14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

"It is not the man who has too little that is poor, but the one who hankers after more." SenecaIsabel’s calves burned with the quick steps she took to accompany Prince Alfonso’s brisk walk. Was he in Spain to spend the summer? Or to threaten the Duke of Aosta? How challenging to glean his intentions while sprinting. Her skin was sticky from the ocean, and water dripped down her spine from her wet hair and her mind… Well, she forced her lips into a demure smile, hoping her appearance was composed while her insides had shifted. Sea bathing shattered a woman’s inner world. The waves created extra space where she needed none, adding flashy colors to previously demure arrangements, exposing areas better kept secret. It was Henrique’s fault. His and those squinting eyes and salty lips. Her first kiss, and he called it animal instincts. She stumbled on a loose rock and would have sprawled on her face if Alfonso had not caught her.

With a strong arm around her waist, he helped her regain her feet. "Am I walking too fast?"

Isabel peeked at him. When Canastra told her of Alfonso, she had pictured a conceited, self-important young man, much like other princes of her acquaintance. She had been wrong. Though he couldn’t be a year older than her twenty-two, he wore sober clothes, no fancy uniforms or diamond studded links. The Spanish prince seemed reserved, serious even. She almost missed Henrique’s quips and jibs.

"Racing can do wonders for a woman’s constitution, I’m told."

Alfonso pursed his lips. "My legs are better suited to marching in a field."

"Fair enough. We should have Canastra level all the pathways and flowerbeds into a parade ground," she said teasingly. "Then ladies could run in their dresses and not disgrace themselves."

He smiled for the first time, and it quite softened his austere face. "Princess Isabel de Orleans, you have gracia."

"Gracia? Is that the Spanish word for short-legged princesses?"

He chuckled and shook his head. "Gracia is something everybody notices, but no one can explain. It’s… A woman with gracia is more than beautiful. She illuminates her surroundings. She gives it character."

"Oh, thank you." Isabel gazed away. Everyone delighted in telling her just how dull she was. "I’m glad to learn the hidden meanings of Spanish words."

"I’ll be happy to oblige. Especially if it will atone for tiring your short legs," he said solemnly.

Had he just made a joke? Startled, she glanced at him. Alfonso grinned and carried on.

They settled on a manageable speed, and Isabel felt her tension ebbing away. Despite the heat, or because of it, the scent of carnation and bluebells perfumed the air. Butterfly orchids poised over palm trees’ trunks, giving the garden a fairytale aura. Walking with a gentleman without a constant flutter in her stomach was a welcomed reprieve.

"I didn’t expect to have a screen of onlookers." Alfonso halted and glanced over his shoulder.

Isabel could well imagine the long line behind them crashing like domino pieces. “I’m used to it.”

A veritable procession followed them, filling the walkways with pastel dresses and formal court attire. Henrique trudged the beaten path as well. Isabel ignored the cold shivers racing through her body whenever she heard his voice.

"I forgot about this lack of privacy. My family walks through Paris’ streets undisturbed. In Sandhurst, I’m treated like a regular cadet."

"I’m sure it must be wonderful to avoid the headlines and live a common life," Isabel said, analyzing his reactions for any trace of his true intentions.

He frowned and searched her expression. She had the impression she, too, was being studied. But why? Without another word, he changed course and tugged her into the garden’s maze.

A striking group of sculptures representing the Minotaur Myth guarded the entrance. Theseus’ marble muscles bulged as he wrestled with the grotesque half-man, half-bull figure.

"As a prince of Athens, he could have had all earthly pleasures. But he abandoned his riches to stop the Minotaur’s killing spree."

"He did his duty," Isabel said, and their eyes locked.

"You understand."

Did Alfonso perceive his duty was to gain the throne? While a man’s duty boiled down to a ’do’ or ’don’t’ type of decision, a woman’s was far from simple. Isabel contemplated the third statue, the beautiful Ariadne. The princess admired Theseus. Would she have helped him flee the labyrinth if she knew the prince would seduce her and then leave her on a desert island, ruined? How easier would it be if women could remove feelings from the equation? Ariadne would then have stayed with her father, her heart intact.

Voices became louder as the onlookers approached, no doubt curious about their conversation.

Alfonso eyed them wearily. "Do you think they can follow us into the maze?"

"Do not underestimate human curiosity." Isabel glanced beyond her shoulder. Two couples had entered in their wake. At least Henrique was nowhere to be seen.

Alfonso increased his steps and took wild turns over the maze’s path.

He halted. "Do you notice this scent?"

"What? I—"

He caught her forearm and guided her through a slit in the evergreen hedge. They emerged at the back of the palace, the stone structure crisscrossed by vines.

"Have you just cheated the maze?"

"I knew it." Smiling, he opened a door.

Then he took her parasol and, after folding it, escorted her over the threshold. Isabel scouted the path and, seeing no one, halted, reluctant to enter an empty corridor with him.

"You have nothing to fear from me. I’m a man of pundonor." He placed his hand upon his heart.

Though she had yet to discover what the Spanish word meant, she didn’t feel threatened. The prince radiated an aura of righteousness. It radiated from his clear eyes and how he didn’t lower them from her face.

A few moments alone with him could make him disclose his goals. Lifting her chin, she accompanied him inside.

They entered a kitchen, of all places. Alfonso tugged her through service stations, his excitement growing with each step. Copper pans and jamon haunches hung from the ceiling. Screams and hissing casseroles were punctuated by dough hitting and cutting.

Isabel took a moment to adjust from the peaceful rigidity of the garden to the aromatic chaos. Cloves and toasted chicory made her nose twitch. What could this foray mean? She’d been to a kitchen once in her adult life and doubted it was the natural habitat of an exiled prince.

He halted.

A maid rolled a white dough, and the scent of almonds and sugar made the air sweet. With their approach, the servant stopped and averted her eyes, her cheeks red.

“Turrons?”

She curtsied. “Yes, m’lord.”

"Can we have some, please?"

The maid placed the cubes in a basket, and Alfonso took them. Another set of doors, and they left the crowded kitchen. The vegetation wasn’t as well tended at the palace’s rear. He lowered himself to a patch of grass and, hooking his arm over a bent knee, motioned for her to do the same.

The sun had started its descent. The golden light favored him, smoothing his lankiness. After Alfonso offered her one sweet, he bit into the white cube. His eyes closed, and a deep sigh escaped his chest. The breeze ruffled his blond locks, and in pleasure, he looked younger.

When he noticed her stare, a blush colored his fair skin. "I have not eaten a turron for years."

"Do you miss Spain?"

"With my every breath."

She couldn’t resist feeling his pain. How horrible to be ousted from his own home.

Isabel twirled the turron in her hands. It tasted overly sweet to her taste. "Do you have plans for after Sandhurst? Will you take a grand tour? Imagine the freedom... Choosing wherever you wish to go."

"Duty comes above freedom."

"A little freedom has its uses. You will choose your own spouse." She kept her tone light and breezy. "No obscure German princess for you, or better yet, no one will force you to marry a cousin."

He fixed her with an unwavering stare. "Are we cousins, Isabel?"

A wave of heat covered her cheeks. "If you count Aunt Eulalia, who married Dom José in the seventeenth century… There is a reason Portuguese and Spanish royalty don’t intermarry."

"Different tastes in music?"

Isabel discarded the turron. "Marriages entangle our royal lines and risk Portugal’s independence. Portugal and Spain are different countries—different cultures, languages, everything."

"Of course. I admire your love for your country. I feel the same."

They were silent for a long moment. Chaffinches rustled about in the hazelnut trees, preparing for the evening.

Alfonso finished the sweets and brushed sugar from his hands. "What would you want to do if you were not a princess?"

The image of her kiss with Henrique came to her mind and, with it, those dreaded stomach flutters. "I love being a princess," she blurted. "It is an honor to represent my country. I strive to inspire my subjects. Especially the women."

"I’m certain you are a role model for Portuguese women." He gazed at her, admiration shining in his eyes.

Isabel couldn’t keep his stare. Her skin was still salty from her ocean frolicking. She wasn’t sure if she could be counted as an example of anything and wondered how to change the subject. "When you mentioned pundonor… I fear I missed the word’s denotation."

He stood taller. "A Spaniard is nothing without his pundonor."

"Do you mean his honor?"

"Spanish has the word honor. The same as in Portuguese or English. But pundonor is different. How can I explain? Pundonor is a contraction of punta de honor—point of honor. Many things that a Portuguese or an Englishman can, in all decency, allow himself to do or to be done to him, the true Spaniard cannot." He punctuated the words with vigorous hand gestures. "If he is a man of pundonor, he must take action against insult. Otherwise, he is a sinvergüenza. A shameless man. An epithet worse than death."

The concept appealed to her in ways she could not explain. This sense of duty, of right and wrong, of morality should be present in Kings and subjects alike.

"Alfonso?"

"Yes?"

Isabel tilted her head to the side. "Why are you here?"

"I’m visiting friends, of course." He rose and extended his arm to help her up. "Will you be my friend, Isabel de Orleans?"

She sensed there was more to it, and still… With his dark clothes and serious gaze, he didn’t look dangerous. He looked lonely. And terribly homesick. Sighing, she placed her hand in his. "I can be your friend, Alfonso de Bourbon."

Isabel sipped her wine. A gaudy arrangement of roses and crystals broke the dinner table in two. On her side of the flowers, Alfonso spoke about the future, his opinions enlightened and his face inspired. Below the flowers, the men guffawed, and the ladies giggled. One could guess which side Henrique occupied. Isabel tore her eyes from the merman-turned-Bachus reveler. She would show him she cared not if he kissed her and then flirted with Rafaela.

When Alfonso finished his speech about industrial progress, Canastra lifted his glass, his face showing great appreciation. "To Alfonso de Bourbon. Dios, Patria, Rey."

Every guest repeated in unison. "Dios, Patria, Rey."

God, Country, King. Everything the Spanish cared about in the world. All that ’Dios, Patria, Rey’ stands for were male entities...

The Duchess of Montijo, mother-in-law to Napoleon the III and Alfonso’s great aunt, tapped Isabel’s arm. The elderly lady pointed an enormous ear trumpet in Isabel’s direction. "Are you perchance the opera singer, the one who seduced my nephew when he was fifteen? Shame on you." Winking, she spoke in a lascivious side whisper loud enough to shake the dead.

The trumpet’s silk fringe tickled Isabel’s nose, and she sneezed. "Oh, no, I wouldn’t. I’m—"

"Ha! Don’t tell me. You are Maria Rattazy. The scandalous playwriter?"

Alfonso turned from his conversation with Canastra and caught his aunt’s hand, pressing it affectionately. "This is Princess Isabel de Orleans."

"Dom Pedro’s granddaughter?" Lady Montijo yelled and fished inside her reticule for a lunette.

Isabel felt her cheeks redden at the scrutiny. Lady Montijo thought fit to ask her to open her mouth and even lowered her glassy eyes to Isabel’s hips.

Isabel caught Alfonso’s gaze above Lady Montijo’s white head, and he mouthed. "Ignore her."

While Lord Montijo gaped at Dolly’s breasts, Lady Montijo turned to Diomedes. After her very vocal flirtation made Diomedes cringe, the old lady’s hands vanished underneath the table. His face turned an unbecoming shade of red. Isabel could only imagine what sort of battle they fought beneath the pristine linen.

Meanwhile, laughter rolled out from the other side in shameless waves. When Rafaela’s red lips touched the shell of Henrique’s ear, Isabel gripped her knife with enough force to break the cutlery.

Would this dinner keep going forever? She had waited to be lulled in the rhythm of these affairs, the initial awkwardness of long silences and weather conversations turning animated, then argumentative, then wine-inspired, then finally sleepy. Instead, course after elaborate course, a stark reality mocked her. The Canastras, the Montijos… Henrique, with his squinting eyes. She knew this was the truth of aristocratic marriages, and yet... Why couldn’t the vows spoken in a church carry more weight than a passing passion?

Rafaela clicked her glass, calling everyone’s attention. "I’m so excited to receive you all here. I hope you brought some stamina because I’ve planned vigorous entertainment. We will have a hunt and boating on the lake, and to crown our summer, I’m organizing an amateur theater performance. Diomedes da Veiga wrote the play, and everyone must take part." Rafaela paused dramatically, waiting for the claps to end. "And that is not all. Tomorrow, we go to Sevilla. Matador Borriegas is in town. I’m sure our Portuguese guests will enjoy seeing how bullfighting is done."

Isabel had never attended a bullfight and intended to keep it so. "How considerate of you."

The duke lifted his palms. "Rafaela, don’t make plans before consulting my wishes. I will take Alfonso to a political meeting—"

A glower replaced Rafaela’s smile. "Always politics—"

"I thank you for the invitation," Alfonso said. "But I wanted to show a special place for Isabel on the morrow."

Henrique narrowed his eyes, and Isabel felt a frisson of excitement at his disapproval.

Her cousin seemed about to argue, but Canastra lifted his hand imperiously. "The young people should decide their entertainment."

Rafaela gave Canastra a malicious smile and turned to Henrique. She spoke something to him, and he laughed. The dinner participants resumed their parallel conversations.

Alfonso bent forward to whisper in Isabel’s ear. "I hope you were not jealous."

A furious heat claimed her cheeks. "Why would I be jealous of Henrique? He is just the escort my brother imposed on me—"

"I meant of my aunt’s ravings. The opera singer she mentioned and Maria Rattazy… Both belong in the past."

Isabel averted her gaze, cursing her wayward tongue. "Oh, I’m certain—"

His face turned serious, and he placed his hand above hers. "A man in my position is constantly besieged by the opposite sex, but I want you to know I despise infidelity. I will be as faithful to my wife as I am to my country."

Her eyes sought Henrique’s, and her heart stung with pain. If only all males felt the same.

Isabel left the drawing room before the other guests. The dinner had drained her energy. She needed a restful night to collect herself. On her way to her bedchamber, Isabel was startled by a shuffling sound. She paused before a Venus statue, half expecting it to speak. A gigantic moth flapped its wings and flew to the ceiling. Isabel chuckled at her own jittery nerves.

When she resumed her steps, someone grabbed her forearm.

A scream rose in her throat. Henrique’s eyes glittered in the dimly lit corridor like a stray cat looking for trouble. Isabel clamped her mouth shut. No matter what he did or said, she wouldn’t react. From now on, he would only see temperance in her, royal indifference. She would snap the threads linking them for good.

"You must stop accosting me, Your Excellency."

"Follow me." He tugged her arm. "Your help will come in handy."

"No—" She was about to give him a tongue lashing but swallowed the angry rebuff. Instead, she glanced placidly toward her room. "I’m not a footman to be in hand for any of your troubles. Please treat me with a gentleman’s courtesy from now on. I bid you good night."

He huffed and rolled his eyes. "Would your magnanimous Highness perchance concede me the grace of your help?"

"No."

He pursed his lips. "But I asked nicely."

She shrugged, smiled prettily, and whirled to leave.

"I need Joan of Arc tonight, not the smiling other half of the Bourbon Prince Charming. But if you rather risk your beloved country’s fate, suit yourself." He brushed past her.

The words country and fate strung together in the same sentence triggered alarm bells in her belly. Clenching her jaw, she went after him.

He stopped before Canastra’s study and wrestled with the door, twisting the knob.

What could he possibly want in there?

He removed a pointed instrument from his pocket and poked the lock open.

Isabel lowered her voice. "This room is closed to the guests. What if someone comes in?"

"We will invite them to our private party. What else?" He glanced above his shoulder briefly and strolled inside as if he had not just breached the duke’s privacy.

Isabel should leave. The devilish grin on his face spelled trouble, and if he disgraced himself, it could brush on her.

Henrique pulled the lamp’s chain. Hissing, light crawled through the dark paneled walls, revealing an assortment of… objects?

She shuffled to the nearest shelf. Saint images, in all colors and sizes, occupied every nook and cranny. To the side, an altar of sorts. "I did not know the duke was such a religious man."

Henrique whistled. "What if he harbors more than ships in his ports? A heavy conscience?"

"Nonsense. Like all Spaniards, Canastra is very Catholic."

"A reliquary, saints’ bones, candles, skulls. Who believes this is real? And there are shelves for pagan stuff as well. Canastra isn’t taking any chances with the metaphysical." Henrique attacked the duke’s desk, rummaging through his drawers.

The position stretched his black evening coat, outlining his shoulders. Images of those muscles, glistening and salty, assaulted her, making her mouth dry.

Henrique raised his brows. "Will you stop gawking and start helping?"

"What are you looking for?"

He lifted his head, and a forelock covered his left eye. "Letters. Implicating your brother in a scandalous affair."

Isabel gasped. A denial sprang to her mind, but she rebuffed it. She had lived too long with Luis to doubt it. Curse her brother’s imprudence. Didn’t he know the press would love rolling their name in the muck? Just thinking about the wealth of disparaging newspaper headlines made her shudder. If anything of the sort reached their subjects, her effort to uphold the morals of the royal family would be for naught. Portugal didn’t deserve such shame.

"Will you help now?"

Well, she could compromise. But help was all he would get from her. No more extravagant feelings. Isabel moved to the bookshelves. Gaze straying to the door, she palmed the tomes and shuffled through pages. Perspiration dampened her fichu. This business of espionage was better left to salty satyrs like Henrique.

When he reached the shelf above her, she inhaled. What was it with his presence? It steeped the air, demanding attention like a burning candle in a darkened bedroom. Sure enough, she could shut it off if she wanted to. Still, worse than seeing the flame was the knowledge of its presence, the awareness increasing until her entire existence focused on the unseeing pinpoint of light.

She looked at him askance. "Don’t you think it best if we divide our efforts?"

He lifted a brow and moved on.

When the last book had produced no secret stash of letters, she turned to a niche below the window seat. Outside, moonlight washed the grass. The cicadas sang softly, less urgently. If she were fanciful, she might believe they no longer struggled with their carapaces. Were they enjoying flying to fresh adventures, or were they missing the protection of the known?

Isabel allowed her gaze to travel farther until it landed on the ocean. The waves reminded her of salty kisses, and she looked away. Quite by chance, she saw a tendril of smoke and connected it with a lit cheroot and an unmistakable redhead. Charles Whitaker leaned against a cork tree, a blight on the night’s loveliness.

"What is that rakehell doing here?"

The air shifted by her side as Henrique moved to the window. His arm brushed against hers, and Isabel stepped away, the casual touch singing her.

Henrique peered outside and grumbled. Isabel squinted at a volume in his hand. Why would he carry the image of a dwarf? Protruding from the statue’s belly, at least as long as the dwarf’s height, was a giant phallus.

Isabel sucked in a breath. "What in heaven’s name is that?"

"Haven’t you heard of Priapus? The Greek god of fertility?" Henrique asked without bothering to look at her.

"What is he doing here?"

"Priapus? I guess Canastra must be having problems with his male potency—"

"I mean Mr. Whitaker!" she cried out.

"Yes, of course. He must have come to spread his body fluids in Spain. Who knows what sort of depravity he has in store under his flaming hair? The risk to Lady Dolores’s reputation is immense." Henrique tapped Priapus’s shriveled head. "As soon as we find the letters, we better leave Comillas."

Isabel stilled, narrowing her eyes. She didn’t mention Dolly’s infatuation to Henrique, and she could bet Dolly didn’t speak of it either.

With a jerk, she closed the draperies. "My duty here is not over, but I can certainly send Dolly back to her father."

"Damn it, Isabel. I have a life. I—"

"Have you summoned Charles? To force my hand? Well, your efforts were pointless. I won’t leave. But it’s no longer safe for Dolly. I will inform her to pack her suitcases." Isabel shook her head. His selfishness knew no bounds.

"What are you, a schoolmaster? Let Dolly and Charles know each other, see if they suit."

"Charles will ruin Dolly."

Henrique clicked his tongue and stared at the indecent figure in his hands. "Did you hear it, Priapus? Ruin her? I’m not privy to Mr. Whitaker’s staff, but if anyone could ruin a female, you are the fellow to do it with your mighty sword."

Isabel could not help it. Her eyes went to the statue’s male appendage, and heat flooded her cheeks. "You would go to any length to shock me, would you not?"

"Length is indeed the point here." A satirical grin lifted his lips. "Why so bashful, Isabel? Every living creature with carbon in its composition and genitalia in its body does it. The bees do it. The birds and the trees do it. The horses and the hounds do it. Goats do it, and so do queens and little princesses."

Isabel gripped her skirts, crumpling the velvet. "If you have no respect for a lady’s virtue, our conversation is over."

"My fiery princess, a maidenhead is only a membrane. I don’t understand how losing it can be ruinous."

He robbed her of words. How easy for a rake like him to scoff over morality. While he lived in good society, enjoying all the benefits and none of the obligations, women had to conform or accept ostracism.

Tapping his chin, he addressed the dwarf. "If women were born without maidenheads, think of the fun—"

"Keep your sinful musings to yourself." She sucked in a breath. "My concern is Lady Dolores and Charles Whitaker—"

"Of course, the two lovebirds." Henrique brought the statue an inch from her face. "Priapus will help them tie their knots."

Isabel yanked it from his hands. "He will not!" She curled her fingers around the oversized genitalia and wrenched it. The old wood splintered. Jutting her chin forward, she gave him a smug look.

Henrique’s hand went to his groin, and he stepped back. "What if Dolly is in love with him?"

"I know she is. A girlish, innocent, idiotic love." She punctuated each word by tapping Henrique’s chest. "Why else would a young lady encourage Mr. Whitaker’s attention?"

"Can you stop hitting me with Priapus’ cock? It’s unladylike."

"What?" She opened her hand and stared at the brownish stick. "Ew, Ew, what should I do with it?"

"The wooden or the real one?" He winked.

Glaring, Isabel shoved Priapus and his torn appendage into a shadowy perch where it could not cause mischief and cleaned her hands in her skirts.

"Look. Charles loves her. His intentions are noble. He wants to marry the chatter chit."

"He is a rake and a drunkard."

"He has not drunk since he met her. He changed."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "I hardly believe such to be possible."

Henrique exhaled through his mouth. "Whatever happened in the past to make you hate men, don’t extend it to him." He dropped his voice as well as any hint of mockery.

She didn’t hate men… She didn’t hate the man standing before her, his face bronzed by gas lamps, his hair disheveled, his coat wrinkled from the search. A knot formed in her stomach, and she dropped her gaze.

He took a step closer. "I see you entertaining the prince all day. Just because Charles isn’t royalty—"

"She can stay." Isabel blurted, hoping she was not making a terrible mistake. "But you must help me keep an eye on them."

He caressed her cheek. "Isa, Isa… We make a lovely team. When you are being all mellow and reasonable and not a royal shrew, that is."

Isabel danced away from him before the tendrils could work their treacherous magic. There. She had allowed her temper to get ahead of her with Priapus, but she regained control soon enough. "We should resume the search."

Applying herself to the quest, she left no rock—or image, for that matter—standing. The minutes ticked by slowly. Her fingers hurt from shuffling through Canastra’s unusual possessions, her eyes gritty from reading correspondence in the dim light.

When the clock pounded midnight, Henrique cursed. "It’s useless. The letters aren’t here."

Isabel splayed her hands over the duke’s desk. "Why the impulse to help my brother? I thought you couldn’t wait to leave the country and all its problems behind."

He had the grace to blush. "Why, er… I’m more complex than you take me for... Surprised?"

"Of course. Men are notoriously complex. In fact, science should try harder to crack open the male brain. You should volunteer."

He laughed, and his eyes glinted predatorily. "You have a very cunning tongue, Your Highness. I wonder if it is as competent when it isn’t protected by your sharp wit."

"You will never find out."

Henrique grinned. "No? You enjoyed sticking it into my mouth this morning."

Only her years of princessing restrained the urge to slap his face. "All it took was one kiss for me to move on. Is it not what happens with rakes? One taste of a woman enough to discard her? Chase the next target?"

He sucked in a breath, the sound barely audible in the hushed study, but she heard it as if it was an elephant stomping in a crystal shop. "Have you moved on, Isa?"

Isabel stepped back until her crinoline bumped the desk. "Yes. Yes, absolutely."

His eyes hardened. "Think you a pillow prince can kiss you better than I?"

Kissing Alfonso hadn’t crossed her mind, but he didn’t have to know that. Isabel raised her chin. "He would not dream of taking such liberties. He is a man of pundonor."

Henrique shuddered. "That sounds painful. Will he survive?"

"Pundonor is the Spanish concept of absolute honor. A standard for high morality and a life of duty."

"I hope it isn’t contagious." He shoved his hands in his pockets, and a tic appeared on his jaw.

"Even if it was, you are quite safe from contracting it."

"Isa, Isa, you should know not even a rogue can accept a slight to his character. You leave me no alternatives but to take offense. A duel is what you deserve."

"Excuse me?"

He cradled her face. Isabel clutched both his wrists, but before she broke free from his hold, he advanced. She stumbled, her spine meeting the window’s cold glass. Breathing heavily, he pressed his chest against hers and melded their lips. Blatant, insistent, his tongue invaded her mouth. A torrent of warmth consumed her, and she held on to him, afraid to dissolve, leaving a puddle on the duke’s carpet. His heart pounded against her, the steady drum comfortingly exciting. Pulling in a deep breath, she held it in her lungs, savoring his decadent scent. Those tendrils climbed up her legs and found their way to her hands and around her spine, binding her will to him. She stopped fighting. She couldn’t leave. She didn’t want to.

He loosened his grip and pressed his hips against hers. Isabel’s heart pumped inebriating liquid into her veins, making her vision swim. She dug her fingers into his upper arms, relishing his sinew and strength. Bolder now, she moved her tongue against his, tasting his taste, his texture.

He groaned and pulled away from her mouth. Chanting her name, he rained kisses down her cheeks and neck, and then he stopped.

Isabel opened her eyes.

He stared at her, his brows raised to his hairline. "And?"

Her knees threatened to buckle beneath her, and her breasts strained her corset. No matter what, she would not give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he affected her. Had he not said their attraction was nothing more than animal instincts? Stoically, Isabel smoothed her skirts. "Really, Henrique, you should improve your… your technique. I find it to be lacking."

He eyed her suspiciously. No doubt bemused why she was still standing on her own two feet, not leaning over his manly torso and running her hands over his close-cropped hair.

Well, Mr. Henrique’s pride, take that for a change.

She brushed past him, rubbing against his chest a shoulder colder than a January evening. Few things could give her more satisfaction than the way his glistening lips fell open.

"Perhaps I should try it again. Practice makes it perfect."

Plucking her wrist, he pulled her against him, circling her waist and bending her torso backward until her heels no longer touched the carpet. Her breath caught, and her pulse beat in places it had no business reaching. Henrique’s grin flashed at her, his eyes sparkling. Her center of gravity tilted, making her stomach flutter. She stared into eyes the blue of mythical places and instead of negotiating an armistice, she wondered what she had to do to lure his mouth closer.

The door opened with a startled swoosh.

They were caught. Gasping, she placed both palms on his chest and shoved. His hold on her gave away. She toppled to the floor, her bustle taking the brunt of the impact, and bit the inside of her cheek to muffle a cry.

"Can I help you?"

Isabel vaulted to her feet and stared at the duke’s majordomo, mortification boiling her face and the tip of her ears.

Henrique stepped forward, covering her. "We are handling ourselves fine, thank you very much."

"Your Excellency, I must warn you this room is not open to guests."

She was about to acknowledge the faux pas and leave when Henrique laughed. "Closed, you say? Do you know who you are talking to? This is the princess. Nothing is ever closed to her."

The butler’s eyes rounded, and he stepped back.

"What are you doing?" she mouthed furiously.

"Just play along," he whispered.

The butler lifted his white-gloved palms. "Oh, I didn’t recognize Her Highness. Still, I must insist."

"What is your name, kind sir?"

“Pizarron de Moncayo-Tully.”

Henrique opened the door. "Let me tell you something, Pizarron. This woman expects everything she wants to be delivered to her on a silver platter. Don’t you, my dear?"

She didn’t! "Do I? Yes, indeed I do," Isabel mumbled.

"And if lives have to adapt to her wildest desires, then be glad you could serve. But don’t raise your hopes too high because soon she will move on, and you will be powerless to prevent her."

"What?" The butler looked extremely uncomfortable.

"I’m sure she’ll let the interruption pass this time, but next, I’ll advise you to be more diligent unless you wish to lose your head or even more important parts." He jerked his head toward the door, a clear signal for the butler to leave.

The poor servant gasped and whirled in fear or outrage, she could not tell in the dim light. Henrique closed the door.

Grinning like a pirate, Henrique raised his brows. "What do you think of my performance? Could Alfonso topple that with his pundonor?"

Isabel’s face burned with shame. "You are a rogue and a blackguard—a sinvergüenza." One with shameless lips. She couldn’t seem to tear her eyes from his shameless lips. "And I... I loath your hide."

Laughing, he sniffed her neck. "I’ll take a princess’ loathing any day. Smells much better than royal indifference."