Page 22 of A Lady Most Wayward
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.
