10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

"Society is now one polish’d horde, Form’d of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored."Lord ByronHenrique entered the palace, directing the footman to accommodate the box with his experiments and microscope. Isabel’s maid paced the corridor, her expression bothered. Henrique could not blame her and glared at the door. Isabel had been locked inside it with Canastra for two hours. The princess should have stayed in Lisbon if she wished to bury herself in smoky rooms and drudging company.

He was about to return to the party when he heard a gasp.

Isabel stumbled out of the room. The maid hurried to her and grabbed her arm.

Heart speeding, Henrique strode to them.

Isabel seemed troubled, her skin pale. What the hell had they discussed? If they had been mean to her—Henrique pushed the thought away. Isabel could hold herself better than most people he knew.

Green eyes settled on him for a second, and then she fainted.

Henrique folded Isabel’s weight close to his chest just as her legs melted beneath her.

"What is wrong with her, Sophie?"

"I don’t know. She was fine when she entered with the Duke."

"Lead the way to her bedroom."

Henrique strode through dark corridors, his footsteps clattering over the checkered marble, Isabel’s long skirts tangling with his thighs. Her head lolled with each step, her lips white as the Greek statues lining the gallery. Henrique cursed the palace’s gigantic proportions, counting six turns before Sophie threw open the door to the princess’ chambers.

Brocade curtains hung from the windows, curtailing the light. As with everything else in the castle, the room was overdecorated.

Henrique lowered Isabel to the bed. To reach the skin of her wrist, he had to unbutton the glove and rip the lace from her long-sleeved dress. Her pulse beat erratically, her breathing shallow. Damn her prudish clothing. He could barely see her throat through the ruffles of her bodice, the taffeta stiff as armor. How could the woman breathe in the cursed thing?

"Help me remove her gown."

The maid wrung her hands. "But, sir—"

"Now, Sophie."

The tone of his voice forced the maid into action. With her help, Henrique unhooked the bodice’s fastenings. The cloth gaped to reveal a corset hard enough to shame any breastplate. The top reached her collar, smashing her chest, and the other end nipped at her waist—too tight. Most women abused corsets for two reasons—to produce a cinched midriff or enhance their bosom. Not Isabel. Her corset did the opposite, flattening her curves.

"Why in heavens do you pull it so?"

The maid sucked her lips in. "I’m a sans-culotte, sir. I follow orders."

Henrique grunted. Frustrated, he took a knife and cut the tapes. Isabel’s chest inflated with the force of her inhale. His shoulders sagged, his eyes closing in relief. She still was pale and wan, but a monstrous corset coupled with Spanish heat could do that. Efficiently, they tugged the bustle from her waist and removed her petticoats.

From beneath layers of cloth and wire emerged surprising softness. Rounded breasts strained the translucent cotton of her chemise. Tapered legs stretched into arched feet. Without the armor, she was all woman. The knowledge would haunt him later, but he couldn’t avoid feasting on the view.

Henrique took a step back, his breathing rough. He looked away, cursing his body’s reaction, and focused on the ever-present tiara above her head. He better not forget who she was—his friend’s sister, Princess of the Blood.

Color returned to her lips. Sophie moved quickly to cover her with the counterpane, no doubt conscious Isabel would rather die than be seen in dishabille.

"When was the last time she ate?"

The maid fussed with the pillows. "Sometimes she—"

"Should I send for the doctor?"

"No, they will want to bleed her, and… Well, some days she refrains from food, sir."

"She refrains?" Food wasn’t superfluous, damn it. People refrained from gambling, champagne, or French courtesans, not food. "Why in heaven’s name would she do that?"

The maid fidgeted with her austere gown, her discomfort palpable. Sophie was not at fault.

"Go to the kitchen. Bring back a light meal. Broth, bread, and tea."

She left, closing the door with a soft click.

Alone with Isabel, Henrique exhaled. His chest bothered him as if someone had filled it with cement. He wanted to strangle her for endangering her health. No, too quick. What she deserved was a good, long spanking—a tanning of her royal rump. Henrique sat by Isabel’s side. A strand of hair had been lucky enough to escape her chignon and now rested on her cheek. He twirled it around his fingertip. So soft. "Foolish, foolish girl, what will I do with you?"

Isabel’s eyes fluttered open and focused on him. Lifting her hand, she picked something from his coat. The paper flower.

She frowned at the wrinkled petals. "I’m sorry you had to leave the party to carry me here."

Her voice had a hurt, sad note, and damned if it didn’t make him feel guilty. He shook away the feeling. If she wanted to waste an afternoon instead of enjoying herself, it was her choice, not his. "Why don’t you eat, Isabel? Are you trying to kill yourself?"

"My eating habits don’t concern you.”

Henrique gave her a look to rival Hercules’ wrath.

Biting her lip, she tugged the covers to her neck. “If you must know, I received some unexpected news. And the long journey… I’m perfectly fine now. You can return to your entertainment."

"Don’t tell me you want to mimic those consumptive women." If this was a whim to follow a silly fashion trend, he would indeed thrash her, and then he would lock her up and feed her until she dropped the nonsense. "To starve is dangerous, Isabel, and you are barely above a wisp as it is."

"I’m not a wisp, and I have no intention of starving. I merely believe some indulgences should be restrained."

"Enlighten me, if you please." Henrique shut his eyes, knowing whatever she meant by including the word indulgences and restraint in the same sentence would make him groan.

She lifted a royal shoulder as if readying herself to impart common sense knowledge. "Food, drink, gambling, and other private pursuits overstimulate the senses. The senses can lead us to forget morality. When we forget morals, we lose track of our purpose."

Good God, did she believe this nonsense? What should people save themselves for? The grave? Stimulating the senses, living in the present, was the only fleeting happiness human beings could enjoy.

Eating, sleeping, and having sex felt wonderful because it ensured life’s continuation. Fighting against it was unnatural, a testament to her twisted beliefs.

Henrique searched the room until he found a tray brimming with Spanish treats. He caught a buñuelo, the fritter dripping with powdery sugar.

Isabel watched his movements, her gaze alert.

Henrique lifted his brows and bit into the pastry. Closing his eyes, he threw back his head as the sweet melted in his mouth.

Even before he opened his eyelids, he could feel Isabel’s stare.

"Want some?" he asked, sprawling by her side.

She tried to roll away from him, but his weight trapped her underneath the counterpane.

Isabel shook herself like a little bird after a bath. "No, I—"

Henrique painted her lips with powdery sugar. A pink tongue came out to lick the sweetness.

Breathing heavily, he broke the pastry in two and pushed it under her nose. She gave a dainty bite. A little mewling escaped her throat.

Her eyes widened, and startled, she covered her mouth as if ashamed of her pleasure.

He hated her restraint. Her warped worldviews would make the Inquisition proud. "You just indulged in sugar, Princess. Ready to lose your morals? Invade another country?" He clasped her delicate wrist and traced her palm. "Kill with your bare little hands? Or worse, debauch an unsuspecting male? If it’s the latter, don’t forget this dutiful subject."

If a pinch of sugar had such power, what would happen if he fed her a bucket?

"I don’t think you need my help with debauchery. But I’ll know who to assign if I ever want a volunteer for the gibbet." She pulled away from his touch.

A fire-breathing hoyden lived underneath her stiff, perfect carapace. How he was tempted to see her out of it, even if it burned him.

Henrique clicked his tongue. "Hateful words for a prim princess. Have you no royal restraint?"

When she opened her mouth, no doubt to shoot an angry retort, Henrique fed her the second half of the pastry. She chewed it murderously, her gaze never leaving his face, and he cringed to think what part of his body she imagined destroying inside those delectable lips.

A knock on the door startled them both.

Sophie entered, carrying a tray.

Henrique pulled away from the bed. "You better eat every crumb, or I will mouth feed you like a spoiled baby."

"I guess I should thank you for your assistance. I hope you don’t expect a medal. I save those to people who do not abandon their country."

She could throw the damn medal into the garbage for all he cared. He shut the door and leaned his forehead against it, panting.

A medal? He deserved sainthood.

Even Hercules would have a hard time dealing with her. She was Luis’ problem, not his. What was it to him if she wanted to live inside her carapace? He needed a plan to take her back to Lisbon. Then would he be free of her haunting green eyes.

Henrique selected an arrow from the makeshift table. The duke’s guests came out to enjoy the morning sun on the lawn. All except the princess. Isabel no doubt campaigned against outdoor games. Who knew what depravities could happen? One risked tossing a ball and his clothes during the same match or dirtying his hands and his conscience. She must be solving the country’s problems, armed with her exquisite brain and an embroidery needle.

The Duchess of Canastra strung her bow and loosed an arrow. The shaft flew ten feet and dropped onto the lawn, adding to the dozen already littering the grass. "So, what is in England? A sophisticated aristocrat? A lovely debutant?"

Henrique grunted. There would be several women and zero judgmental princesses with inquisitive green eyes and too-kissable cherry lips, whose naïve patriotic ramblings could vanquish all mills in the world. Henrique pulled the bow’s string. The arrow flew in a perfect trajectory and hit the circle painted on the oak’s trunk. "A chair at the university."

"I thought we had those in Coimbra."

Why did people find it so hard to believe he wanted to leave? "I won’t bore you with the details. Science isn’t run on good intentions. I need investments and long-term commitment." And peers who recognized his profession as an honorable pursuit.

"Don’t we all…" She sighed, a wobbly smile on her lips. "Speaking of Portugal, How is Dom Luis? Some hidalgos here weren’t pleased with his refusal to assume the Spanish throne."

"I have many interests. Politics is not one of them."

"If only my husband had the same discernment." She lowered her bow. "Pity the princess could not join us."

Henrique looked at the palace’s east wing. The window of Isabel’s bedroom was shut. What’s the point of coming to a beachside paradise if she would lock herself in stuffy meetings? He should be glad. Whenever she came near him, she caused an unwanted reaction. A rogue chemical waiting to blow up a man’s carefully planned experiment. He gripped his bow and aimed. The arrow flew several inches from the target and vanished inside the oak forest.

Voices and rushed steps rose above the birds’ chirping. Canastra and his buttoned-up sycophants crossed the veranda behind the lawn. Rafaela dropped her bow and rushed to Henrique’s side.

"Oh, darling, another bullseye." Flickering her eyelashes, she laughed seductively.

The husband halted, lifted his brows at Rafaela’s sudden performance, and after an awkward moment, continued on his way.

As soon as he left, Rafaela returned to her bow, her cheeks stained by a crimson blotch.

She fit his type—attractive, mature, and married. But he was not interested in her romantically, and unless he misread the signs, neither was she. Since their arrival, they had developed a friendship, nothing else.

Henrique narrowed his eyes, lifting a brow. "Care to explain?"

She shrugged, and her gaze wouldn’t meet his. "You will excuse me. I need to oversee… the dinner preparations. Yes, the French chef cannot pureé without my help." She whirled on her heels. "Don’t forget the yacht party tomorrow. Bring your swimming suit."

In her haste to leave, she bumped into Dio.

Dio bowed and ogled her retreating form. "I’ll tell you, there’s something fishy going on here. The women are curious enough to my tastes, but the men… Can’t you feel their feigned tolerance? They have all the love for foreigners you have for dirty hands."

"Nonsense. The Spaniards are a proud and independent people."

"Oh, please. They stroll around in their military finery, unsure if they are characters in a doggerel or an elegy. They give me charged looks as if afraid I could escape with their house silver or their wives, maybe both. They are always plotting, but each pretends not to know the others are also plotting because the admission would have made the plotting absurd."

Henrique snorted.

"Something is rotten in the state of Spain," Dio said, his brows furrowed. "If you cannot feel the situation boiling, then you are not applying yourself to your hero’s mission—"

"Not applying myself? Hercules had it easy. Half of his jobs summed up to carting animals across Greece. I would like to see him do the same with an obstinate princess. Hercules would have broken her pretty neck."

"Isabel is sometimes, well, difficult."

Henrique raced his hand through his hair and glared at the princess’ window. "That, my friend, is an understatement if you ever uttered one."

Dio tilted his head to the side, caressing his goatee. "The hero doth protest too much, methinks. Care to explain?"

Curse his outburst. Like a hyena, if Dio smelled a carcass, he could not rest until he found it.

Ignoring his friend’s curiosity, Henrique pointed at the envelope sticking from Dio’s frock coat. "You’ve opened my correspondence again?"

Dio smiled sheepishly. "Is it not what sommeliers do?"

"Sommeliers test food and drink for poison. Nosing others’ mail isn’t in the job description." Henrique grabbed the letter and scanned the lines. "The Italian is pressing me to conclude the sale of the estate. But you already knew that, didn’t you?" Henrique crumbled the paper.

"What will you do?" Dio fingered the bows and arrows displayed on the makeshift table.

While Henrique played the nursemaid to a prim princess, his future was at risk. "I need to convince Isabel to leave, but she is more stubborn than a mule. If she realizes I must return, she will plant her feet on the pasture just to spite me."

Dio chose a bow and tested the string.

"Don’t—"

Dio had terrible luck with weapons. Before Henrique could take it from him, Dio placed it over his shoulder and aimed.

The arrow went flying.

Henrique grabbed the bow from Dio’s hand. "Damn it, what if you hurt someone? The last time you caught a bayonet—"

A pitiful caterwaul came from the oaks edging the lawn.

Henrique held his breath.

A man staggered out of the woods. He had an arrow protruding from his top hat.

Dio jumped back and crossed himself.

Henrique swore, rushing forward. "Charles? What are you doing here?"

Charles’ clothes were in disarray, his eyes red-rimmed. "I need your help. She doesn’t allow me to see her."

Henrique pointed at his head. "You have an arrow on your—"

Charles removed the pierced hat and stared at it as if he couldn’t decide what was stranger, the hat or the arrow. At least he wasn’t hurt, thank God.

"Have you been drinking?"

Henrique examined the other man’s preoccupied expression. To be honest, his jaws and nose had lost the bloatedness he sported back in Lisbon. He seemed bewildered but not intoxicated.

"It’s Dolores, my lovely Doll. She is so sad... She fears the princess will never allow her to see me. The tyrant kept her under strict surveillance in the palace, but here is worse."

Was Dolly the reason Charles acted like a deranged fool? Henrique exchanged a glance with Dio, whose lips twitched with suppressed mirth.

Charles held his hands together in front of his face. "You have access to the princess. Help us, please."

Henrique frowned, not liking the direction of the conversation. "Help you with what?"

"I need to see Lady Dolores. You could arrange it if you wanted it.” Charles kneeled and grabbed Henrique’s feet. ”I’ll die if you don’t help."

Henrique stepped away from Charles’ grubby hands. Who knew what sort of bacteria they carried? While he disagreed with Isabel’s way of living, he couldn’t throw Dolly into the arms of a profligate like Charles Whitaker. "What are your intentions with this girl?" Henrique gagged over such damning words.

"I love her."

"That does not mean a lot, does it?" Henrique turned to leave.

Charles followed him. "I want to marry Lady Dolores. If you help us, I’ll name you my best man."

"And what does the position entail? Should I drop by every week to bring you a fresh stack of cards and a pack of cigars?"

Henrique stared into Charles’ earnest gray eyes. He could imagine the princess’ panic if she knew a first-order wastrel pursued her precious lady. She would gather her bags and flee.

Of course, she would. And Henrique would be there to pile her trunks atop the coach.

Henrique’s lips tugged up in a slow smile as the plan took shape inside his mind. He would love to see Hercules topple him now.