Chapter 7

T he moment Octavia walked out of the studio, Atticus closed his eyes and released a soft groan. Christ almighty, what the hell was wrong with him? It had been a mistake to kiss her. He was playing with fire, and it wouldn't take much for it to consume them both. Walking toward the window, he stared out at the swirling cloud of white that was all he could see.

When Octavia hadn't fled the studio the moment he kissed her, Atticus had wanted to release a shout of happiness. When she responded to him, it had taken a great deal of willpower not to act on his desire. That would have been an even bigger mistake. The woman had him twisted in knots.

Lust wasn't an unknown quantity to him, but what he felt for Octavia wasn't lust. It was an intense desire that represented something he'd not experienced before, and he didn't want to consider what that was. What he couldn't deny was how fast Octavia was becoming a drug he couldn't live without.

Even as much as he ached to have her in his bed, he couldn't do that to her. The moment he claimed her, the die would be cast. In morning's bright light, when sanity returned to them both, she would hate herself—and him. It wasn't a pleasant thought.

Persuading Octavia to marry him was going to be difficult enough. The thought of her being forced into marrying him because he'd made love to her was the last thing he wanted. But the scandal could do irreparable harm to his plans if he failed to convince her to be his wife before they returned to Stapleton Hall. And there would be a scandal.

Atticus was certain Octavia hadn't thought about the repercussions of them being alone together overnight without a chaperone. He could only surmise she considered herself so far removed from London society that scandal couldn't touch her in the country. He knew better.

Last night had been more than enough to cause a stir among the Marlborough Set. Multiple nights under the same roof without a chaperone would create a major scandal. It wouldn't matter that the snowstorm had trapped them in the cottage. The minute the Set heard they'd been together overnight, London would be filled with gossip.

Atticus was certain Octavia hadn't considered the impact the scandal would have on her and her family. She wouldn't just suffer humiliation at the hands of the Marlborough Set. All of it would make her feel like a cornered animal at the mercy of a predator.

Even here in the country, she wouldn't be able to go anywhere without someone whispering about her or saying cruel things. Atticus would do whatever it took to save her from that fate, which meant he had to secure her consent to marry him before they left the cottage.

The strong possibility she'd see an offer of marriage from him was nothing more than a matter of honor sickened him. She would find it horrifying and humiliating. Stanfield and others had made her believe her dowry was the only reason a man would want her. It was a lie, but convincing her otherwise wouldn't be easy.

Octavia would rebel ferociously against the inevitable. At that point, it would take weeks, months even to convince her that honor was the bottom item on the list of reasons why he wanted to make her the Duchess of Ashurst. There were numerous reasons for marrying Octavia.

It wasn't just his belief they were well-suited for one another, nor was it the desire Atticus experienced whenever she entered the room. Those were sound reasons for marrying her, but they weren't the first item on the list, which was a simple one.

Atticus liked her.

That was why he wanted Octavia to become the Duchess of Ashurst. He couldn't think of any better reason for marrying her. She was fiery, quick-witted, and talented. Any woman who could paint with such skill and precision said there were depths to her that no one had touched before.

Everything he'd learned about her said she was the perfect wife for him. Atticus was certain they could be happy together, because he firmly believed they would become the best of friends. Whether or not that friendship never went beyond the simple enjoyment of each other's company, or became something more profound, wasn't something he could predict. What Atticus was certain of right now was that he wanted to marry Octavia for who she was.

But how could he convince Octavia of that? Atticus shoved a hand through his hair. What the hell was he going to do? The longer this goddamn storm went on, the harder it would become to stay away from her. Turning away from the window, he looked around the studio. The lighting in the room was even better than the studio he'd had built at Ashland Park. His gaze fell on the portrait Octavia had painted of him. He knew damn well she'd not painted it for Liza.

Whatever her reason for doing his portrait, it meant she'd been thinking about him. That was a good sign. He'd not been lying when he'd said she was talented. She would be in high demand the moment someone saw this portrait. Atticus's gaze swung toward the collection of canvases against the wall. There were splotches of paint on the back of several frames, which meant they were most likely completed paintings.

Curious to see more of her work, he crossed the studio to turn over the first canvas. It depicted a meadow in spring. Wild flowers of varying hues of color were splashed across a field, while the sun spilled over a dark-haired child running toward the viewer. It was exceptional. Atticus reached for another canvas, which was a landscape at the height of fall. With each new canvas he turned over, Atticus's appreciation for her talent grew.

His fingers wrapped around the edge of another painting. The minute he turned it over, Atticus went rigid. It was another image of him. This one was a relaxed pose of him wearing only shirt and trousers, Arms folded across his chest, with one shoulder pressed into the frame of a tall window, he stared outward at the viewer. The small smile on his lips suggested he possessed a secret that amused him.

Still contemplating the painting, he set it down. The instant he picked up the last canvas and flipped it over, his heart slammed into his chest. The background was a bright cheery room, and he sat on a low stool, holding a small child up in the air.

The two of them were laughing, and Atticus was amazed at the look of happy contentment on his face. It was as if Octavia had looked into his heart and painted a future he'd been dreaming about from the moment he'd found her entangled in the middle of those damn rose bushes.

Atticus leaned the painting against the wall to continue studying it. Did the portrait depict something Octavia longed for where he was concerned? Was it possible she had feelings for him? An optimistic grin tugged at his lips. Perhaps it wouldn't be as difficult to persuade Octavia to marry him as he had expected.

Returning the canvases to their original position, Atticus noticed it was even colder in the studio now than it had been when Octavia had been with him. In the fireplace, the charred wood had become little more than glowing red coals. He threw more logs onto the embers and stirred them back to life. When the fire was burning steadily again, Atticus moved to stand in front of his blank canvas. Smiling, he sat down in front of the easel, remembering the image he'd been seeing in his head for the past three weeks.

Not quite a month ago, Octavia had plowed into him as he'd been leaving her father's study. He'd not known she'd returned to town and had been taken by surprise as she'd tumbled into his arms. The moment he'd pulled her into his embrace, she'd taken his breath away.

Dismayed bewilderment had swept across her face, while a wild pink color had flooded her cheeks. She'd not tried to free herself from his arms, and the moment he heard her ragged breathing, Atticus had wanted to kiss her then and there. Soft and pliable in his embrace, Octavia might not have understood what she was feeling, but she'd done nothing to push herself away from him.

Only when Lord Montford had appeared in the study doorway had Atticus found the strength to release her. She'd looked exquisite and adorable in her confusion. Even her cool words of gratitude as he'd released her had failed to hide the stirrings of desire he'd seen in her beautiful eyes.

Her bemusement hadn't disappeared when the earl had introduced them, while the color in her cheeks had darkened. The woman had made him want to sweep her up off her feet and carry her away to someplace private where they could talk, while he could also steal a kiss or two from her.

Once he started applying paint to the canvas, Atticus lost all track of time. With each brush stroke of color, his subject became more clearly defined. By the time the light had begun to fade, he was much further along than he'd thought possible. Satisfied with his progress, he quickly cleaned up, then left the studio.

In the hallway, he caught the faint scent of gingerbread. With a grin, Atticus trotted down the stairs toward the smell. The aroma of his favorite cookie strengthened as he made his way to the kitchen, which was warm from the cookstove's heat. For the first time, he realized the studio had been even colder than he thought. Standing in the doorway, he watched Octavia bend over and pull a cookie pan from the stove's oven.

The soft, rounded curve of her plump bottom reminded him of Boucher's painting, L'Odalisque Brune. Just like the master painter's subject, Octavia had some of the most enticing curves Atticus had ever seen. The mere thought of her with nothing covering her splendid, lush figure was enough to make his body harden with need. Everything about her was exquisite, and for the first time since he'd stepped into the cottage, Atticus realized he was in serious trouble.

The woman was testing his willpower in ways no other woman ever had. It was a problem Atticus knew could cause him a severe set back with just one wrong step. As Octavia began removing the cookies from the pan, she turned her head toward him.

"Can I assume you're here because you're hungry?" Her mocking tone was softened by her smile.

"The light was beginning to fade in the studio, so I stopped painting for the day," Atticus said with a shake of his head. "I thought I'd come down to see if you needed any assistance."

"I'm almost done, but I wouldn't mind if you would scrub some pots and pans." She nodded toward a stack of pans next to the large farm sink.

"Then I'm the man for the job," he said with a chuckle. Atticus rolled up his sleeves and walked towards the sink to fill a kettle with water.

" Oh, dear Lord ."

Octavia made a choking sound as if struggling not to laugh out loud. With a jerk of his head, Atticus glanced over his shoulder. Eyes sparkling with amusement, her hand covered her mouth, her entire body shaking in what was an obvious attempt to stifle her laughter. Atticus arched an eyebrow in puzzlement.

"Would you care to tell me what you find so amusing?"

At the question, Octavia's hand fell away from her mouth, and peals of laughter poured out of her. It was one of the most beautiful sounds he'd ever heard. Still laughing, she pointed toward his trousers. Twisting slightly, he looked downward and frowned. What the devil did the woman find so comical? Had he somehow managed to sit in some paint? In an effort to see what had caused her unrestrained laughter, Atticus tugged on the side of his trousers to pull them snug against his legs.

" Stop !" she exclaimed. Her order came a split-second too late, and the sound of material ripping made him grimace as he felt air rushing through the split seam and over his buttocks.

" Bloody hell ."

Spinning about on the balls of his feet, Atticus faced her in order to hide the sorry state of his trousers. Octavia's sparkling gaze met his, laughter still floating past her lips. As lovely a sound as it was, his mouth thinned at being the object of her amusement. Annoyed by her lack of sympathy for his current predicament, Atticus raised his eyebrows, eyeing her with irritation.

"You'll forgive me if I fail to see the humor in my present condition." Despite his stiff rebuke, Octavia remained unrepentant.

"You would if you'd seen your face the moment you made things worse," she said with a mixture of dismayed mirth. When he scowled at her, Octavia winced, then laughed again.

"Oh, I am…sorry, Atticus. I meant no offense, but surely…you can see…the irony," she stammered in between gasps of laughter. "While my dress was beyond repair, your trousers will be easy to mend."

That Octavia could even compare his situation to hers that night in the Ealing's garden astonished him. Although he wasn't happy about his wardrobe malfunction, it was nothing compared to the pain and humiliation she'd suffered that night at the Ealing's soirée. Octavia was a remarkable woman in so many ways, and far too many men had failed to see the woman beyond her dowry. Atticus rolled his shoulders in a sheepish shrug, then chuckled.

"You're correct," he said with a grin. "Although it was your unladylike and inappropriate language that made me laugh."

Pink color flooded her cheeks, and she averted her gaze as her laughter faded. The woman had no idea how she'd bewitched him that night. All he'd wanted to do then, and now, was pull her into his arms and tell her how much he admired her for being herself. How much he liked the fact she possessed none of the affectations other women did. Most of all, he wanted to make her understand how much he cared about her happiness. With a small smile, her gray-eyed gaze locked with his.

"I did manage to sound quite unrefined that night, didn't I?"

"I found it quite amusing. Charming, in fact. It said you are capable of blunt honesty when speaking your mind, even if others find it shocking." Atticus's teasing words made her blush deepen, but a mischievous smile curved her lips as she met his gaze.

"Then allow me to be blunt now," she chuckled. "You need to change, and bring those trousers back with you, so I can repair the damage."

"I bow to your wisdom," Atticus said with a grin as he sidled past her and backed his way out of the kitchen, which made another laugh part her lips.

It didn't take long for him to change, and when he returned to the kitchen, her smile was filled with mischief as he handed her the torn trousers. Sitting down at the table, she opened up a small box filled with thread and other items necessary for sewing.

Atticus adjusted his shirt sleeves and began to tackle the pile of dirty dishes. As he worked, he occasionally glanced over his shoulder at Octavia. Head bent over his trousers, she pulled a threaded needle in and out of the material. He'd just finished drying the last pan when he heard her utter a sound of triumph.

"There, good as new, perhaps even better, since the thread I used is of better quality than what was used when these were made." Octavia held up the repaired trousers and smiled at him when he turned around.

"Thank you," he said with a grin. "Although how I ripped them in the first place is beyond my comprehension."

"The chair you were using is rickety. I imagine the head of a nail was pushed up just enough to snag at the seam." Octavia frowned. "I think it best if you use the chair that is in your bedroom next time. It's in much better condition."

"I'll do that," he said with a nod as Octavia stood up and drape the repaired trousers over the back of the chair.

"I imagine you're hungry, since you missed tea. Supper won't be much," she tossed over her shoulder as she disappeared into the larder then returned a moment later with a plate of cold mutton, cheese and bread. "I didn't anticipate a storm keeping me here for Christmas, so the larder is low on some things. But I've enough staples to prepare a somewhat traditional holiday dinner."

"You may still be home for the holiday," he said gently as he heard the forlorn note in her voice. "I doubt this storm can keep up its momentum."

"Perhaps, but I shall miss the pheasant Mama always has Mrs. Tavers prepare." Octavia nodded at his attempt to bolster her spirits, a faraway look on her face.

"Another thing we have in common."

"What?" She cocked her head to eye him with curiosity. "Pheasant?"

"Yes, I prefer it or chicken over beef. And what do you have planned for dessert?" he asked, his mind wandering to a dangerous image of a particular delicacy he'd been craving for quite some time.

"Oh, I would never forget dessert," she said with a laugh, but he glimpsed resignation flickering in her gray eyes that puzzled him. "I made a number of things today, including a plum pudding. It's soaking in some brandy I keep on hand for whenever Papa stops for a visit on his way to Stapleton Hall."

"And these gingerbread cookies?" Atticus's hand hovered over the cookies on the table. Octavia narrowed her gaze at him, and he let his arm drop. He shrugged and grinned. "Well, they happen to be a favorite of mine."

"Favorite or not, they're for Christmas Eve tea. So don't even think about touching them," she said with the sternness of a nanny. Octavia thrust the plate of meat and cheese into his hands. "Now take this and the bread into the dining room."

"I'm yours to command, my lady."

"I have serious doubts about that," she quipped with a laugh. "I suspect you're far too fond of giving commands, not following them."

"For you, Octavia, I'm more than willing to please you, no matter what you asked of me," Atticus said softly as he met her gaze.

A delicate flush spread across her cheeks, but she didn't look away from him. Their gazes locked, and he ached to demonstrate just how much he was willing to please her. They stared at each other in silence for a long moment, and in his head, he urged her to step forward and kiss him of her own volition. For a fraction of a second, she appeared poised to do just that, before she shook her head and smiled.

"All I ask right now is that you carry our dinner into the dining room."

"Ahh, so you have other commands you intend to issue in the near future."

At his playful comment, Atticus watched her cheeks become a rosy red. The moment Octavia bit down on her lower lip, he was grateful he was holding their dinner. Unable to reach for her, he eyed her with a hunger that surprised him.

"Perhaps you'd like to order me to kiss you again," he murmured. "I'm more than willing to do so."

"You are a scoundrel, your grace. Do you know that?" she whispered.

Husky and soft, her voice emphasized the desire flaring in gray eyes. In a split second, his cock stirred in his trousers. Christ Jesus, the longer they were alone in this damned cottage, the closer he was to seducing her. Almost as if she could read his thoughts, Octavia's gray eyes softened and took on a slumberous look.

Desire glowed in the depths of her gaze as her mouth tipped upward in a sultry smile, Did the woman realize what a tempting morsel she was or that any other man would have viewed her expression as an invitation? Other men would already have had her partially undressed.

Hell, at the moment, he was ready to take her right here on the kitchen table. But he knew that would be a mistake. Once they started something, Atticus wasn't sure he'd have the strength to stop. All too aware of how close he was to devouring her, Atticus swallowed hard, then smiled.

"While I'm most definitely a rogue, I'm an obedient one, my lady. And I believe you ordered me to put dinner on the table."

"Yes, I did," she whispered.

Disappointment replaced her sultry look, and Atticus wanted to drag her into his arms. Instead, he took a step forward and leaned down to brush his mouth across her lips. When he stepped back, the sultry look had returned to her features, and Atticus offered up a silent prayer of thanks to the almighty that his hands were otherwise occupied.