Chapter 14

T he 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

T he 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.

Laying his brush down, Atticus frowned at how cold and stiff his fingers were. Turning his head toward the fireplace, Atticus saw the faint glow of embers. The smoldering chunks of charred wood were all that were left of the three logs he'd added to the fire earlier this afternoon. He'd been so absorbed with his painting, he'd been oblivious to the time or how cold it had become in the studio.

Rising to his feet, he strode to the window. The snow had stopped early this afternoon. Now there were only a few snow flurries, and the small stable, along with the rest of the surrounding landscape, was visible for the first time since his arrival four days ago. Christmas Eve was tomorrow, and he would take Octavia home to Stapleton Hall. It was the last thing he wanted to do. With more time, he might have been able to make her see they were right for each other. Although how he could have done that when Octavia had remained locked in her room for the past two days was a point of contention. She'd ignored his knocks on her door when he'd tried to coax her into joining him for a meal.

Atticus flexed his fingers again from the cold. Of course, he needed to make sure the two of them didn't freeze to death first. Without a fire for warmth, the cottage would become almost as cold inside as it was out.

Even if they were able to leave tomorrow, they'd be lucky to last tonight without heat. The thought of something happening to Octavia scared the hell out of him. At least he'd be able to replenish the firewood from what was in the small wood shed he could see a short distance away from the stable.

About to turn away from the window, Atticus froze as he saw the well-trampled path between the cottage and stable. Stunned, he realized Octavia had gone out to the barn. The path disappeared around the side of the cottage, and Atticus's heart slammed into his chest with dread.

His stomach was in knots as if he'd been drinking all night and was about to be sick. Atticus dragged in a harsh breath. Had she been stubborn and foolish enough to try to ride home? It might have stopped snowing, but God knows how cold it was outside. It would be dark in less than an hour, and the temperature would drop even lower.

" Bloody hell ," he snarled. "I'm going to wring her goddamn neck."

Spinning about, Atticus ran out of the studio and charged down the hallway. Octavia's bedroom door was closed, and the possibility she might still be in the house made him stop and pound on her door.

"Octavia, are you in there?" Silence greeted his harsh question. "By God, woman, if you don't let me in, I'll break this door down."

When she still didn't answer, Atticus threw the door open to find her room empty. Dread twisting his gut tighter, he bolted toward the stairs and raced downward, calling her name. Her answer was a yelp of pain, followed by a lusty oath and metal clanging against metal.

Atticus strode into the kitchen as Octavia stuck her wrist beneath the cold water flowing from the water pitcher pump she was working with her uninjured hand. In three long strides, he was standing next to her. Capturing her hand in his, Atticus pulled her arm out of the water to examine the angry red mark just above her wrist.

"What happened?" he growled with concern, although his heart wasn't racing quite as madly as it had been before he'd found her in the kitchen.

" You ." Irritation made her reply sharp, her mouth tight with pain as she directed an accusatory glare at him. Bewildered by her abrupt reply to his question, Atticus shook his head as met her angry gaze.

" Me ?" he exclaimed.

Octavia's mouth was tight with discomfort as she tugged her hand free of his grip and examined the red splotch of color on her arm. With a wince, she plunged the injured arm back under the stream of water. He didn't enjoy seeing her in pain.

" Yes, you . I'm beginning to think you're a health hazard where I'm concerned," she snapped. "First my ankle, when you refused to return my stocking, and just now, scaring me half out of my wits while I was closing the oven door. Thank heavens, I'd already pulled the cottage loaf out of the oven or we wouldn't have bread with our meal."

"I'm sorry." Atticus's mouth twisted with regret at her fierce accusation. "Keep running water over it. It doesn't look too bad, but it won't hurt to use a poultice. Do you have any linseed oil down here, or do I need to bring some down from the studio?"

"There's a large bottle in the pantry," Octavia bit out between clenched teeth.

Atticus found the oil on one of the top shelves in the larder. With the linseed oil and a container of oatmeal, he returned to the kitchen. Adding linseed oil to the ground oats, bit by bit, he worked rapidly to mix the ingredients until a thick paste had formed. When the poultice was ready, he made her sit down and patted her skin dry, then layered her burn with the paste and wrapped the burn with a cheese cloth bandage.

"That should take the sting out of it in a minute or two," he said as he straightened upright. Octavia cast a disgusted look in his direction, as she stood up and moved to tap the top of the round of bread in its pan. She appeared relieved that the bread sounded hollow. In silence, she popped the bread out of its pan and slid it onto a small baker's rack. When she'd finished, she scooped up a pot holder and moved back to the oven.

As Atticus watched, Octavia pulled a half-filled pan of water out of the oven, then dumped it into the sink. He heard her muttering something beneath her breath, but couldn't make out her words. The one thing he did hear was the aggravation in her voice.

Remembering the fear he'd experienced as he'd raced downstairs, he narrowed his gaze at her. The woman would be the death of him in his vigil to keep her safe from harm. Octavia dropped the oblong metal container unceremoniously on the table, then planted her hands on her hips.

"Why in heaven's name were you bellowing my name like a madman, anyway?" she scowled at him with angry disgust.

"I saw the path out to the barn from the studio window."

"And that's why you were shouting?"

"You went outside." Atticus wanted to shake her the minute her eyebrows arched in astonishment, as if he'd lost his mind.

"Yes, I did. I took care of the horses, and I brought in more wood so we don't freeze to death tonight."

"You disobeyed me, Octavia. You went outside without telling me." His harsh tone earned him a mutinous glare.

"I did not disobey you, and I would appreciate you remembering you have no authority over me," she huffed with annoyance. "You made me promise not to put myself in harm's way, and I kept that promise."

"And what if something had happened to you? What if you'd fallen or experienced some other mishap? How would I have known you were in trouble? It doesn't take much for someone to die in that freezing cold."

Atticus was ready to shake her until her teeth rattled for going outside without telling him. Understanding made her wince with regret. Gray eyes soft with remorse, she shook her head.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Atticus. I'm so accustomed to doing things for myself, it didn't occur to me to do so. I've learned to be overly cautious in whatever I do because I am alone all the time." She stepped forward, her hand touching his arm. "I regret having worried you."

Still feeling the aftereffects of his concern for her well-being, Atticus shoved a shaking hand through his hair. Not wanting her to see how alarmed he'd been, Atticus nodded toward the cottage bread.

"Why are you baking when I'm taking you back to Stapleton Hall in the morning?" At his question, a small amount of color left her face.

"I'd already prepared a holiday meal. I didn't want the food to go to waste, and since it's our…" her voice trailed off into silence.

"Our what? Our last night together? Does that bother you?" His questions made her jump. Darting a look in his direction, she turned away to stir something in one of the pots on the stove.

"It's…I would hate to waste the food I've already prepared."

It wasn't the answer he wanted to hear, and he frowned with frustration. Was Octavia experiencing doubts or even regret at refusing his proposal? If she was, it was clear she had no intention of admitting it. The silence stretching out between them vibrated with tension, and he didn't know what to make of her mood. Knowing it was best not to push her, Atticus cleared his throat.

"Do you need my help?"

"No," she said quietly, without turning her head. "Everything is almost ready. We should be able to eat in about a half-hour."

"Then I'll build fires upstairs so our rooms are warm when we retire for the evening."

With a small nod, Octavia acknowledged his statement, but didn't look at him. Atticus walked to the backdoor and collected several logs from the small stack of wood she'd brought into the house. Octavia's bedroom was icy cold, and it took several minutes after the flames roared to life for the room's temperature to start rising.

Satisfied her room was well on its way to being comfortable, Atticus turned toward the door, about to head to his room. To his surprise, Octavia stood in the open doorway watching him. He gestured toward the fireplace.

"I'll bring up three or four more logs, which will keep you warm through the night."

"Thank you." Octavia's voice was soft as she met his gaze. She looked away from him and nibbled at her bottom lip.

"Is something wrong, Octavia?" With slow, measured steps, he closed the distance between them.

"I…no. I just wanted to see if…if you needed…anything," Octavia stammered before she spun around, ready to take flight. Hope surged inside him, and he reached out to catch her by the arm to stop her from fleeing.

"You're troubled, what is it you're worried about?"

"No, I…it's just that…it's not important." Octavia tugged against his grip, but his fingers tightened around her arm.

"You're so damn stubborn," he muttered with a mix of exasperation and amusement.

"I am not stubborn," she exhaled a harsh breath as she met his gaze, then quickly turned her head away.

"No?" He smiled as he caught her chin and forced her to look at him. "Then why can't you just say what you came up here to say?"

"Because…because I'm afraid you'll say no."

"Now that surprises me." Atticus shook his head. "I would never have taken you for a coward."

"I am not a coward." Color flushed her cheeks, her eyes flaring with anger as she jerked her head free of his fingers.

"Then just ask me the question, Octavia." Atticus's heart was pounding in his chest with the force of an out-of-control steam engine racing along the tracks. She paled, her throat bobbing as she met his gaze.

"I know…I know I said…but I would…" She closed her eyes and paled even further.

"You would like to marry me?" he prompted. Octavia opened her eyes and met his gaze for a moment, then nodded.

"But I …I have two…two conditions." The tremor in her voice made his heart plummet, and his muscles tightened into knots. What the devil was she planning now?

"Which are?"

"When you ask my father…when you ask for my hand…you must explain…give him all the reasons why you wish to marry me. If Papa…" A small shudder rippled through her, and she bowed her head. "If Papa believes…that I will be happy as your wife, then I will abide by his decision."

"And your second condition?" Atticus asked with a growing sense of unease. For a moment, she didn't look at him, then lifted her head, her chin tilted upward in spirited defiance.

"You will make love to me tonight." Her voice filled with an unshakeable resolve, she met his gaze without blinking. "I will not agree to marry you otherwise."

The inflexibility in her voice indicated she would not give way on either stipulation. Atticus took a quick step back from her in surprise. With a sense of doom, he narrowed his gaze at her.

"And if your father does not think you'll be happy?"

"Then I will not marry you, and I will leave England as planned to avoid any potential scandal."

Stunned, Atticus stared at her in disbelief. It felt as if he'd been granted entry into heaven, only to invite withdrawn a second later. One hand rubbing the back of his neck, he inhaled a deep breath.

"And you have no intention of wavering on these conditions?"

"No. Because I do not think they are unreasonable."

"And if a child is conceived tonight?"

"I…"

The moment her voice trailed off, Atticus knew she'd not considered the possibility. Despite his belief that Lord Montford would gladly welcome him as a son-in-law, he had no desire to take chances when it came to making Octavia his wife. He needed more time than just a few days in the cottage to convince her they could be happy together.

"Since it's apparent you did not account for such an outcome, then I have a condition of my own. You will remain in England until we know if you're carrying my child. If that happens, you agree to marry me. I'll not have a child of mine grow up not knowing their father."

As Atticus watched her face, a variety of emotions flit over her features in rapid succession. None of them lingered long enough for him to discern what she was thinking. For a long moment, she remained silent, and he saw a hint of trepidation flicker in her gray eyes, before she gave a slow nod of agreement. Relief and jubilation surged through his muscles.

Any other time, he would have swept her up into his arms and kissed her. But he didn't. If he were to touch her at this moment, he would lose his head completely. His throat tight with emotion, he maintained a firm grip on his self-control. He wanted to take his time with her—loving her. He wanted to please her as often and in as many ways as possible.

Tonight, he intended to do whatever he could to bind her to him. Should catastrophe strike tomorrow at Stapleton Hall, or if she failed to become pregnant, this might be the only night Atticus would ever have with her. He intended to make these few scant hours unforgettable for both of them. With a smile, he stretched out his hand and cupped her cheek. Warm and soft, her hand rose to cover his as she met his gaze.

"Do you have any idea how beautiful you are, Aphrodite?" The husky note in his voice made the pink color in her cheeks deepened as she turned her head away. He forced her to look at him. "You might not believe it, but you are. You're the loveliest woman I've ever seen. And when I pleasure you tonight, I know you'll be radiant."

" Tonight ?" Her brow furrowed with puzzlement. "But I thought—"

"That we would start now?"

"I…yes, I—"

"Didn't you say I was to make love to you tonight ?" Atticus bit back a chuckle as her gray eyes flared with irritation.

"Well, yes, but I did not mean for you to take it so literally."

"As I recall, you said supper was almost ready. And as you said, it would be a shame for all your hard work to be for nothing. Besides, I still need to bring up more logs for the fire." Atticus struggled not to laugh at her astonished expression. She must have seen his mouth twitch as she bristled.

"Given your description the other day as to how you would pleasure me, I would think the current fire is quite sufficient."

"It is for now," he murmured, leaning forward to brush his mouth across her earlobe. "But I intend to keep you naked all night long, and I confess I want to see you bared to me in the firelight."

The moment his teeth scraped across her ear lobe, she inhaled a sharp breath, and he smiled while nibbling his way down the side of her neck. Octavia pressed her body into his and stretched herself upward to catch his earlobe in her teeth.

"Then you should hurry, because I would like to see you equally unencumbered."

The silky, seductive tone of her voice made him go rigid. Christ almighty, the woman was a siren. Warm hands slid down his chest until she slid one finger under the waistband of his trousers. The audacious behavior sent a bolt of desire shooting through Atticus. His body grew as taut as the string on an archer's bow primed to release an arrow into its target.

"Well, Atticus. Are you going to bring some firewood upstairs, or have you decided the only supper you want…is me?"

"If I had my way, I'd have you for every meal of the day," he murmured as he captured her hands and pressed them into his chest while brushing his lips across hers.

Atticus's heart pounded a fierce rhythm in his chest as her mouth clung to his. God, he wanted to strip her and feast on every inch of her right now. He lifted his head to stare down at her. Eyes closed, Octavia's mouth beckoned him to continue kissing her. With great reluctance, he released her, then turned her toward the door and kissed the nape of her neck.

"I believe you mentioned something about a holiday meal?" he said with a chuckle as she released a sound of frustration. "I'll help you as soon as I've brought up more firewood."

She shot him a baleful glance over her shoulder as he gave her a gentle push forward, and when he laughed, she uttered a sound of annoyance before disappearing through the door. As she vanished from sight, Atticus drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes. Tonight, he would gain entry into heaven. The question was whether or not he'd fall from grace tomorrow, just as Lucifer had.