Chapter 2

" I t appears you've managed to entangle yourself quite nicely in this bush," Atticus murmured.

His gaze swept over the thorny vines, trying to see where to begin his unusual rescue operation. While in America, Atticus had invested in a cattle ranch in Wyoming, which showed signs of being one of his smartest financial moves to date. He'd spent more than a year learning the inner workings of the Peaceful Sky ranch, and he'd once watched a small calf being freed from barbed wire. Rose bushes couldn't be that much different. Although, what he was experiencing at the moment wasn't anything like the pity he'd felt for that calf.

This woman was one of the most sensual creatures he'd ever seen. Everything about her created a visceral gut reaction in him at the most base of levels. Not even Aphrodite could have possessed such lush, Junoesque curves. Blue silk caressed a voluptuous body, while her lovely face displayed high cheekbones flooded with pink. Her mouth was a more delicate, rose color. But it was her gray eyes, shimmering with teary-eyed astonishment, that captured his imagination. As if she'd just collected her wits, her expression changed.

"If you intend to offer assistance, please proceed," she said crisply, her sweet mouth now a thin line of anger. "Otherwise, stand back and let me extract myself from this fiendish bush on my own."

Gray eyes, hard with frosty derision, scrutinized him with obvious distaste. Cold with a silent accusation, her gaze glistened with condemnation, and Atticus bit down on the inside of his cheek. She'd overheard his conversation with Liza.

Irritation drew his muscles up taut at his grievous misstep. It was obvious the woman thought him an arrogant ass. It was understandable, since his reaction to his sister's request had been that of great reluctance. His lack of enthusiasm to consent to dancing with Liza's friend made it appear he was a heartless bastard. Something he wasn't.

"My apologies," he muttered with self-disgust at her withering demand. With slow, methodical movements, he pulled a long stem away from her arm, Atticus sucked in a sharp hiss of air as a thorn punctured his thumb. Biting back an oath, he scowled at her. "How the devil did you fall into this blasted bush?"

"I was—"

He arched an eyebrow as she stopped speaking. With an imperious tilt of her head, her beautiful gray eyes flashed with an emotion Atticus couldn't discern. Curiosity made him narrow his gaze at her. A chameleon could not have changed its color as quickly as her eyes did. Every bit of emotion vanished from her gaze, leaving him with more questions than answers. When she remained silent, Atticus returned his attention to extracting her from the prickly brambles.

"Let's start with these." He nodded at several thorn-covered stems spiraled around her upper arm. "Ready?"

She answered him with a sharp bob of her head. The action caused her reddish-brown hair to snag on several thorns, tugging a long, lustrous lock free of her coiffure to tumble downward. It fell over a creamy shoulder, marred and damaged by thorns before the lock continued its path downward to land against her bodice.

Moonlight highlighted the natural wave of her tresses, as the silky-looking strand of hair fell down onto her bodice. Satiny hints of dark red wove their way through her chestnut-colored hair, suggesting they would be sparks of fire in the sunlight. But it was the innocent way it curled around the spot where the tip of her breast had to be that aroused a lust inside him unlike any other he could remember.

It was the most arousing sight he'd seen in a long time—a very long time. The woman had already incited lust inside him, and the curl's unintentional resting place stirred a dark, salacious desire inside him that threatened to harden his cock even more. Visions accompanied his arousal—images that heightened the already acute desire knotting his gut. Pain tightened her features as she winced, and he watched her gray eyes flash with angry frustration.

" Damnation ," she muttered.

The fierce oath was the last thing he expected her to say, and Atticus choked back a laugh. She had fire, and he liked that. Most women would be sobbing hysterically if they were in this woman's position. Atticus gently pulled her arm free of a tangle of thorn-infested vines, then pushed aside several branches away from her hair and shoulders.

"If you'll lean forward slowly, I can start untangling you."

With a grimace, his damsel in distress moved her upper body away from the brambles. When she wasn't met with any resistance, she tried to step free of the bush, only to have thorns rip a hole in one sleeve of her gown. It was the other sleeve that suffered far greater damage as a thorn sliced through it and dragged the material down to her elbow to reveal the top of her combination.

Brambles tore through the soft lawn material of the garment downward to just below the top of her corset. Creamy breasts rose and fell rapidly, and Atticus's mouth watered at the sight. Christ, if these thorns continued to undress her, he was going to be harder than he'd ever been in his life.

" Bloody hell ," she breathed in horrified anger. The fiery reaction shot a powerful bolt of amusement through him.

"I said, slowly ." Grateful her fierce reaction had jerked him out of his enthralled state, Atticus struggled not to chuckle at her lusty language as he freed the sleeve and linen combination garment from the brambles. She trembled as his unintentional fingers inadvertently brushed across the tops of her breasts.

"Are you laughing at me?" she snapped. A small catch laced through her voice, making him frown in puzzlement.

"No," Atticus lied.

Gray eyes darkened with suspicion as she met his gaze. The fierce way she studied him made Atticus quickly drop his head to hide his amusement. Tipping his head to one side, he examined a large swathe of her skirt snagged in an intricate collection of thorny vines.

"You'd better not be," she huffed.

"One could either be shocked or amused by your brazen language."

"Then you had better be shocked, otherwise, I'll unleash the hounds of hell and let them gnaw on your bones," she muttered, her acerbic tone highlighting her irritation.

"A decidedly unpleasant punishment, I'm sure," he murmured sagely. "But before you summon the beasts, I suggest we free you first."

Lifting his head, his chest constricted at the fiery expression on her pretty face. It was a look he imagined Aphrodite might have worn when angry. She was ready to do battle with him, and he was enjoying the prospect too much not to grin.

"Do not laugh at me."

Cold anger swept across her features as she glared at him. For a fleeting instant, he saw something in her gaze that troubled him, but it vanished the moment her palms slammed into his chest. In the next instant, Atticus forgot everything as the surprising strength of her blow sent him staggering backward. With a grunt of discomfort, he watched in astonishment as she wrenched herself free of the bushes.

Her violent action tugged a low cry of pain from her before she was almost completely free of the thorny plant. Straightening upright, she tried to put even more distance between her and the bush.

When her gown resisted, she grab the side of her skirt and yanked hard. Fabric shrieked a protest at her vicious tug, and the echo of material being shredded without mercy filled the air. She froze for a moment, her eyes wide with fear and disbelief.

" Oh dear God ," she whispered as she jerked her head to look over her shoulder.

Atticus leaned to his left at her exclamation to see the damage. The moment he saw the large swathe of torn material dangling over the bottom half of her skirt, he clenched his jaw. From her waist down to the underside of her derriere was a gaping hole where the material had been ripped away.

Unable to help himself, Atticus's eyes focused on her exposed undergarments. It was impossible not to notice how the white silk garment clung to a delectable plump bottom and curvaceous, lusty hips.

God help him, the woman was a tempting morsel he wanted to carry off into the night and spend every hour until dawn exploring every inch of her. Especially when his imagination had no problem visualizing a more graphic assessment of voluptuous thighs and long legs bared to him.

Sanity returned as he blinked and winced with understanding at the horror he'd heard in her small cry. The gown was destroyed beyond repair. Worse, anyone who stumbled upon them right now would think she'd been attacked the minute they took one look at her.

Atticus gritted his teeth. What the fuck was wrong with him? The woman was in trouble, and he was lusting after her instead of making a plan to save her humiliation. Whoever she was, anyone seeing her like this would ensure the morning papers would have her name splattered across the gossip columns. Atticus's gaze slid upward, and the moment he saw her bared back, he drew in a sharp hiss of air.

" Christ Jesus ." Concern filled his harsh utterance, and she turned toward him.

"I already know what you're going to say," she said in a sharp, almost bitter voice. Chin tipped upward at a mutinous angle, she eyed him with scorn. "My gown is ruined because I was too impatient."

"I don't give a damn about the gown. I'm looking at your back. You have half a dozen thorns buried in your skin," he growled.

"I'll be fine. Thorns can be removed. I've suffered far worse. There are things that can never be mended." There was a bleak note in the words that Atticus found troubling.

Hands capturing her waist in a firm grip, he forced her to turn around so moonlight bathed a path across her injured back and began removing thorns from her skin. There were one or two that would need to be removed with a pair of tweezers, but he was successful in pulling the others out of her back.

When he'd finished, he turned her to face him. The tears she'd shed earlier were a distant memory as her features were devoid of emotion. This woman acted as if the bloody scratches covering her back, shoulders, upper arms, and even one of her cheeks didn't exist. People in shock looked the same way. He needed to see her safely home before anyone saw her in this condition.

First order of business was to hide the gaping hole in her gown. Atticus removed his coat, then stepped toward her, only to have her recoil in horror. Her abrupt reaction made the torn fabric of her gown fall even lower until it tangled with the hem of her gown. The moment she retreated, the material tangled with her feet. Arms flailing, she stumbled backward and Atticus lunged forward, and catching her by the waist, he pulled her into his chest.

Hands still on her waist, he breathed in her sweet smell. Roses and a hint of something tart filled his nostrils as her soft hair brushed against his cheek. Bloody hell, if she wasn't in trouble, he'd be kissing her right now. Atticus stared down into gray eyes, luminous with awareness. The pulse of her heartbeat on the side of her neck fluttered wildly, while her slight tremor barreled into him as if it were an earthquake.

Damnation, he'd not been this beguiled by a woman in a long time—a very long time. Atticus forced himself to shut down his reaction to her as he prepared to release her. He never had the chance. Just as she had moments ago, she shoved him away from her.

"Do not touch me." Brittle and sharp, her command was one of cold outrage.

"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 fa?ade of cold detachment.

"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."

"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."

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?