Page 61 of Managing the Major

Holding the excess of her riding skirt in one hand, she met him halfway, and they stood looking wordlessly at each other.

Finally, he spoke. “The spring suits you, Octavia. You should always move among the daffodils and irises.”

“Good morning. Did you go walking in the park at first light? It was a beautiful sunrise.”

“You were up early then.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she whispered. “Your letter inflamed me.”

A spasm of desire spun through him. “As did yours.”

She turned, and as they moved through the fragrant grass, his scarred hand seemed to move of its own volition, not to hold hers—that would break the fragile line of propriety they observed—but to briefly touch her fingers, then return to his side.

“Mama has come down from the house to watch us ride. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” he said politely, though of course, he’d rather have her to himself.

“Can you ride with me again tomorrow?”

Alastair nodded, aching to touch her. She wore a faded straw hat with a wide brim, and he stopped at a tuft of cowslips, bending to pluck a single stalk and tucking it carefully into the ribboned band. Freya ran ahead, chasing a large swallowtail butterfly. As they neared the barn, Lady Amelia stood framed in the doorway, her lilac skirts filling the space.

Octavia looked up at him. “Monday, I will spend the day with my sister and Mama, but on Tuesday, I thought we might go into the park to work the horses.”

“Really?” he couldn’t resist teasing. “My stern sergeant has relaxed her rules—I am amazed.”

She rolled her eyes. “Unless, of course, you don’t wish to…”

“You know I do, and I certainly hope Lady Amelia didn’t see that impertinent gesture.”

Alastair hummed as he took Thor back to his stall. This morning had been his strongest ride yet, and although his left leg still couldn’t bend very much, he had kept it against Thor’s side with a minimum of discomfort.

Last week, he sent his left riding boot to be made wider with a leather gusset. He wore them yesterday instead of wrapping his calves with bandages to ride, and the difference in grip was substantial. But the real reason for his improvement came from exercising twice daily without fail.

He walked out to the viewing area, where Lady Amelia sat under her parasol, watching Octavia ride. The roan mare behaved well until Freya ran too close to her heels and she kicked out sideways. Octavia merely laughed and brought her back to the walk.

“Major Alastair, how elegant you looked today; you are well-matched with…er…what do you call him?”

“Thor.”

“Well, he suits you. Octavia tells me you’ll accompany her in Hyde Park on Tuesday. I may have my driver take out the phaeton, so I can visit with you both.”

Octavia had dismounted near the fence and overheard their exchange. “Mama! Would you venture out in an open carriage to see us? Major Alastair, you don’t know how rare that is.”

“Well, I can’t have everyone think all this…” she gestured to the quaint stone barn “…goes on without my blessing. Octavia, when you ride with Major Alastair in the park, you must have Peter with you.”

“Of course, Mama.”

“I promised to take Abigail to the British Institution this afternoon to view some art, so I’d best take my leave,” Alastair said. “Thank you, Miss Octavia, for another excellent ride; I shall see you in the morning at half-past nine. I hope to enjoy your company again tomorrow, Lady Amelia, but if not, we’ll meet at Kensington Park on Sunday.”

He caught Octavia’s wistful look in his direction as Peter came to take the mare and vowed to start another letter to her as soon as he returned home. If time alone was difficult to find, at least they could speak privately by exchanging notes.

Exiting the Merrick gate, he walked to his waiting carriage and climbed in, telling the driver to proceed home. Writing did little to assuage his aching desire, but he told himself to be patient. There were now two subjects he needed to discuss with the Earl of Seldon: support for his hospital and permission to pay his addresses to Octavia.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Letters are Exchanged

My Dearest Octavia,