Page 9 of Claiming His Christmas Angel

Their gazes locked, and Atticus narrowed his gaze as he caught the emotion flickering in her beautiful gray eyes. After a long moment, she shrugged her shoulders in a manner that said she didn’t care what he did and turned away. Muttering an oath beneath his breath, Atticus followed her and the groom out into the mews.

After passing several carriages, the groom stopped beside the door of a black lacquered coach. Holding the door open, the groom waited to help his mistress climb into the vehicle. She came to an abrupt halt and began to untie the sleeves of his coat. Atticus took a quick step forward to stay her efforts with a gentle touch. Electricity charged its way up his arm just as it had all the other times he’d touched her.

“Keep it. Tell me your name so I may call on you tomorrow to see how you’re faring. I can retrieve the coat then.”

For the briefest of moments, Atticus saw what he thought might have been humiliation haunt her features before it disappeared behind a cool smile. Fingers tugging at the knotted sleeves of the coat, she pulled it off her waist, then offered it to him without a word.

Frustrated by her icy demeanor, Atticus accepted the coat with a low growl of anger. With a glance at the young man at the coach door, he jerked his head toward the driver’s seat. At the silent command, the groom turned and scrambled up onto the bench in front of the horses. Stepping forward, Atticus cupped his hand beneath her elbow to assist her into the carriage. Standing in the vehicle’s open doorway, he met her gaze.

“You’ve yet to tell me your name.”

“Octavia.”

With a sharp gesture, she pointed toward the coach door. Following the direction of her finger, Atticus pulled the door toward him, then arched backward to look at the coat of arms imprinted on the vehicle’s shiny black surface. The instant he saw the Montford crest, a dark awareness made him stiffened. Disbelief barreled through him. How in the hell had he failed to make the connection between the Octavia his sister had referred to and his Aphrodite?

“Christ Jesus. Lady Octavia,” he choked out in a hoarse voice.

If she’d hit him with a club, he couldn’t have been more stunned. Despite his disbelief, in the back of his head, a voice chastised him for daring to think Stanfield a fool. How could he have been so fucking stupid? The woman had heard his entire conversation with Liza. The connection between Octavia and the subject of Liza’s well-intentioned request could not have been any clearer than the moment he found her tangled in those damn brambles.

Only a deep humiliation would have driven her to fade into whatever shadows she could find. He doubted she’d even been aware of the thorny vines in her attempt to hide. Then there’d been her lovely gray eyes, and the frosty glare she’d pinned on him, the moment he’d stood in front of her. If her icy gaze had been a weapon, he would be lying in the garden, bleeding to death.

Atticus’s sole excuse was his inability to think straight from the moment he’d seen her. He’d been even more distracted by her fiery manner and his enjoyment of her lusty language. From the first moment he’d seen her, he’d been bewitched. All he’d wanted was to do everything in his power to help and protect her. Even her visceral reaction to Stanfield, and the viscount calling her by name, had failed to pierce his clouded thoughts.

All he’d been focused on was ensuring the viscount didn’t get anywhere near her. But it had been her words, or rather the ones she’d left unsaid, that had provided the strongest clue as to her identity, and yet he’d failed to comprehend them. The moment Atticus had looked into her bewitching gaze, he should have realized who she was.

It was a mistake he instinctively knew he would regret for a very long time, and not just because Liza’s genuine desire to help a friend had humiliated Octavia. He finally understood why his sister had been so insistent he dance with this woman.

Atticus’s sister had known he would like Octavia. Now, as he met her stony gray gaze, he knew his chances of earning her forgiveness might be impossible. Mortification darkened her eyes before they grew cold with contempt. The strength of her scorn tightened his muscles with a pain that startled him.

“How keenly observant you are, your grace,” she sneered. “Of course, I’m certain you can understand why, other than Lord Stanfield, you are the last person I wish to have call on me.”

Filled with self-disgust and deep remorse, Atticus remained frozen in the doorway. Deep inside, he knew he’d regret letting her go without gaining her forgiveness. If he failed to do that, he didn’t hold out much hope she’d even give him the time of day when next they met, and Atticus desperately wanted to see her again.

Brittle laughter parted her soft pink lips, and the humiliation echoing in the sound sickened him. He wanted to climb into the coach with her and ease her pain by ensuring she understood his deep regret.

“At least accept my apol—”

“An apology is pointless as I never want to set eyes on you again. Goodbye, your grace. Drive on, Allan. ”

Octavia leaned forward and reached for the door handle, her icy glare guaranteeing all manner of mayhem, if he didn’t stand aside. Mechanically, Atticus stepped back, and he watched her hand wrap around the door latch in a tight grip, then tug the door toward her. It flew shut with a loud crack before she slapped her hand on the wall of the carriage to signal the driver to move forward.

As she leaned back into the carriage seat, her shadowy profile was all Atticus could see of her lovely face. He clenched his jaw at having been such an idiot. Helpless to stop the Montford carriage from rolling away, Atticus remained standing in the middle of the mews, his gaze fixed on the receding vehicle.

Never in his life had he ever felt like such a blathering fool, incapable of intelligent thought. As Octavia’s carriage disappeared from view, he gritted his teeth. The question was, what did he intend to do about it?

Chapter 3

The wheels of the carriage clattered noisily against the mews cobblestones as the vehicle lurched forward. Out of the corner of her eye, Octavia caught one last glimpse of the Duke of Ashurst. The regret on his face was enough to make her consider calling out to Allan to stop the carriage. Drawing in a sharp breath of horror, Octavia crushed the urge. What in heaven’s name was she thinking?

Eyes closed, she rested her head on the seat’s padded leather. God help her, the Duke of Ashurst had been even more potent than her initial impression of him. No, he’d been even more devastating to her senses than she’d thought possible. Despite her best efforts to maintain her shield of anger and humiliation while in the man’s company, it had been impossible not to be affected by him.

From the moment the duke had appeared in front of her, Octavia had been thrown completely off balance. The unexpected, gentle manner with which he’d wiped the tears off her cheek had made her heart skip a beat, and his efforts to save her pain as he’d worked to free her from the rose bushes had illustrated he was kind and thoughtful.

It had surprised her that the man had not been shocked by her unladylike language, and his amusement had been as unexpected as it had been startling. Wicked laughter had sparkled in his dark blue eyes, while his sensual mouth had twitched as he’d fought not to grin. Any other time it would have been impossible not to laugh with him, but she’d been in pain and his presence had been sharp reminder of her humiliation.

Then there had been the fury that had darkened his handsome face when he’d asked if Stanfield had tried to compromise her. His outrage had done more than startle her. It had sent a small frisson of pleasure streaking down her spine. The sheer ferocity of his reaction had made her feel safe facing Stanfield. Instinct had told her Atticus would protect her from harm, real or imagined.

Her instincts had been correct as she’d listened to him issuing a warning to Stanfield. Ruthless and unforgiving, he’d stressed the terrible price he would make Stanfield pay if the man ever made even an innocent remark about Octavia’s state of déshabille tonight. There had been a cold-heartedness about Atticus that had indicated he was a force to be reckoned with when angry.