Page 8 of Claiming His Christmas Angel

“I said, no thank you.”

The icy refusal made him frown. This was more than just anger over Stanfield’s attentions. The antipathy in her gaze made Atticus realize she didn’t like him. It shouldn’t surprise him, he’d not been at his best before he’d found her entwined in the rose bushes. Stalking past him, she came to an abrupt halt a few feet away.

Fingertips pressed against her temple, she looked up at the patio, where light and music were drifting out into the night. With a shake of her head, she glanced around as if searching for something. It was clear she was at a loss as to what to do. Her vulnerability and confusion tugged at Atticus in a visceral manner.

He wanted to sweep her up into his arms and carry her off to some place free from prying eyes. It was such a powerful urge to protect his damsel in distress that he took two steps toward her before instinct reined him in. As much as he wanted to offer her a shoulder to sob on, he knew her pride wouldn’t allow her to accept. All he could do was find a way to gain her trust and ensure she wasn’t a target for tomorrow’s gossip sheets.

“Please. Please allow me to see you home safely,” Atticus met her gaze, and the dull, listless light in her eyes renewed his urge to protect her. “I have no wish for you to be embarrassed by what is certain to be a scandal if someone sees you in this condition.”

“Embarrassment is an old friend.”

Bitter sarcasm echoed in her voice, but it wasn’t reflected in the gray eyes that met his. Pain flitted across her face as she studied him for a long moment. Again, the need to sweep her up in his arms and carry her to safety twisted his muscles into hard knots.

“Come, I’m friends with Lord Ealing’s son. I know how to reach the stables with no one seeing us or the state of your dress.”

He offered his hand to her and waited. Silence filled the space between them, and Atticus refrained from saying anything else. Instead, he stretched out his hand, his fingers making a commanding gesture for her to accept his hand. She stared at his hand for a moment, then lifted her gaze to meet his.

“Then lead the way.”

When she didn’t take his outstretched hand, he arched an eyebrow at her. Gray eyes narrowed when Atticus didn’t move. His arm still extended, he waited patiently for her to take his hand. She muttered something he couldn’t make out, then placed her hand in his.

The moment Aphrodite’s palm slid across his, Atticus’s body reacted as if he’d been hit by lightning. Startled, he stared down at her, but if she’d felt a similar jolt, her expression revealed nothing. Her hand in his, he led her toward the entrance to the Earl of Ealing’s study. As they reached the doors leading into the earl’s private domain, she hesitated. Atticus gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

“It’s all right. Trust me.”

She made a small sound that might have been a snort of disbelief. Then, with a sharp nod, she allowed him to guide her into the house. In minutes, Atticus had navigated their way through several corridors, sight unseen, then out into the stable yard.

“What name do I give for your coach?” he asked in a low voice.

The woman didn’t respond to the question, instead, she tugged her hand out of his and walked at a quick pace toward the mews. The loud buzz of good-natured conversation in the stable yard died away as Atticus watched more than a dozen men turn their heads toward his damsel in distress, their jaws sagging. Christ Jesus, the woman was causing a scandal just by sailing across the yard as if she were attired for a morning ride.

Worse, Atticus saw at least one man eyeing her with more than a hint of lust. The man’s behavior aroused a possessive sensation inside him. As the protective urges hardened his limbs, he uttered a low growl of displeasure. The groom jerked his head in Atticus’s direction at the sound.

The moment Atticus pinned the groom beneath his vicious glare, all the color in the man’s face drained away. The stable hand quickly returned his attention to the tack he’d been cleaning. Satisfied the other man had understood his warning, Atticus strode after his Aphrodite and the young man running toward her.

“My lady, are you all right?” the groom asked as he removed his coat and placed it over his mistress’s shoulders.

“She stumbled in the garden and fell into several rose bushes,” Atticus said in a quiet voice as he came to a halt at Aphrodite’s side and met the groom’s worried gaze. “I believe she’s in a minor state of shock.”

“I wish to go home, Allan, now.” Her voice was tight with either anger or pain, and Atticus saw the groom frown.

“Should I send a message for someone to come ride home with you, my lady? Your mother—”

“No. After you take me home, you’ll return for my family. Simply tell them I was tired and went home early. I’ll inform them as to my accident in the morning.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

Uncertainty darkened the young groom’s features, but he offered up no more objections. Instead, he swung his hand outward in a polite gesture that she precede him. She didn’t move for several seconds, then looked over her shoulder at Atticus.

“Thank you for your assistance, your grace.”

It was the first time she’d acknowledged she knew who he was, and Atticus stiffened. How did his Aphrodite know him, but he didn’t know who she was? Atticus knew they’d never been introduced. It would be impossible for him to forget this woman with such a fiery spirit, sweetly curved body, and a lovely face.

“I’ll see you to your—”

“Allan is more than capable of seeing me to my carriage. Your assistance is no longer required.” At her frosty words, Atticus scowled at her.

“Perhaps not, but I insist.”