Page 21 of Claiming His Christmas Angel

“You’re quite talented,” he said without looking in her direction, his attention focused on the portrait.

Startled by the admiration and respect in his sinful voice, Octavia didn’t move. Everyone in her family had expressed similar compliments, but of all the ones she’d ever received, Atticus’s words of praise warmed her heart. Head tipped to one side as he studied his portrait, his strong, masculine profile made her fingers itch to grab a brush and paint him again.

Octavia’s stomach lurched with dread. It was madness to even think about painting him for a fourth time when she couldn’t explain her reason for painting this portrait or the other two. No, a voice in the back of her mind murmured. She knew the reason, but she had no intention of confessing her soul to the man—or herself.

Heart pounding in her chest, Octavia glanced toward the canvas paintings in the corner that had been done for several weeks. Relief sped through her when she saw none of the canvases had been moved. She’d turned them to face the wall after they were dry in an effort to avoid seeing Atticus’s face staring out at her every day.

It was bad enough he’d seen this portrait of himself, heaven help her if he found the others. Her mind a muddled whirlpool of incoherent thoughts, she fought hard to think of a plausible explanation for the painting. Somewhere in her head, there had to be a logical reason as to why there was a portrait of him in her studio.

“I suppose the question to ask is why.”

“Why?” she choked out, her voice hoarse.

“Yes. Why did you choose me as your subject, Octavia?”

Atticus slowly turned his head in her direction, and her heart slammed into her chest at the curious glint in his eyes. But it was his smile of pleasure and the gleam of an emotion she couldn’t define that confounded her. Octavia wasn’t sure what she’d expected his reaction to be, but delight would never have even occurred to her.

Ignoring his question, she hurried across the studio to throw a painter’s cloth over the finished portrait. The instant she turned away, Atticus’s fingers wrapped around her arm to stop her. Electricity crackled its way through every cell in her body, and she drew in a quick breath at the fiery sensation.

“No, Octavia, I’ll not let you walk away without an explanation. Why did you choose me as the subject of your portrait?”

Rough with an emotion she couldn’t identify, Atticus’s voice rubbed across her senses with the strength of a tidal wave. Something in the sound had her on the verge of a confession she didn’t dare make. The knowledge reinforced her conviction she’d made the right decision to leave London and not risk receiving him the morning after the Ealing affair.

Legs wobbling beneath her, Octavia stared up at him, struggling with emotions that reminded her she was already on the edge where this man was concerned. When she didn’t answer him, one eyebrow quirked upward. It reminded her of his sister, who possessed a similar trait. Without hesitating, she accepted the unexpected gift of inspiration.

“You…you weren’t…supposed to see…see it until…Christmas,” her voice hoarse as she uttered her lie. “Elizabeth asked me to paint it as a gift for your mother.”

“My mother?” he murmured with frustration. It was as if her explanation had made him feel thwarted somehow. “Elizabeth must have forgotten she gave our mother miniatures of us last year.”

Bewildered, she stared up at him in confusion. Why in heaven's name would the man be disappointed? The air in her lungs vanished as his statement pushed its way through the chaos in her head. He didn’t believe her explanation. Strong fingers still wrapped around her arm to keep her next to him, she flinched as with a sharp tug, Atticus removed the cloth she’d used to cover the canvas mere seconds ago.

With gentle force he turned her to face the portrait, while his hard male frame pressed into her back. The warmth of him sank through her clothing, then down through her skin to heat her blood with alarming speed. Seconds later, a slight tremor rocked her as Atticus dipped his head to press his mouth against her ear.

“Did you do this from memory?”

The soft question vibrated in her ear with an emotion that almost sounded like hope. Another shiver shot through her, and she sought to pull an answer out of the pandemonium and turmoil embroiling her thoughts, but it was difficult to focus.

“I…yes…it was something…I…have…I have an excellent memory.”

“Indeed,” he whispered in that wickedly sinful voice, his mouth pressed intimately against her ear. “Your memory must be quite exceptional. The detail in this portrait is quite extraordinary, considering the few brief moments we spent in each other’s company in a dark garden. One would almost think you’d been observing me for a long time.”

Octavia’s throat closed up as he turned her around and eyed her with intense scrutiny. Pinned beneath his dark-blue gaze, she remained silent. Atticus rolled his shoulders in a small shrug of acceptance at her refusal to elaborate on her motivations for painting his portrait. Relieved he didn’t probe any further, Octavia’s heartbeat slowed. Atticus’s attention shifted away from her to windows.

“The lighting in here is excellent,” he said with what sounded like excited anticipation. “Would you, by chance, have an extra easel?”

“Extra easel?” Baffled by his question, Octavia nodded and pointed toward the far corner of the studio. “Why?”

His stride filled with purpose, Atticus didn’t answer her. Instead, he retrieved the a-framed wooden tripod from the corner of the room and carried it toward her work space. Grinning with obvious pleasure, he set up the second easel back to back with hers. Speechless, Octavia stared at him in confusion. Hands on his hips, Atticus looked around the studio.

“Where are your blank canvases?” His gaze fell on her collection of finished works that were turned toward the wall, and she scurried toward the opposite side of the room.

“Here,” she choked out, her fingers fumbling to grab one of the spare canvases she kept on hand.

She handed him a wood frame with a piece of lightweight canvas stretched tight over it and held in place with tacks pounded into the side of the frame. His grin broadened as he accepted the canvas and kissed her cheek with a word of thanks. Stunned by the almost affectionate gesture, Octavia could feel flames cresting over her skin. What on earth had possessed the man to do such a thing?

“I don’t understand,” she said in bewilderment.

“We have several things in common, Octavia, one of which is painting.” Atticus rummage through the dry brushes lying on the table next to the easel holding his portrait.