Page 16 of A Lady Most Wayward
Dear God. I sound like a pompous prig. I’ve brought men to tears with the raise of my eyebrow. I’ve levelled criminal networks with nothing but my wits and a pistol. I’ve trained four young women to become the Queen’s Deadly Damsels. I can manage a few nights of rough travel.
Which forced Philippa to confront another uncomfortable fact as they climbed down from the carriage and made their way to the steps of the inn. Olivia was woefully underprepared to protect herself. Something that should bring Philippa some sense of satisfaction. After all, the less skilled Olivia was in fighting, the greater advantage Philippa had when it was time to battle her nemesis.
Not that her lack of training helped me when she punched me.
Just remembering that night in August when they apprehended Olivia’s husband was enough to have Philippa thwacking her fan against her skirts in agitation. She should have seen the woman. Olivia was wearing an iridescent dress, of all things. It had clung to her figure like a second skin, catching the light and making Olivia glow like an angel.
A fallen angel.
Not that Philippa was one to judge a woman for taking what she pleased. Unless what she took was Philippa’s pride.
Despite her inherent brightness, Olivia had found shadows deep enough to keep her hidden that night, and when she did leap at Philippa, the duchess froze. Which she never did, and for good reason. She hadn’t even lifted her arm to protect her face when Olivia smashed her fist into Philippa’s cheek.
Mortifying.
But it was more than that. After seeing Olivia’s painful lack of fighting prowess with the men by the privy, Philippa had to admit a terrifying truth. SheletOlivia catch her unawares in August. And she did it again in her own ballroom. When she could have struck, she held back for reasons she didn’t wish to examine.
Because I like her.
Impossible. She was the enemy. Philippa hated her. She couldn’t possibly like someone while also hating them.
Love and hate. What did Delacroix say? Two faces of the same coin…
Shaking her head, she reared back from the idea. She certainly didn’t love Olivia, nor did she want to entertain the possibility of such treasonous thoughts. She loved Liza. And Liza was dead. Love was in her past, not her future, and certainly not her present. She wouldn’t think about why she hesitated in attacking Olivia. Instead, she would focus on the men who hadn’t held back.
They could have so easily overpowered the slight woman. And not because they were stronger or better armed, or more powerful. Simply because Olivia had never been taught the skills of fighting. It was infuriating that women were subjected to the whims of men for one reason alone. The male species believed themselves to be physically superior. Regardless of whether the woman in question was Philippa’s friend or foe, the situation was unacceptable. She would need to think of a solution.
‘Excuse me, good sir, do you have any available rooms for me and my travelling companion?’ Olivia had sashayed her way to the bar, leaving in her wake a trail of staring men. Philippa could hardly blame them. Even in her wrinkled grey dress, bereft of the glamour and jewels she normally wore, she was breathtaking. Her pale hair formed a wild mass of ringlets that refused to stay contained in a simple twist. Philippa was slightly transfixed by Olivia’s hair. When she spoke of Liza having the most beautiful hair she’d ever seen, her tongue tasted the lie even as her heart felt the oily guilt of betrayal. Yet it was undeniable that Philippa had spent far too many minutes in the carriage wondering what Olivia’s hair would feel like between her fingers. The woman’s eyes reminded Philippa of a jungle cat and sparkled with untold mischief as she blinked innocently at the innkeeper. Her full lips parted in a shy smile.
Such a consummate flirt! And a sapphist.
It was a wonder. But also a seeming truth, for why would Olivia lie about such a damning reality? It threw a new light on the woman’s carefully curated coquetry in front of men. Her seductive behaviour was all a façade designed to provide her with some sense of power. Now Philippa knew Olivia’s secret, it was easy to discover her tell. Olivia twirled a finger in one of her ringlets, tugging gently on the strand whenever she spoke to men in that breathy, wholly distracting way.
She’s never once twirled her hair while talking to me.
Philippa wasn’t sure how she felt about that, much like everything else in relation to Olivia. The woman had her at complete odds.
The innkeeper gave Olivia an appraising glance. ‘We’re full to busting. We’ve only got one room left and it’s not near nice enough for a lady like yourself.’ He winked.
Olivia tittered.
Philippa curled her lip in disgust.
She elbowed her way to the bar, her hip brushing against Olivia’s as she slapped her palm on the scarred wood. ‘Is it clean?’
The innkeeper’s brows rose, and he took a half step back. ‘Clean enough.’
Tapping her finger on the bar, she contemplated how quickly she could rip the man’s moustache from his now-twitching lip.
Not worth the mess.
‘We’ll take it.’ She reached into her pocket and withdrew three guineas. ‘And somewhere for our driver to sleep.’ It was more than enough money to cover the cost of a room for each of them, including the horses. The innkeeper’s eyes bulged at such a display of wealth. ‘Do you have any private dining rooms, or only the common one?’
The man swallowed loudly as he stared at the coins. ‘W-we’ve got one private room, but it’s being used.’
‘Well, of course it is. I’m sure this fine establishment hosts many grand guests. Two lowly spinsters such as us shouldn’t expect such fine treatment.’ Olivia glared at Philippa before turning back to the innkeeper.
Damnation. I suppose I’m not acting like a middle-class spinster.
