Page 3 of A Lady Most Wayward (The Queen’s Deadly Damsels #5)

Lady Olivia Smithwick was lit by a silvery moon.

The pistol in her hand flashed in the pale light.

She stood in the centre of the ballroom, glowing like a Valkyrie come to carry Philippa’s spirit to Valhalla.

Some unnamed emotion stalled Philippa’s heart mid-beat.

For a breathless fraction of time, they stared at one another, warriors each assessing the other for weakness.

‘You received my invitation.’ Philippa forced her lip to curl into a confident smile. She refused to acknowledge the prickling rush of heat washing over her skin.

‘I did.’ Olivia’s clear voice rang through Philippa’s nervous system like a lightning bolt, as infuriating as it was thrilling. The woman’s hold over Philippa was unaccountable. And unacceptable.

Focus on the mission. This is my chance to capture the wayward woman and discover her secrets. That is all I care about.

‘I’ll admit, I didn’t think you would come.’ Philippa slid her bare foot to the right, stepping slowly closer as Olivia countered Philippa’s approach with a matching evasive step, her pistol following Philippa with nary a tremor of nerves.

‘How could I resist an invitation from the infamous Duchess of Dorsett? A woman whose high and mighty ideals are only eclipsed by her own hypocrisy.’

Rarely did a person dare insult Philippa.

And never in her own ballroom, pointing a pistol at her chest. Her heart kicked hard against her ribcage as pleasure bloomed low in her belly.

An enemy willing to openly engage in battle.

How delightful. Not that she found her delightful. Just the opportunity to fight her.

Now that’s sorted, what was she accusing me of? Ah, yes.

‘Hypocrisy? What a fascinating relationship you have with reality, Lady Smithwick. If we are discussing duplicity, perhaps we should turn our focus to your recent behaviour. You claimed to be Ivy Cavendale’s friend, then delivered her into the hands of your husband.

He would have killed Ivy had she not been ready to fight.

’ Philippa would never forgive Olivia for putting her friend and protégée in such danger.

Lord Percival’s plan to infiltrate London’s poorest orphanages, kidnap children to fill orders of twisted men, and sell those innocent souls into a short life of unspeakable horror was foiled by Lady Ivy Cavendale and the help of her now-husband, Commissioner Edward Worthington.

But not before Ivy was grievously betrayed by Olivia.

For that alone, the woman deserved to be punished.

Lady Olivia swallowed as her chin wobbled.

False tears from a false woman. I will not be swayed by this deceitful beauty.

‘The last person I wanted to hurt was Ivy. I had no choice. Not that you would understand anything about desperation, would you? Sitting here in your ivory tower. The world bows down to the Duchess of Dorsett. Confidante to the Queen. Richer than Croesus and colder than the Cailleach. You have no idea what it is like to know your heart lies in the hands of a monster. There is nothing I won’t do to reclaim it. Even betray my friend.’

‘You admit to being heartless?’

‘I admit nothing to you.’

‘Who still holds your heart, Lady Smithwick? Your husband is dead. Are you not now free?’

‘What woman is ever free in this world? Even you are beholden to society’s chains, Lady Winterbourne.

Hiding your true nature behind the guise of a glamourous duchess for fear of the beau monde rejecting you if they saw who you really are.

But I see you. A violent creature terrified of her power being challenged. ’

‘I’ve yet to meet a man with enough courage to try.’

‘Thank God I’m not a man. And I’m not afraid of you.’

‘Then you are a fool.’

Olivia’s full lips hardened in a tight line. She lifted her brows, defiance clear in every sinew of her body. ‘No more foolish than you for trying to intimidate me, Your Grace.’

It was dangerous to fight angry. Emotion clouded judgement and made it easier to misstep. But Olivia’s words sparked a fire in Philippa. ‘I am no one’s fool,’ she hissed as she leapt forward, taking Olivia by surprise.

Philippa moved like a whirling dervish of speed and skill.

Olivia barely adjusted her aim before the flat of Philippa’s katana blade smacked Olivia’s wrist, breaking her grip on the pistol.

Philippa could have easily adjusted her strike to cut off Olivia’s hand, but the woman had beautifully shaped fingers.

Again, not that Philippa cared about the woman’s hands.

It’s just that it would be a shame to ruin her favourite nightclothes with Olivia’s blood.

The pistol crashed to the floor. Philippa expected Olivia to scramble away or chase after her weapon.

Instead, the contradictory woman leapt forward, catapulting herself at Philippa and gripping her around the waist, wrestling her to the floor.

It was a stupid move that could have easily ended in Olivia’s death given Philippa’s superior weaponry.

But instead of using her blades to incapacitate the woman, Philippa fell back against her assault.

She hit the floor hard. Olivia’s body landed on top of her, crushing Philippa onto the parquet.

Her hesitation cost Philippa. She couldn’t use her blades in such close quarters and needed to drop them if she wished to defend herself.

And she needed to defend herself because Olivia wrapped those beautiful fingers – fingers I should have severed when I had the chance – around Philippa’s neck.

Olivia’s other hand shackled Philippa’s right wrist and pinned it over her head.

Concentrate. Stay calm. There is always a weakness. Find it.

But Philippa found it hard to concentrate when Olivia’s fingers, instead of tightening around her throat, tickled the fine hair just behind Philippa’s ear.

The woman’s scent, an intoxicating blend of honeysuckle and vanilla, seeped past Philippa’s guard like a drugging poison.

Philippa bucked up with her hips, but Olivia flexed her hand hard enough for fear’s sharp thrill to spiral from Philippa’s belly to the tips of her fingers and bare toes.

She was achingly aware of Olivia’s body pressed against her own.

The woman wore a hideous grey gown that scratched against Philippa’s exposed skin.

The dress was better suited to a maid than the glamorous Marchioness Brightmore who so quickly captured the attention of the beau monde earlier this summer upon her return from a decade abroad.

Olivia’s sensuous figure was hidden by a high neck and long sleeves, but Philippa felt every supple curve and lean line as Olivia tightened her thighs around Philippa’s waist, pinning her lower half to the floor.

‘Return the contents of my purse, Your Grace, and I shall leave you in peace. Refuse, and I shall leave you in pieces.’

* * *

Olivia was still trying to pull her thoughts together after watching Philippa train.

She had been hiding in the corner of the ballroom, waiting for the servants to go to bed before seeking out Philippa’s bedroom.

Then, like a gift from the heavens, a light had flickered down the hallway.

The door creaked open, and the duchess had appeared in the cavernous room, her face illuminated by a single candle.

A gasp had caught in Olivia’s throat before she swallowed it down, cursing herself for three times a fool.

The duchess’ beauty was renowned in the beau monde.

The dramatic contrast of midnight hair and silver streaks, pale skin, and bold, crimson lips – a colour Olivia knew the duchess enhanced with cosmetics despite Queen Victoria’s decree that a plain face was most appealing.

Perfectly sculpted cheekbones, eyes the colour of a stormy sea.

Lovely. I’m waxing poetic about a woman determined to see me hang.

But only a blind fool could deny Philippa’s sharp beauty. And Olivia was neither.

Instead of attacking immediately, she had indulged her fascination for the deadly woman, telling herself she only watched Philippa gliding across the ballroom floor, the steel of her blades flashing in the moonlight, to better learn her foe’s skills.

I must understand her strengths if I am to take advantage of her weaknesses.

And what Olivia learned had disturbed her in the extreme.

Because the duchess appeared to have no weaknesses.

Philippa moved so quickly, she was like a bird of prey effortlessly twisting, sliding, and leaping in a pattern impossible to predict.

Her black silk pants and loose top fluttered as her long braid whipped behind her.

The wickedly dangerous blades were unfamiliar to Olivia, and certainly nothing like the massive broadsword of the highlanders, or the much thinner rapier preferred by most lords of the beau monde.

One blade was just longer than Philippa’s arm, the other about half that size.

She had wielded them as extensions of her body, arcing and slicing in movements closer to dance than the brutish thrust and parry Olivia had seen when lords duelled. It was mesmerising.

Olivia had only intended to watch for a few moments, but she became lost in Philippa’s violent beauty.

She might as well have been a child gorging on the sweet ices served at Gunters with no parent near to temper her voracious appetite.

But, as with all temptations, there was grave danger in such gluttonous indulgence.

Because the longer she had watched Philippa, the more convinced Olivia became that she could not defeat this woman.

Not if she played by the rules. So she had determined to break them, starting with bringing a pistol to this sword fight.

Albeit a pistol she didn’t know how to use, but Philippa need not know that.