignantly.

“Why ever not?” Lord Stanfield exclaimed. “We are quite fond of each other, your grace.”

A low, primitive noise of rage whispered its way into the air as the woman inhaled, then exhaled a breath of anger. Surprised and alarmed by the sound, Lord Stanfield’s head jerked backward as if he were a tortoise trying to retreat into his shell. Atticus snapped his attention to the woman beside him. She possessed all the signs of someone teetering on the brink of a powerful outburst of fury. Although he knew the answer, Atticus asked the question anyway for the benefit of the viscount.

“Do you wish to go with this man?”

“No, I do not. In fact, if I never saw his face again, it would be too soon.” The icy reply rang out into the night, and Lord Stanfield uttered a sound of objection.

“My dear, it’s obvious you’re not yourself. Your injuries have clearly made you hysterical, and you’re not in your right mind.”

“I take it this is what you mean when you say he refuses to take no for an answer?” Atticus didn’t look at the woman beside him as he spoke. Instead, he pinned the viscount with a look he knew the man wouldn’t fail to understand. For the first time, Lord Stanfield lost some of his swagger as he blanched and flinched at the same time.

“Yes, it’s precisely what it means,” she spat out with fury. For a man of his years and size, Lord Stanfield was quick, and he retreated several feet the moment Aphrodite took two steps around Atticus.

“Lord Stanfield, until now, I’ve been polite in my efforts to discourage your attentions. However, since you lack the intelligence to comprehend my civility is not an inane, feminine ploy to encourage you, allow me to tell you in words one can only pray your pea-sized brain will understand. Stay away from me.”

“But my dear girl, you cannot possibly mean that.”

“I mean every word, you boring, obnoxious, obsequious little toad. I do not like you. I have never liked you. And if you ever come near me again, I promise you’ll regret it.”

“My dear, you cannot—”

“Only a fool would fail to understand her, Stanfield. But allow me to clarify.” Atticus eyed the man with contempt. “If for any reason you approach the lady in the future, her promise of vengeance will pale in comparison to my wrath. And if I hear even a whisper about the lady’s unfortunate situation tonight, I will make you rue the day you ever opened your mouth. Is that clear?”

The viscount flinched as he looked at first Atticus and then the woman beside him. After a long moment, the portly man snorted with disgust, then muttering something beneath his breath, the viscount turned and hurried back toward the ballroom.

Once more in the back of his head, Atticus heard the whisper of something he needed to remember, but one look at Aphrodite crushed the thought. Tension still hovered in the air, but the emotions radiating off of her assaulted him with an almost tangible force. Not only was she in desperate need of rescuing, but Atticus could tell she’d reached her breaking point.

“I need to go.”

Fragile and almost inaudible, her words made Atticus frown. Staring down at her, he grew troubled by the vacant expression on her pale features. The lionhearted woman he’d seen glaring at him from a tangled mass of thorns had vanished. Confronting Stanfield had drained every bit of fire out of her.

“Let me see you home.”

“No, thank you.” She flinched when his fingers gently touched the back of her hand in protest.

“You’ve had a shock, and I’m sure you’re in pain.”