Page 14 of A Lady Most Wayward (The Queen’s Deadly Damsels #5)

Olivia nodded off in the carriage once again. She jerked awake and realised her boot had found its way between the duchess’. Again. Pulling her foot back, she glared at the duchess. It was her fault Olivia was so tired. She’d slept horribly the night before.

Because it is impossible to relax around this woman.

Every time Philippa had shifted in the bed, every sigh she’d made, even the scent of her, invaded Olivia’s dreams. She had woken countless times throughout the night with an aching awareness.

If she reached out her arm, her hand had brushed against Philippa’s bare skin.

If she turned her head, Philippa’s hair had tickled her cheek.

If she stretched her leg, Philippa’s toes had bumped her calf. It was disconcerting. Unsettling.

Arousing.

And that was the crux of the issue. Olivia hadn’t allowed arousal to play a part in her life for a very long time.

Not since Daisy was sent away.

There were limited opportunities, although even in the asylum, it wasn’t unheard of for those lucky enough to share a cell to take comfort in each other’s company.

But Olivia had been kept in a solitary room for her sexual deviance.

Her husband had insisted upon it. The only interaction she had with others was during mealtimes or when the doctors were administering her ‘treatments’. The ice baths were the worst.

That thought chased away her fatigue. Even as Olivia shifted against the squabs to try and sit in a beam of autumn sunlight, she could feel the frigid water swallowing her. So cold it was like fire. Until everything went numb. Including her mind.

‘Are you quite well, Lady Smithwick?’ Philippa’s sharp gaze missed nothing.

Olivia pulled herself from her memories and focused on the present.

They had been travelling for hours and should be stopping at a posting inn for lunch soon, but the countryside flashing by was remote with no signs of even small villages, let alone a town large enough to boast accommodation.

Just endless hills, rolling like a troubled sea.

Fields were separated with stone walls, and every once in a while, fluffy sheep or scattered cows grazed lazily.

She empathised with their fate. Sleep. Eat. Wait to be slaughtered.

‘Do I not look well?’ She raised her brows and cocked her head.

Why am I baiting her? She will think I’m flirting.

Because I’m flirting.

A terrible idea.

Philippa opened her mouth to answer, but Olivia interrupted, not sure she wanted to know how the duchess would respond. ‘I was just lost in memory. Sometimes, it’s a rather dismal place to find yourself.’

Philippa pressed her crimson lips together.

It was impossible for Olivia not to admire the woman’s physical beauty.

Philippa was wearing a tailored travelling gown in green so dark it reminded Olivia of the ancient trees in the northern forest she’d visited on her honeymoon tour.

It was one of the few pleasant experiences she had from that time.

The dark hue set off Philippa’s hair, which she had twisted into a simple chignon, and contrasted with her creamy skin.

Olivia had never seen the duchess so simply attired in hair and cosmetics, although her lips were as red as ever.

Certain beauty regimes could not be abandoned, no matter the circumstances.

She would never admit this to Philippa, but the simple gown and toilet only enhanced the woman’s features. Large eyes, a strong nose, sharp cheekbones, elegant neck. No wonder the ladies of the beau monde hated Philippa, and the men battled fear and desire in equal measure.

‘Are you thinking of your lost love? Daisy, wasn’t that her name?’

Olivia hid her surprise at Philippa remembering what should be an inconsequential detail from Olivia’s life. ‘No. I wasn’t. I mourned for Daisy, but that wound no longer bleeds. I loved her, but I wasn’t in love with her. Does that make sense?’

Philippa blinked. ‘It makes perfect sense.’

‘I suspect the same is not true for you, Lady Winterbourne. You’ve the look of a woman still haunted by grief. You must have loved your friend very much indeed.’

‘I still do.’ Three words that revealed much.

Olivia’s heart ached for her. She didn’t love the woman in past tense.

She loved her here and now, though she was no longer a part of Philippa’s present.

Such devotion was rare, and in the duchess’ case, it seemed to be devastating.

She fought the urge to offer comfort that would undoubtedly be rejected.

Philippa sniffed and turned her head to look out the window.

‘It’s funny. If it were my husband for whom I mourned, I would be able to speak of my loss openly with other women.

They would extend their sympathy. Some might even be sincere.

But because my love belonged to a woman, I’m denied even the comfort of sharing such grief with others.

The only person I can speak to about this is her brother, and that is a complicated matter. ’

‘Did he know of your affair?’

‘He discovered us. The idiot thought he was in love with me, and in a fit of jealousy, revealed us to his father.’

Olivia sat straighter on the padded bench of the carriage. ‘Dear God. Did you kill him?’ She only spoke half in jest. She could imagine Philippa cutting a man down for far less serious crimes.

Philippa’s smile was small but genuine and Olivia felt strangely like she’d won some kind of prize. ‘No. He still lives. You know him. He is the current Commissioner of Scotland Yard.’

Olivia’s mouth fell open and she snapped it shut. ‘Your love was Edward Worthington’s sister?’

Philippa’s smile sparked a small light in her eyes. ‘So shocked? We grew up together, the three of us. Edward was young and foolish and thought he was in love with me. Idiot.’

Philippa’s admission answered some lingering questions Olivia had about their interactions with each other when she’d observed them in the summer. Staying quiet, she hoped her silence would encourage Philippa to share more.

The duchess shifted in her seat. This time, it was her boot that found its way next to Olivia’s.

She twitched her foot, disturbing Olivia’s skirts.

‘He had no idea his father’s fury would be so great, or his punishment so severe.

Liza’s father gave her two options. Marriage or bedlam. She chose the latter.’

A wave of nausea, unexpected and vicious, tore through Olivia. She knew intimately the torture of an asylum. Imagining Philippa’s faceless love being exposed to such cruelty created an unexpected empathy in her for Liza.

Philippa rubbed her index finger against her thumb.

A wisp of black hair streaked with silver fell from her chignon, but she didn’t seem to notice.

Though she looked out of the window, Olivia guessed it wasn’t the bucolic countryside she watched so closely.

‘She killed herself after six months.’ Philippa blinked and turned to watch Olivia.

Olivia felt the tears spring to her eyes.

She had seen the blank stares of fellow patients in the Home for Wayward Women.

She remembered the sobbing cries in the middle of the night when the darkness seemed eternal.

It wasn’t uncommon for women to take matters into their own hands.

To reclaim a small sense of control by choosing how they ended their lives, even if they couldn’t control how they lived them.

She could imagine it far too clearly, and it broke a piece of her heart away.

No wonder Philippa kept herself so carefully separated from others.

‘And you endured for ten years if your story is to be trusted.’ Philippa spoke the last words like an accusation, but Olivia couldn’t rise to the barb. Not this time.

‘I couldn’t die. My daughter needed me, and I knew one day, Percy would release me.

At least, I hoped he would. His obsession was too great to let me linger there forever.

’ She never imagined speaking to anyone of her time in bedlam.

She guessed Philippa felt the same about discussing her lost love.

Yet here they were. Revealing secrets when there was still no trust between them. They were playing a dangerous game.

Acting without thought, Olivia leaned forward and took Philippa’s hand into her own, squeezing it.

‘Hope is a strange thing. It can give us the strength to survive the most hideous experiences, but it can also be a cruel master, twisting our choices in a desperate bid to gain what amounts to nothing but false promises in the end.’

A gunshot interrupted whatever Philippa had been about to say. She pulled her hand free and reached into her pocket.

‘Bloody hell!’ The coachman’s gruff cry was the only warning they had before the carriage picked up speed and careened wildly over the rutted lane.

Fear sharpened Olivia’s senses. She was acutely aware of the pounding hooves, the worn velvet squabs she gripped tightly to keep her seat, Philippa’s face hardening into the lines of a fearsome warrior, and the sharp sting of adrenaline coursing through her veins.

‘Highwaymen.’ Philippa pulled out a pistol. ‘Do you know how to use this?’

Olivia looked at the weapon as though it were a snake ready to strike. If she admitted her ignorance, the duchess would know Olivia had been bluffing when she threatened her in the ballroom. Not that it would matter if highwaymen killed them both.

‘No.’ She shook her head as they hit a bump, and the carriage tipped dangerously to the left before righting itself.

‘You pointed a weapon at me that you had no idea how to use? You shot it at my butler!’

‘I didn’t mean to. I didn’t even know it was loaded.’

Another gunshot sounded, and the unmistakable grunt of their driver caused fear to coalesce into panic. Olivia was quite certain she would toss up her accounts all over Philippa’s smart travel ensemble.