Page 57 of A Lady Most Wayward
Philippa pulled back. She hated being wrong. Admitting her own fallibility was her least favourite thing. It was much easier to be right all the time. Except, perhaps, for now. Which was alarming in the extreme. Not only was she blubbering like a ninny; she might also have to admit she wasn’t perfect. Madness.
‘Excuse me?’ She did her best to regain the archness that kept everyone at arm’s length. Except Edward. And Olivia. And the Damsels.
Damn. I’m slipping.
Edward stood, walked to his desk, and leaned a hip against it. A paperweight fell to the floor with a dull thunk. ‘You loved Liza. And she loved you. But you are wrong to believe Liza was youronlychance at love. Your time with her will never be replaced by another, and your love for her will never be tarnished by another. But you can’t live in memories, Philippa. It doesn’t work that way. Love is not a pie with a certain number of slices. It is a stream with infinite tributaries. The river wants to take you on new adventures, if you are brave enough to let go.’
This has nothing to do with love. I’m attracted to Olivia. I respect her. I like her. I find myself increasingly amenable to spending as much time with her as possible, but that hardly means…
Hellfire.
I do love her.
Her mind recoiled from such a shattering revelation to refocus on criticising Edward. Because that, at least, was manageable. ‘That was a terribly mixed metaphor. Pies and rivers. Really.’ But his message was no less powerful because of it. Not that she would ever admit such to him. It was bad enough she cried in front of the man. And nearly conceded she was wrong. Dear lord. If he dared share this with anyone, she would be forced to kill him.
‘Liza released me from our promises to each other. The last letter she wrote to me, before she went to the asylum. She told me to let her go.’ Philippa hadn’t planned on sharing that with Edward, but once she spoke the words, she couldn’t call them back.
Edward blinked several times. ‘Oh?’
‘She told me she loved me, and she released me.’
Clearing his throat, Edward’s voice was suspiciously husky. ‘She wanted the best for both of us. Even if she couldn’t have a full life herself, she wanted that for us.’ His chin quivered, and Philippa felt marginally better that she wasn’t the only one having an emotional breakdown. ‘I think the best way to honour her, what she meant to us, is to live life to its fullest, Philippa. Even if it is painful at times. Even if it is frightening.’
Philippa felt something crack around her chest and fall away, like chains being snapped free. She filled her lungs completely for the first time in nearly twenty years. The ache of Liza’s absence was not gone. It would never be gone. But there was room in her heart for something new, if she was brave enough to claim it.
‘If you tell anyone of this conversation or my emotional lapse, I will eviscerate you and turn your entrails into a necklace for my next gown.’
Edward scrunched his face. ‘I very much doubt that would look good. Not even on you, Philippa. And the smell would be ghastly.’
Philippa shrugged. ‘Fashion is a fickle thing, Edward. You never know what will be the next craze sweeping through the beau monde.’ She stood and looked around his cluttered office for a mirror. Surely amidst all the detritus, there would be one looking glass. There was not.
‘You look fine, Philippa.’
She turned to glare at him. ‘Fine? Are you trying to insult me?’
Edward chuckled. ‘I wouldn’t dare. I care too much about my entrails.’
‘Fine might be acceptable for the Commissioner of Scotland Yard, but it will hardly do for the Duchess of Dorsett.’ Turning, she opened his door. ‘Reading, have you a looking glass?’
Reading rushed into the room with one in each hand. ‘Of course, Your Grace. And I have a full-length mirror in the other room if needed.’
‘Well, at least someone is prepared.’ She gave Edward a dry look, her equilibrium somewhat restored, even if she had no idea what to do with her new revelations.
Could she pursue Olivia? Was she brave enough to risk her heart once more? Would Olivia even accept her suit? For a woman who spent most of her life knowing exactly what she wanted, and exactly how she meant to get it, Philippa found herself bumping down love’s river of adventure with nary a raft in sight.
17
Olivia stood in the centre of Philippa’s grand ballroom wearing a day dress in the lightest shade of rose. Her hair fell around her in a wild tangle of curls, her face was warm from exertion, and sweat trickled down her right leg, tickling the sensitive skin behind her knee.
‘If you wished to torture me, I’m sure we could find a rack somewhere that I will happily chain myself to if it means we can stop.’ Olivia glared at her nemesis standing opposite her.
Philippa was resplendent in a dark-blue dress, deceptively simple in design. The clean lines and lack of her signature jewels only highlighted the duchess’ figure, drawing Olivia’s eyes to her full breasts, frustratingly hidden from view behind a row of black onyx buttons running down the front of her bodice. It didn’t help that she looked as cool and calm as any lady might when enjoying a cup of tea at an afternoon visit with friends.
‘If torture were my aim, trust me, you would know. You cannot fight with your anger. Battles are won here first.’ Philippa tapped a finger against her temple.
‘Then cease provoking me,’ Olivia hissed, stepping back with her right foot into the fighting stance Philippa had taught her.
They had spent the last week practising daily. From the frightful hours of ten in the morning until two in the afternoon, Philippa schooled Olivia in shooting pistols, throwing knives, duelling with swords, and hand-to-hand combat. It quickly became apparent Olivia was dreadful at all of it. But still, Philippa was relentless. She insisted Olivia needed to learn how to defend herself if they were going to take on her brother.
