9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

"All these Portuguese Princesses are demons either in politics or in love, and sometimes in both."The Duchess de DinoThe Canastra coat of arms flashed atop the pedimented gateway, signaling their destination. Isabel’s carriage left the main road and lumbered through the path cut through a sprawling plain. She lowered her embroidery and chanced a look outside. Henrique and Diomedes rode behind their coach.

Henrique spoke, and Diomedes laughed. She could bet he had made an outrageous remark, dripping with his dry, witty humor. After their encounter in the cellar, he hadn’t invited her to ride with him… Not that she wanted to. In fact, she could hardly wait to arrive at Comillas so she wouldn’t have to see him as often. She had no intention of preoccupying herself with a man devoid of love for his country. A rootless tree, ungrateful to the earth sustaining it. She pierced the cloth with more force than necessary and poked her fingertip. Muttering a curse, she flung it away.

The coach halted.

Sophie stored their books and embroidery in a basket, and the ladies adjusted their bonnets and gloves. When a footman dressed in the ochre and carmine of the Spanish flag opened the door, they were perfectly composed.

Isabel alighted first, expression number six in place—a greeting smile and upraised brows.

A marine-scented breeze brought laughter from the beach. Emerald lawns reached to the glittering ocean, the perfect green peppered by carnation and pomegranate flowers.

Dolly shaded her eyes. "By the bard almighty, how grand it is."

A palace perched on the hill, flanked by towering cypress trees. The apricot-colored stones stood in sharp relief against the bright blue sky. Atop the minaret, the Spanish flag trembled under a light breeze.

Rafaela, the Duchess of Canastra, fluttered closer and kissed Isabel’s cheeks. "My dear, dear cousin. I’m so happy you came. I promise you will not regret it." She stressed each word with a fluid hand gesture, exposing multicolored gems on her fingers.

Rafaela was every inch as vivacious as Isabel remembered. Spain had colored her skin to a lovely olive. Her black hair was arranged atop her head, and a handsome bonnet perched rakishly over her curls.

Isabel introduced Dolores.

"What a delightful girl." Rafaela inspected Dolly at arm’s length. "Why, I must take you both under my wing."

Henrique cantered into the courtyard and halted not fifteen feet from them. The sun kissed Henrique’s skin, shining over his windswept hair. With the ease of a brilliant rider, he vaulted from Incitatus’ back. Grinning at something Diomedes said, he flung the reins to a liveried groom and patted the horse’s neck. As he swaggered to their group, the silly beast followed his master’s every move, undoubtedly as eager for the man’s crumbs of attention as everyone else in their entourage.

Everyone except Isabel.

Diomedes cleared his throat and gave Rafaela a polite bow.

Henrique swept into their midst and introduced himself with the savoir-faire of a man who exuded self-confidence. The days riding outside the carriage had made the laughing lines around his eyes more pronounced.

Rafaela curtseyed deeply, showing a blatant amount of decolletage. "Welcome to our country, Your Excellency."

"The Viscount of Penafiel has no trouble embracing any country he is in," Isabel said, plastering a sweet smile on her lips.

"I am easy to please." He addressed Rafaela, but his eyes flashed at Isabel. "Unlike some others…"

The Duke of Canastra cleared his throat. The middle-aged aristocrat towered over the courtyard’s center, two Galgo hunters guarding his legs.

Smiling, the duke bowed over Isabel’s hand. "Princess Isabel. More stunning than I recalled. You are an asset to our humble home." A white streak marked his black hair, giving him a severe countenance. The red and ochre military uniform emphasized his lean figure, but the epaulets seemed too large for his shoulders. Was he an officer now? How odd. Canastra came from trade, and gossip had it he bought the title with shipping money.

"The pleasure is all mine. It’s been ages since I came to Spain. Your country is lovely in summer," Isabel said.

Rafaela cut in front of her husband. "You arrived just in time. We’re having a fiesta on the beach. Today is Cavatast, and we will honor the tradition of tasting the year’s first cava wine."

Guests talked in small groups or lounged around cocktail tables. Games of shuttlecock, lawn tennis, and cricket made the grass colorful and alive. Paper flowers in yellow and rose decorated a trellis. The ocean glittered, the blue interspersed by pointy sails.

"Your Highness, I was waiting for your arrival." Canastra pointed to an austere portal leading into the house. A stuffy butler held the door open. "If you can forgo my wife’s frivolous party, I would love if you could attend a meeting with me—"

"Por favor, Ignacio." Rafaela sidestepped the growling dogs and placed her bejeweled fingers atop her husband’s arm. "Isabel and our guests just arrived. Allow them to have fun before you accost them with politics."

Isabel gazed from the party to the portal. Laughter floated with the breeze, and the scents of cotton sugar and currant jam wafted to her nose.

Still, her brother had asked her to understand the current mood of their neighbors. Who needed a delicious and fragrant celebration when she had the chance to speak with tedious aristocrats? She gazed from the lawn to Henrique, and her mouth watered to join the fun. Why this now? She had never shirked her duties. Parties meant little to her. It was Henrique, she realized with dismay and the promise of laughter dancing in his eyes. What tempted her was experiencing the party with him.

Henrique lifted his brows at her as if aware of her weakness.

"I will be happy to join you," Isabel blurted and placed her hand above Canastra’s forearm.

Rafaela shrugged. "Still the diplomat in the family."

Isabel watched her cousin collect a paper flower from the trellis and insert it in Henrique’s coat pocket. Then, she playfully shooed the guests to the beach. They all laughed. None looked back.

Isabel lowered herself to a Chippendale chair in Canastra’s drawing room. The effort to keep her attention focused on what mattered was fruitless. Every time laughter intruded from outside, her thoughts wandered. Isabel mentally shook herself. This was her chance to make a sterling impression and show her support for the Duke of Aosta.

She forced herself to notice the details. The ceiling rose as high as a cathedral, and Italian marble lined the floors, walls, and arched columns. Statues and mirrors adorned the niches. All attested to the rumors Canastra was the wealthiest man on the peninsula. As she expected, she was surrounded by the cream of the Spanish aristocracy. She recognized the Duke and Duchess of Montijo, one of the oldest lines in Spain, and the Marquiss of Albuquerque.

The table before her had a lavish tea service, including pastries, sweetmeats, and a tarta de Santiago.

Canastra offered her a plate. "Your Highness, do you accept a treat? You look a little pale."

Isabel’s mouth watered, but she forced her gaze from the tray. She would not allow the temptation to control her. Isabel de Orleans was not governed by her senses.

"Thank you, but I must decline."

He lowered the plate. "How is your Spanish?"

"I hope not to disgrace myself with my poor pronunciation," she said demurely, omitting the fact that she spoke five languages fluently.

The duke fired a sequence of questions. Her upbringing, how many of her mother’s progeny had survived infancy, the number of instruments she played, and her exact opinion of their constitution. Bespectacled and monocled eyes observed her from their perches around the drawing room. Even a trumpet was pointed at her, capturing her every word. Why had she become the center of attention?

"I’m a decent chess player." Isabel lowered the cup to the saucer. "Do you know who else plays a great game of chess? The Duchess of Aosta. Will we have the pleasure of her presence this summer?"

Disapproving murmurs rose from the assembly.

Isabel swallowed, and a prickle of unease climbed up her spine.

Canastra stood and stared at a gruesome painting lining the wall. Light focused on a Spaniard pleading for mercy. Other dispatched souls sprawled on the blood-splattered ground. A line of French hussars pointed their guns at the unarmed man. In the background, Madrid burned.

"What a magnificent piece of art," she offered, her voice strained. “Is it perchance a Goya?”

The duke clasped his hands behind his back, still facing the carnage. "The Dos de Mayo. It represents the Spanish fight against Napoleon’s tyranny."

Napoleon’s deranged passions ravaged the country during the Peninsular Wars. Isabel hugged herself. "Past feuds are a waste of a country’s resources, don’t you think?"

He eyed her askance. "Napoleon is gone, but the Spanish people have an Italian usurper on the throne."

Well, then, he seemed quite happy to nurture past feuds. Isabel sipped her tea to swallow her misgivings and pasted on expression number fifteen, a raised eye brow softened by a diplomatic smile. "Isn’t usurper a harsh word? I’m sure the Duke of Aosta is a dedicated ruler."

Canastra inhaled sharply, his olive skin turning red. "Dedicated to whom?"

"To the Spanish people, of course. I always say it’s best to look at the future. Better unite with a less ideal king than have no king at all, don’t you think?" And no king at all, to the aristocracy, meant only one thing—a republic. None present tilted toward a republican regime, so the Spanish aristocracy would have to accept him.

"Have you met the Prince of Asturias?" Canastra spoke casually, but his eyes roamed over her face, and she had the impression he studied her, noticing her minute reactions.

Of course, she knew of him. Royal circles were tight. Alfonso de Bourbon, the eldest son of Queen Isabela, had been exiled along with the rest of his family.

"Only his sisters. They are wonderful girls." She felt the need to add. Otherwise, he might take offense. She’d met them when visiting Paris last year. Alfonso had been studying in Switzerland. They lived well enough in the Rue de Rivoli. Still, she had sensed in the family a deep sorrow and fear. After all, a dethroned monarch led a risky life.

"He became a striking young gentleman. Honorable to a fault, bright, honest. Your views would match with his on many subjects," Canastra said.

An aura of expectancy descended upon the room. Several aristocrats nodded, leaning forward. Canastra exchanged a glance with the others, and she had the distinct impression they were up to something.

"What a shame he cannot return to Spain." Isabel paused. She must tread carefully. "Perhaps I can write to him."

"You won’t have to."

"No?" She lowered her tea and lifted her brows.

"You will meet him in person." The duke placed his right hand atop his chest. "Alfonso de Bourbon arrives tomorrow."