Chapter 4

December 19, 1890

" B loody hell ," she muttered, throwing her paintbrush down on the worktable. "What in heaven's name are you thinking, Octavia Stapleton?"

Irritated, she stared at the oil painting in front of her. It was good. No, it was better than good, and she hated it. Almost as if aware of her annoyance, the Duke of Ashurst stared back at her, a roguish smile twisting his sensual mouth. Even on canvas, the man could make her feel things she didn't want to feel.

Disgusted, she jabbed her paintbrush into a small jar of turpentine and swished it around in the cleansing liquid several times. When finished, she pulled the brush out and dragged it through a linen cloth before repeating the process.

"I can't even sell you," she snapped as she glared at the man in the painting. Brush still in hand, Octavia sprang to her feet and crossed her cozy studio to the fireplace, and the jar of water that sat on the mantel to ensure it stayed warm. Vigorously swirling the brush around in the water with its dissolved soap shavings for several moments, she pulled it out, then returned to her easel.

With a careless gesture of annoyance, she wiped the moisture off the brush and dropped it onto another cloth for it to air dry. Scowling at the portrait of the Duke of Ashurst one last time, Octavia stalked out of the room and down the stairs. It had been warm in the studio, but she was shivering by the time she entered the parlor. All that was left of the fire she'd built this morning was a few chunks of charred wood and a bed of glowing embers.

It was no wonder the fire had died out. She'd been in the studio all day, not even stopping for lunch or tea. Octavia stirred the dark layer of blackened wood until there was a large section of coals spitting and flaring. Adding logs to the few flames dancing among the embers, she waited for the fire to begin licking hungrily at the new wood.

Poker still in her hand, Octavia stared blindly into the flames crackling in the fireplace. She'd been at the cottage for almost three months, and had almost nothing to show Mr. Martin the next time she saw him. Instead, what she had were three mediocre landscapes and three paintings of the Duke of Ashurst.

Unfortunately, the portraits were far better than those she'd painted of the surrounding countryside. Why on earth couldn't she stop painting the man? Octavia grimaced in frustration. She knew why. Placing Atticus's features on canvas had been her attempt to push all thought of the man out of her head and her dreams.

While it was impossible not to think about the man when she was painting his handsome features, she had managed to banish him from her dreams until three weeks ago when she'd gone to London for a week as part of the agreement she'd made with her parents. In one brief instant, that hard-fought battle had been lost. It was one of the reasons she'd just completed her third portrait of Atticus. Irritated she was still thinking about the man, she muttered an oath of exasperation.

" Damnit, Octavia. Enough . Let it go. The man will fade from your mind as soon as you stop painting his portrait."

Mumbling another curse of aggravation, she jammed the poker back into its stand with a vicious thrust. Turning toward the window, she gasped at the sight on the other side of the glass.

"Oh dear God," she breathed.

Dismay sped through her at the amount of snow blanketing the earth. Dusk was settling in, but she could still see how deep the snow was. She'd been so involved in her painting, she'd failed to check the weather this afternoon. When she'd climbed out of bed this morning, she'd been greeted by a thin layer of white covering the ground and flurries hitting her window.

Octavia's initial reaction to the overnight snowfall had been one of delight. The light dusting of snow meant it would most likely be a white Christmas at Stapleton Hall this year. Memories of holidays past had flooded her head with images of hot toddies, childish fun throwing snowballs at the twins, and using the toboggan her father had brought home a few years ago.

Sunlight had bounced off the white blanket of snow this morning, and the thought of missing such wonderful lighting in her studio had made it impossible to resist staying for just one more night. It had been easy to convince herself she could rise early tomorrow and return to Stapleton Hall in plenty of time for the holiday festivities. It had been a poor decision.

The snow didn't appear too deep, but Octavia could tell it was thick and heavy enough to make it difficult to see any hazards on the ground. Her original plan had been to ride home across the fields, but she had no intention of risking an injury to Napoleon. That left her with only one other choice. She would have to follow the roads home, which would make her journey twice as long.

Nibbling at her bottom lip, Octavia noted the snow wasn't falling too hard. Hopefully, it would stop in a few hours. Her parents had been expecting her today, and she knew they were probably worried that she'd not arrived yet. But they knew she had a good head on her shoulders and wouldn't try to travel if the weather were bad.

At least that's what she hoped they would think. They'd not thought her so level-headed when she'd announced her plans to retire to the country the morning after Lord and Lady Ealing's soirée. Octavia winced as she remembered their reaction when she'd informed them of her intentions.

She'd forgone providing too many details from the night before. The destruction of her dress and her scratches she'd blamed on having fallen into the rose bushes in her efforts to avoid Stanfield. Octavia had said nothing about Elizabeth's conversation with her brother, nor had she mentioned Atticus rescuing her from the rose bushes. She'd only said a stranger had been kind enough to assist her to her carriage.

While she'd expected her parents to be distressed about her decision to retire to the country, she'd been stunned by their fierce objections. Octavia had expected her mother to be the most resistant to her plans, but it had been her father who'd been the loudest dissenter. Closing her eyes, the memory of the argument with her parents in the salon at Montford Place was still vivid in her head, especially her father's fiery reaction.

"I forbid it," Lord Montford bellowed.

The vehemence of his reaction took Octavia aback. She had expected her mother to be the most adamant objector to her decision, not her father. From her seat on the sofa, Lady Montford stretched out her hand toward her husband in a placating gesture.

"Terrence, please do not shout." In response to his wife's plea, Lord Montford's brow furrowed in a dark frown.

"Forgive me, my love, but for a child who has always been quite level-headed, Octavia has clearly taken leave of her senses. I will not allow her to do something so reckless."

"You know you cannot stop me, Papa," Octavia said with a calm serenity that belied her dismay. "I'm of age, and free to do as I wish."

"Then I'll disinherit you," he snapped as he ran his hand through his graying hair in frustration.

"That, too, will be ineffective." Octavia met Lord Montford's furious gaze without flinching in the face of his anger. "In fact, the idea of no longer having men calling on me in hopes of marrying my dowry would be a relief."

" Damn it to hell , Octavia, you cannot expect us to endorse this mad decision of yours. Being a spinster can be exceedingly lonely." Hands pushing his suit jacket out of the way, Lord Montford pressed his fists into his waist, the flaps of his jacket flying backward to land against his arms as he glared at her. Lord Montford bobbed his head toward his wife. "Ask your mother how happy your Aunt Sarah was living alone in that cottage."

"Your father exaggerates somewhat, dearest," Lady Montford said with a pleading look at her husband. "But it's true that there were times when your aunt was quite lonely."

"That's because the man she fell in love with didn't love her," Octavia replied with a shake of her head.

Aunt Sarah's fate was one Octavia had no intention of suffering. Little more than an hour ago, Octavia had been forced to accept the reality of her situation. Atticus had no intention of ending his efforts to call on her. The man was digging in his heels and preparing to lay siege, which meant remaining in London was no longer an option.

With any other suitor, such determination would have been a nuisance. But this was the Duke of Ashurst, not some irritating fortune hunter. Atticus's behavior last night when he'd come to her aid was that of a man she could respect and like. But it was when he'd walked away from the house this morning that she'd admitted the truth.

Octavia was already halfway enamored with the man, and it wouldn't take much more for her to fall completely under his spell. If she remained here, she was apt to yield to the man's tenacity, and the minute that happened, she would be lost. Retiring to the country would ensure there was no possibility of heartbreak where Atticus was concerned. Now, as she noted her mother's worried look, Octavia met Lady Montford's gaze steadily.

"I know Aunt Sarah had moments of deep loneliness, but she told me time and again not to settle for anything less than true happiness such as you and Papa have." At her reply, Lord Montford uttered a fiery expletive, and her mother gasped.

"Terrence Oliver Stapleton."

"Forgive me, Gertrude, but at the moment, words are failing me. Our eldest daughter is far too stubborn."

"I can't imagine where she gets it from," Lady Montford said in a gentle rebuke.

"Yes, yes," her father waved his hand in an abrupt gesture of agreement. "I know she gets her bullheadedness from me, but this entire decision of hers is nonsense. The girl can't just walk away from the possibility of marrying and having a family."

"Are you suggesting I marry Lord Stanfield or someone like him?" Octavia bit out as for the first time she lost the firm grip on her temper. "Are you so determined to see me married that you're willing to accept how miserable I would be in such a match?"

Lord Montford winced with regret and looked away from her to meet Lady Montford's gaze. Her parents stared at each other for a moment before Octavia's father turned back to her and shook his head in resignation.

"No, that is the last thing I or your mother want for you."

"Then it's time for you to accept what I did months ago," Octavia said firmly. "I've not met any man in the past three years capable of loving me as deeply as you love Mama. Nor have I developed a fondness for any man that would make for a happy marriage."

"We understand that, Octavia. But loneliness can be painful," Lady Montford said with a note of sorrow in her voice. "Sarah once told me she wondered if she'd made the wrong decision not to marry a man she was fond of, but didn't love as deeply as she did John. She wondered if being alone had been the right choice."

"Aunt Sarah also understood being alone is not the same thing as being lonely." Octavia paused for a moment, then crossed the room to kneel in front of Lady Montford and clasped her mother's hands in hers. "I am aware that there will be times when I will be lonely. But I am more than willing to accept those moments of loneliness if it means not having to suffer an unhappy marriage."

A loud pop in the fireplace pierced Octavia's thoughts, jerking her back into the present. It had taken more than an hour of debate with her parents until the three of them had come to a compromise they could all live with. Lord Montford and Lady Montford had agreed not to object to her living in the cottage, provided she agreed to spend a specified amount of time with her family.

Octavia hadn't hesitated agreeing to the terms her parents had laid out. She was to visit her family for no less than a week every three months. In exchange, her parents agreed not to object to her decision to reside in the country. Her father could be quite cunning when he chose to be, and the routine visits had been his suggestion. She'd agreed, giving no thought to what would happen when it came time to visit her family.

It wasn't until the end of November that she realized she'd been too hasty in agreeing to her father's suggestion. If she'd been thinking clearly, she would have clarified she had no intention of attending any social engagements during her visit. From the moment she'd arrived at Montford Place, several friends and acquaintances had paid surprise calls on Octavia or her mother and sisters.

The callers always seemed to arrive when she was in the salon or close by. Almost every visitor had invited her to attend one soirée or another. Faced with so many in-person requests had proven stressful. Only quick thinking had ensured she'd escaped all invitations except for a ball and a small dinner party. That she'd been set up had been obvious from her mother's guilty looks.

But it had been her father's smug look of satisfaction the evening she'd accompanied her parents to the ball that made Octavia keenly aware Lord Montford had been the director of the scheme. Her mother had been a willing, although somewhat reluctant, accomplice. It had made her entire visit draining. The most trying moment of all had been seeing Atticus outside her father's study the day before she returned to the country.

"For heaven's sake, Octavia, forget the man. The only difference between him and all the other fortune hunters is his handsome face."

And the way he makes you feel when he comes anywhere near you. The whisper drifting through her head made her release a sound of annoyance. Casting the thought aside, Octavia glanced out the window again.

Frost coated the corners of the glass panes. It was a sign tonight wouldn't be fit for man or beast. She needed to ensure Napoleon was well-fed and warm throughout the night, and check on her hens. She made her way through the dining room into the kitchen and stopped for a brief moment in front of the stove. Before starting to paint this morning, she'd started a pot of lamb stew.

It had been simmering all day, and after a quick stir, she tasted it. The savory dish was delicious, and her stomach growled. Ignoring the sound, she glanced at the bread on the table next to the stove. She'd baked it yesterday, and had set it out next to the stove to warm it. While she knew it wouldn't be quite as good as a loaf fresh out of the oven, she was certain it would come close. Octavia's stomach growled again, and she hurried toward the back door. The faster she completed her chores, the sooner she'd be able to eat.

Throwing on her coat, the first step Octavia took into the snow sent heavy, white crystals spilling over the top of her ankle-high shoes to slide down over her feet. It melted into her stockings until her feet were soaked in an icy slush. In seconds, her feet were bitterly cold.

Octavia grimaced with annoyance, then muttered an oath. The sudden image of her father laughing at her verbal expression of discomfort made her smile as she imagined him cursing the snow as well. Heavy and wet, the snow was deeper than she'd expected, and her heart sank. If the weather worsened tonight, she might not be spending Christmas with her family.

Determined not to yield to such a depressing thought, Octavia reminded herself Christmas Eve was four days away. The weather was certain to be better by morning, and she'd be home by tomorrow night. As quickly as she could, Octavia waded through the thick snow to reach the small stable with its attached hen house.

The wet snow making her feet so cold was an incentive to work fast. Although she knew horses easily weathered cold weather, thanks to their thick coat of hair, Octavia still draped a blanket over Napoleon. Worried the storm might prevent her from reaching him tomorrow, she ensured he had enough hay to last him for the next two days.

To keep his water from freezing, she wrapped a heavy horse blanket around the water bucket, then nestled it in a substantial amount of straw to keep as much of the cold out as she could. Almost a half-hour later, she was satisfied Napoleon would be warm and comfortable through tomorrow night. Before leaving the stable, she made her way to the hen house that opened into the back of the small structure.

She'd laid fresh straw yesterday, but laid more on top to further insulate the hens roosting in their beds. Before she left, Octavia grabbed the egg basket and collected fresh eggs to join the ones already in her pantry. Satisfied she'd made all the animals as comfortable as she could, Octavia's cold feet thanked her as she left the stable. The door latch dropped into place with a quiet clack, while heavy, wet snowflakes fell on her face. Rapidly blinking snow out of her eyes, she stared in dismay at the small yard between the cottage and barn.

When she'd left the house, the snow had been falling heavily, but there had been no wind. That was no longer the case, and she frowned at how drastically things had changed. Less than half an hour ago, the small stable's weathered planks, and the cottage's cheery light-filled windows had been sharp contrasts against the snow-covered landscape.

Now, a thin curtain of white obscured the cottage until it looked like the blurred focal point of a Cézanne painting. Muttering a vicious protest at the havoc nature had decided to inflict on her, Octavia followed the path she'd made from the cottage to the barn a short time ago. To her dismay, her tracks had already begun to disappear, and halfway to the cottage, her foot hit a rock hidden beneath the snow. Stumbling forward, she landed face down in the wet blanket of white.

" Bloody hell ," she exclaimed as she rose to her feet.

Brushing off the icy crystals clinging to her coat, Octavia uttered another curse beneath her breath. This time, she heard the note of fear in her voice. Brushing her apprehension aside, she reminded herself she would be fine in the cottage. Even if the storm lasted for a day or two, she had more than enough food.

The only thing she might have in short supply was fuel. Octavia glanced over her shoulder. The wood pile was just several yards away from the side of the barn, but she couldn't see it and assumed it was buried under snow. Worse, unlike the cottage with its warm glow of light shining out of its windows, the barn was already fading behind the falling snow.

She debated whether or not to bring a few more logs into the house, but decided against it. Usually, Napoleon served as a draft horse, pulling a small cart filled with wood to the cottage. But with the weather rapidly deteriorating, it would be foolish to spend any more time outside of the cottage. She would simply be more frugal than usual with her wood fuel.

Her decision made, Octavia resumed her slow trek back to the house. The wind had begun to blow harder, and she shivered as it drove the bitter cold through the lightweight coat surrounding her plump curves. The moment she stepped through the back door and into the warm kitchen, she breathed a sigh of relief.

Octavia hung up her coat, then hurried into the salon to remove her shoes and wet stockings. Peeling her hosiery off, she hung them over the fire screen to dry before she realized the front of her gown was soaked through. Without thinking twice, Octavia undid the buttons running down the front of her gown.

Shedding the wet garment, she draped it over the back of the ladderback chair close to the fireplace. Shivering, she realized her undergarments were also wet. With a sound of disgust, she collected her shoes and hurried upstairs. She should have listened to her father almost a week ago, when he'd stopped for a visit, on his way back to the Hall from a day of business in London. Octavia winced as she remembered Lord Montford expressing his concern about the weather. She'd dismissed his worries with a promise she'd be home today. Regret spiraled through her.

For a moment, she mourned the fact she'd refused to let her father send a carriage yesterday so she could leave for the Hall this morning. It was less than a two-hour ride on horseback across the fields to Stapleton Hall. The travel time by coach was twice the amount. She preferred riding Napoleon, and if she'd accepted the carriage, it meant a coachman would have to spend the night in the cottage.

The last thing she wanted was someone under foot. She'd come to treasure the peace she'd found here, and the freedom to do as she pleased without any rules. Whether she spent her days painting as long as she wanted, riding Napoleon for hours, indulging in decadent cranberry crepes for breakfast, or reading into the wee hours of the morning, she was happy.

In the back of her head, a whisper pushed forward to remind her of the occasional bouts of loneliness she'd experienced. Octavia blew out a harsh breath of disgust, reminding herself marriage would be far worse. But the thought of not being able to spend Christmas with her family was a dismal one. She'd never spent Christmas alone before.

Tying her heavy wool robe closed, Octavia added another log to the fire in her room. Stirring the embers with a poker, she stood watching the flames flaring to life in the fireplace. Still shivering with cold, she dragged a chair over to the hearth and sat down. Even though she was hungry, she didn't enjoy being cold.

Hands and feet extended toward the flames, Octavia glimpsed a silver frame on the mantel reflecting the firelight. Her gaze swung upward to stare at the small portrait she'd painted of her aunt.

Sadness spun through her. Even after five years, she still missed Aunt Sarah's bright, vivacious manner. Octavia had spent many happy hours in the cottage with her aunt. Every summer, she'd spent several weeks visiting her mother's sister. When her aunt had seen a watercolor Octavia had done one afternoon, Aunt Sarah had set about converting the cottage's third bedroom into a small artist's studio.

Octavia had always possessed a talent for painting, but her true skill lay in portraits. That much was evident by her most recent portrait of Atticus. She swallowed hard as an image of another of his portraits filled her thoughts. It was the most intimate of all the paintings she'd done. Octavia had painted him as he'd appeared that night in the garden after he'd given up his coat to cover her damaged gown.

The portrait didn't just depict Atticus's masculine beauty. It reflected the raw, seductive, passionate nature of the man. Beneath his shirt and trousers, his powerful muscles were sharply defined, while the sensual line of his mouth was curved in a small smile. It reflected the amusement he'd exhibited when she'd lost control of her tongue, and it held the same wicked twist that implied he knew something the viewer didn't.

How she'd managed to capture so much in a single portrait was beyond her comprehension. But it was his eyes that made Octavia feel things she knew she shouldn't feel. Just looking at the painting was enough to make her ache with need. Perhaps worst of all, she'd known that if Atticus had entered her studio while painting his portraits, she would have surrendered to him without hesitation.

Every night, her dreams only confirmed how quickly she would submit to his touch without any thought of the consequences. Octavia's body tightened everywhere as images from her dreams fluttered into her head. Visions of Atticus making her writhe beneath him as his mouth explored every inch of her. Every time she awoke from those dreams, her sex had ached until she'd been forced to alleviate her hunger.

The loud sound of her stomach growling made her start. Toes toasty and warm, she hurried downstairs. Ravenous, she filled a large bowl with stew while adding several slices of bread to a plate. Minutes later, she was enjoying the hearty meal in the dining room. Octavia savored the flavor of the stew, knowing her aunt would have declared it as good as hers.

At least she would have a somewhat festive holiday meal if the weather didn't allow her to go home for Christmas. When she'd visited the village three days ago, the owner of the only store in the small community had convinced her to take more produce than usual. The shopkeeper had also convinced her to buy five pounds of flour and a jar of honey that was larger than the one she usually purchased. Then Mrs. Barton from Galloway Farms had seen her leaving the village and insisted Octavia follow her home to replenish her supply of milk, but she'd refused the eggs the woman offered, knowing her hens provided more than enough for her use.

The only real problem was her supply of firewood. Although she'd filled all the wood bins in the house yesterday afternoon, last night had made her realized it might be a day or two before she could replenish her supply again. It had been a mistake to tell Mr. Barton to delay his usual delivery until after Christmas. The man always stacked several days of wood near the back door, but she'd used the remainder of that supply yesterday.

Perhaps she should have taken her father's suggestion to install a boiler for heating and cooking. She dismissed the idea without a second thought. The thought of coal leaving black soot everywhere in the cottage made Octavia resistant to installing the boiler. But her pragmatic nature reminded her it was inevitable she would be forced to make the change. Until then, Octavia intended to enjoy the comforting sound of a fire crackling in the fireplace as it spread heat out into a room, or as wood burned in her cook stove, warming the kitchen.

Slathering a slice of bread with butter, Octavia closed her eyes and took a bite. The hearty wheat flavor tugged a sigh of pleasure past her lips. It was almost as good as Aunt Sarah's. She'd just swallowed another spoonful of stew when she heard what sounded like someone knocking on the back door. Jumping with surprise, Octavia's body grew rigid with tension. Who could be foolish enough to be outside on a night like this? This was the kind of storm where people died if they lost their way in the snow.

Octavia dismissed the sound as the wind rattling a window. She took another bite of her stew, followed by a drink of wine. The abrupt pounding on the back door made her heart skip a beat, and several drops of wine sloshed out of her goblet onto the table cloth as she set the glass down. Frowning with concern, she hurried into the kitchen. The moment her hand wrapped around the doorknob, Octavia hesitated as her fingers brushed over the key in the lock.

Shifting toward the window, she pulled the curtain away from the wood frame a small amount to peer out at whoever was banging on her door. Snow swirled around a tall man, but he was hunched over as if trying to remain warm. She was all alone in the cottage, and the idea of letting a stranger into the house made her heart skip a beat in fear.

"Who is it?" she demanded.

"Lord Montford, sent me."

Startled by the aristocratic inflections in the man's voice, Octavia frowned in puzzlement. If her father had sent one of the staff to check on her, she would have recognized them the minute they spoke. The man on the other side of the door was a stranger. In the back of her mind, a whisper of a memory said she should recognize the man's voice.

Still hesitating, her fingers hovered over the skeleton key in the lock. The stranger might be an aristocrat, but it didn't mean it was safe to open the door and let him in. As she stared down at the key, she frowned. Perhaps she should tell the stranger to sleep in the barn. A voice in the back of her head derided her mercilessly. It was far too cold out to make someone stay in the barn.

"Open up the damn door, Octavia, before I freeze to death on your back doorstep."

The strong, authoritative command made Octavia suck in a small gasp of disbelief. It wasn't possible. She had to be mistaken. Fingers shaking, she fumbled with the key in the lock. Iron scraped loudly against iron as she turned the key, then pulled the door open.

Snow blew into the kitchen through the open doorway, accompanied by an icy wind. Octavia shivered not from the freezing temperature, but because of the tall, imposing figure in the doorway. The impossible had happened. A second later, her heart slammed into her breast as she met the Duke of Ashurst's dark blue gaze.