Page 4 of Managing the Major

When Octavia entered the drawing room an hour later, the dog close to her skirts, her brother stood by the fireplace, warming his hands. She ran up and threw her arms around his broad shoulders. Richard caught her up in a tight hug, a deep chuckle rumbling in his chest. Freya danced around them, barking excitedly.

“Hello, Scamp. I’ve missed you.”

“Well, I have missed you more. London is so dull without you and Fiona here.” She pulled away to look him over. “My, my, Maxwell has outdone himself. That coat fits to perfection. How was Ireland? Where are Fiona and the children?”

“One question at a time,” he protested, his blue-gray eyes—so like her own—creasing at the corners with laughter. Although he had recently turned forty-three, she still thought her brother was one of the most attractive men in London.

“Yes, my tailor continues to impress, though Maxwell charges me outrageously since his rapid rise to fame. Ireland was sublime; Fallon painted to her heart’s content, and I put Declan on a horse for the first time. We have a fine crop of three-year-olds at the farm, and I can send you one if you wish. The children are presently in the nursery with Mother. My son is going through a stage of destruction that baffles everyone but Fiona, and that seemed the safest place for him.”

“With Declan, it’s more a case of curiosity than naughtiness…he wants to know how things work, so takes them apart.” Fiona had slipped in and heard Richard’s comment. Octavia crossed the room to embrace her sister-in-law and received an emphatic kiss on each cheek.

“A ghrá, how well you look! Richard, mo mihuirnín, will you fetch some madeira? Your mother is reading to the children, so that I have a moment to sit with you and Octavia without interruption.”

While Richard went to the side table and poured the wine, Octavia studied Fiona. She was as vibrant as ever, still willowy after two children. The ebony hair gathered at her elegant nape lay in an intricate knot of braid and curls, and she wore a frock of indigo silk that set off her light complexion. After more than a decade in England, the lilting accent of her birthplace hadn’t diminished.

Richard joined them and lifted a glass of the ruby wine to his wife in a silent toast. As he passed it to her, his fingers caught her free hand, and he raised the palm to his lips. It was clear they remained very much in love. Octavia watched his smoldering glance and the answering flush in Fiona’s cheeks with a small flutter of envy.

Six seasons ago, after her very first ball, she announced the intention not to marry. She never questioned her decision, even when pursued by London’s most eligible bachelors. But there were times like today, glimpsing the passion between Richard and Fiona, when she wondered if a life given to one man was the terrible burden she once thought.

Even as a young girl, she had known she was too headstrong and independent for matrimony, and the cumbersome responsibility of bearing children couldn’t compare to living freely, on her terms alone. Luckily, she had the means to fill her days with horses and any entertainment she desired. One day, she might even take a lover and see for herself what all the fuss was about.

“Octavia, may I bring you a glass of wine, or perhaps some sherry?” Richard asked.

“No, thank you…I’ll wait for dinner.” She settled into the comfortable bergère armchair by the fire, and Freya leaped up, curling up in her lap. She fondled the dog’s soft ears while Fiona and Richard relaxed on the settee opposite.

Her sister-in-law sighed and took a sip of the ruby liquid. “This weather seems unseasonably cold for March, wouldn’t you agree? County Wicklow was more temperate, and the crocuses are beginning to bud.”

“Today was quite a blustery day. I rode Lucifer in Hyde Park, and he was a handful to say the least.”

Richard frowned. “I wish you would let that one go, Octavia. Your stallion seems far from settling. Some horses are never meant for riding. If you sell him, he’d be worth a good bit as a stud; why not let me make some inquiries?”

“Oh, I’m not quite ready to give up on him yet. Lucifer is only four and late to mature, although he has made much progress this year. After all,” she said, waving away his concern, “together, we present a stunning picture, and his gaits are superb.”

His mouth tightened. “Until he finally tosses you. God knows he’s tried.”

“Richard, you would be the last person on earth to let a horse get the upper hand—or to give up on a great one. I don’t understand why you think it is so different for me.” Her voice was sharper than she intended, but to be criticized for her vocation by two men in one day was quite beyond the pale.

“You would look good on a hackney cob, a ghrá, but that’s no reason to ride one,” Fiona said with a smile. “Your fearlessness is magnificent, but troubling at times.”

“Is that a compliment? Because I’m not quite certain.” Freya made a noise of disapproval as Octavia’s hand tightened in her fur. What had happened to all their good humor?

“You have a rare talent for assessing each horse and knowing exactly what they need. Your skill was never in question, Octavia.” Fiona turned to Richard. “Wouldn’t you agree, my darling?”

Her brother’s stern gaze softened. “Yes, her gift is quite extraordinary. And I am so proud of all your accomplishments, Octavia. You can outride most of the men in London. But I will never stop protecting you, Scamp. So please indulge my concerns and be careful.”

Her heart melted. She didn’t remember her father, but Richard had stepped in after his death, generously filling that gap with leadership and affection. He always had her best interests at heart.

“Perhaps Jerome might have some ideas about desensitizing Lucifer,” Fiona suggested.

Richard’s renowned tiger—and her first riding teacher—had much to do in building the reputation of her brother’s stables as one of the finest in Britain. His skill as a horseman was undisputed.

“That’s an excellent idea, my love. Shall I send him over so you two might confer, Octavia?”

“You are very thoughtful, mo céile fir,” Fiona murmured, laying a hand on Richard’s dark coat sleeve.

“I would love to see Jerome. It’s been far too long.” Octavia nodded. “Perhaps on Friday? Hmmm…were we just skillfully handled, Richard? I think Fiona knows us far too well.”

It was inevitable they argued; Octavia loved her independence and chafed under any kind of restriction, and her brother took the responsibility of caring for his family very seriously. But in the years after his marriage, his desire for control had relaxed. Richard was less tightly wound, less closed into himself, and far happier than she could have foreseen.