Page 67 of Managing the Major

She colored with pleasure and peeked through the window at Richard, still preoccupied with Jerome at the landau. “How wonderful to have time together at last. I’ve often longed for our privacy at Fairfax.”

“Did you count the days and hours until today as often as I did?” he asked softly.

“Oh, far more, Alastair. Mama was worried I was coming down with a fever, I’ve been so restless and preoccupied.”

He leaned over and brushed her cheek with his fingers, then her full lower lip. “I love to hear you say my name, Octavia.”

“I can think of nothing but you,” she whispered, “…and your letters to me.”

“My dearest girl, I’ve—”

Richard’s boots sounded on the gravel, and she pulled away, lifting a finger to her lips. Outside, her brother dismissed the hovering footman, and the door opened. He stepped up lightly to sit beside Alastair. “All ready?”

At her nod, Richard tapped on the roof, and the coach pulled away.

It took some time to reach Vauxhall Bridge and cross the Thames towards South London, sometimes only able to proceed at a walk among the variety of carriages and carts crowding the roads. Once they left the city and turned onto the Epsom Road towards Surrey, there was still a fair amount of traffic, but Richard’s driver was skilled, and they continued at a steady trot between toll gates.

“How is the roan mare progressing, Octavia?” Richard asked once past the sights of London.

“I’ve named her Sigrun.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Fanciful, but then you know her better than I.”

Octavia hoped her cheeks didn’t show the heat suffusing her face as she looked at Alastair. She secretly adored it when he referred to her as his Valkyrie, and the mare’s name brought his endearment to mind every time she heard it.

“She has a lovely temperament and responds to my aids readily. Your man did a fine job breaking her, and the finishing touches have been relatively easy.”

“Do you have a breeding farm nearby, Richard?” Alastair asked.

“Yes, in Saffron Walden, about halfway to Newmarket. My rider, Sam, backs them as two or three-year-olds and then I send racing prospects to one of two training stables, either in Epsom or Newmarket. The carriage horses I take and Octavia, the riding candidates.”

“There’s also a farm and property in Ireland, but we rarely bring those horses to England,” Octavia added.

“It’s an old hunting box I owned and converted to a residence, and bought the surrounding land. As you know, my wife is from Dublin, and we often go back to visit.”

“I confess I’ve never been to Ireland.”

“Really? That is surprising when I think of all the places you’ve traveled, Alastair. You must go sometime; it is the most beautiful country,” Octavia said, having been a few times with Fiona or Richard.

“There have been no wars to fight in Ireland,” he said wryly, “and that instigated my travels.”

Richard nodded. “Well, if you do desire to visit, my home is at your disposal.”

“Thank you, Richard. I may take you up on that. Did you say two other horses are running against yours tomorrow?”

Conversation turned to the race, and Octavia removed her bonnet and gloves and leaned back against the plush cushions. Soon, random thoughts drifted into sleep, punctuated by the voices of her brother and Alastair and the lurching of occasional stops to pay tolls.

Sometime later, she opened her eyes. She glanced across at Alastair, who gave her a warm smile.

“That looked like a much-needed rest.”

“I haven’t slept well for the past few days,” she admitted, and sat up, looking outside the window.

Richard put aside the paper he was reading. “Octavia has always been able to fall asleep in the oddest places.”

“Where are we?” she asked.

“Close to Ewell.” He pulled out a small gold pocket watch from his coat pocket. “It’s just past noon. We’ve made good time.”