1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Lisbon, twelve years later

"The excess of a virtue is a vice."Greek Proverb"Dear clock on the wall, if you don’t speed your turns, tonight you’ll sleep without a cog," Isabel muttered under her breath and tore her gaze from the ornery Swiss piece. Facing her audience, she affected a warrior pose, bracing her feet and inflating her chest. "Who am I?"

"I know!" Lady Philipa said, bouncing on the upholstered settee. "Artemis, Goddess of the Hunt."

There. This was fun. A quiet night with her maids of honor, tucked into her private wing, playing games…Who needed her brother’s revelries? "Close, but no," Isabel said.

"Give us another hint." Lady Anne Daun clapped her hands, a smile lighting up her gentle blue eyes.

Isabel tapped her chin. What else could she say without spoiling the fun? Before she could think of the next clue, discordant notes invaded their privacy. It sounded suspiciously like an orchestra warming up. Not fair. How could she compete with professional musicians? Clenching her hands, Isabel raised her voice, hoping no one else had noticed it. "I lived in the Middle Ages."

Lady Dolores rose from the settee. "Ha! The hero of the Great Navigations—Vasco da Gama."

Isabel lifted her brows at her youngest maid-of-honor. "Dear, the game’s name is Guess the Powerful Woman."

Dolly pouted, patting her blond curls and fluttering her eyelids. "Oops."

The orchestra turned louder. Her ladies talked in parallel, glancing at the door. Isabel was losing their attention. No, she refused to forfeit this battle.

Frantically, she gazed at the drawing-room walls, searching for a distraction. Light glinted off the ancient coat of armor. Thinking fast, Isabel raided the steel knight for a breastplate.

Sorry, El Cid, but my brother has an orchestra.

Donning the rusty protection, she cleared her throat. The famous quote came to her in a flash of memory. "They admonished me to adopt feminine clothes. I refuse. As for other duties of women, there are plenty of other women to perform them."

Her ladies-in-waiting eyed her from their perches, their eyes round, their murmured voices punctuated by the tick-tick of the Swiss clock. Lady Dolores yawned.

As a last resort, Isabel went to the hearth and placed her foot inside. "Oh, please don’t burn me. God sent me to make France independent from English tyranny."

"Joan of Arc," Lady Anne Daun said.

Isabel laughed. "You are very right."

Everyone clapped.

The music outside turned louder.

Philipa glanced at the door, her embroidery forgotten. "What do you suppose they are doing tonight?"

Dancing, smoking, drinking, making illicit assignations… Who knew what else? Her clique of maids of honor was the crème de la crème of Portuguese society. With her guidance, they would set the standard for high morals, and no group of carousing rakes would corrupt them. "Nothing appropriate for unmarried ladies, I assure you."

"I heard His Majesty invited Madam Gardenia to sing. She canceled her nightly performance just to indulge him," Dolly said in a stage whisper.

Ohsand Ahs burst from all around the room. Isabel hoped her brother’s taste for music was all the virtuosa indulged.

Dolly smiled wistfully. "I would die to meet Signorina Gardenia. We have so much in common. Messier Dumas told the world she was the best soprano, and Vermeil said my nose is Portugal’s most beautiful, well, nose."

When Vermeil painted Dolly’s portrait last season and uttered such an epithet, he did Dolly a disservice. She didn’t need her already-inflated vanity pushed to new heights.

A churchly silence descended upon the room. Competing with a world-class opera singer was unfair. The lantern clock chimed the half hour. Still half-past nine? Isabel glared at the offending piece, promising swift retribution. Glancing away, she released a strained breath. She could keep the ladies here until ten o’clock. Then they would retire, safe for the night.

The music got louder, the soprano reaching the aria’s allegro.

Dolly perked up. "What if we went there… Just for a peek?"

The ladies dithered in their seats as if they all needed to visit the garderobe.

Why would they want to mingle with her brother’s court? Rakes, liberals, artists, foreign bon vivants… Isabel could imagine their ranks closing in on her private rooms, like wolves circling prey, sniffing fresh meat. Instead of being thankful for her protection, her ladies had sullen looks on their faces, as if Isabel had kept them from a tasty treat.

A knock at the door brought her heart to a stuttering halt. Isabel rose, half expecting a drunken fellow to breach their retirement.

The equerry bowed deeply. "Your Highness, the queen wishes a word."

Queen Maria Pia of Savoy swept into the room. The blue and white of her ball gown accentuated her dark hair and fair skin. Still, why not adopt Portugal’s colors?

The company of ladies curtsied. Black eyes shining feverishly, the queen waved her hand in dismissal and glided to the windows, where the heavy drapery allowed some privacy.

Isabel pitied her new sister-in-law. Settling in a foreign court was challenging. To make matters worse, her brother continued his dissolute ways. While she loved Luis dearly and respected him as her king, she could not help but fret. Yesterday, she had witnessed a terrible scene between the royal couple. She didn’t want the same fate and would avoid marriage for as long as possible. Like all of history’s powerful women—Queen Elizabeth I, Joan of Arc, Cleopatra—Isabel would remain unwed. With her fortune and influence, she could do charity, set an example of morality, and do her best for Portugal.

Isabel lowered her gaze respectfully. "Your Majesty."

The queen had calmed herself, but her smile was strained and did not reach her eyes. Could it be true? Was her brother unwilling to visit the queen’s bedchamber? But why?

"I thought we were going to enjoy your presence tonight," the queen said, gazing at her fingernails.

Isabel deployed expression number three, gentle but resolute. During her years on public display, she’d learned to control her facial movements, maintaining a refined and poised demeanor no matter the situation. With a subtle brow lift, she could convey an appreciation of flattery, greet newcomers, show mild displeasure, and even refuse rancid sardines. One never knew the well-meaning presents a subject offered their princesses. "I apologize, but I must wake up early for my weekly visit to the orphanage. The girls would love it if you could come—"

"How adorable. But I don’t rise before noon."

"Of course. How could I have forgotten?” Isabel sighed, crossing her arms above her chest. “You requested to speak to me. May I help you?"

Hurt flickered in the queen’s eyes. "About last night, what you saw in my bedchamber…"

Isabel clasped her sister-in-law’s gloved hands and pressed affectionately. "Is there anything I can do? I could—"

The queen yanked her hand away. "Just be sure to keep your mouth shut." Queen Maria’s nostrils flared, her eyes flashing. She grabbed her skirt and stormed out of the alcove.

Isabel watched her leave the room, worrying her lip between her teeth.

Her ladies circled her, not even ashamed of their eavesdropping.

"Oh, that Italian is cruel. She is only jealous of you because you are so popular." Lady Philipa tittered, her chin trembling. "And prettier."

Isabel lifted her palms and bade them back to their chairs. "That Italian is our queen, Philipa."

At least the appearance had diverted them from the party. Still, the room had turned quiet. Too quiet.

"Where is Lady Dolores?"

The clock started beating the tenth hour. Isabel glared at the offending piece. Now you will do it?

Lady Anne accompanied Isabel to the door. "Dolly meant nothing untoward."

"I know she didn’t. I’m sure she is just peeking at the opera singer from the ballroom’s fringes. Still, I better go retrieve her."

“Isabel,” Anne said, “what the ladies want…"

She caught Isabel’s hands and stared into her eyes as if she had an important thing to say and couldn’t fathom where to begin. As if Anne already knew how something momentous would play out. Was it because of her marriage to the Count of Almoster last summer? Though Anne was three years younger than Isabel’s twenty-two, married women regarded themselves as the keepers of a coveted wisdom denied to maidens. No... Anne’s earnest blue eyes held no conceit, just concern. It reminded her of Fernando, Isabel’s deceased brother. He, too, had this foresight aura about him. Her new friend and her favorite brother shared another trait—the rare inclination to do right no matter the personal cost.

Tears clogged her throat, and Isabel forced a smile to dispel the gloom. How she missed Fernando. With a heavy sigh, Isabel pressed Anne’s hands affectionately. “What?”

Anne shook herself and took a step back. “Just be careful.”

"Always.” Isabel smiled reassuringly. “Please stay and hold the front."

Isabel started in the ballroom’s direction, pushing the strange interaction from her mind. She knew Dolly meant well. If she had too many hearts in her eyes and nothing in her head, it wasn’t her fault. Poor Dolly. Her father had abandoned the family to live with a courtesan, and the mother had died of a broken heart.

The music got louder, string notes interspersed with laughter and clinking glasses. A volume littering the carpet caught Isabel’s attention. When she bent to retrieve it, a gasp escaped her lips. A collection of Sappho’s poems. The Greek poetess’ work had resurfaced a few years before and caused a furor. Several countries had forbidden it.

Looking at both sides to assure herself she was alone, she opened it, half expecting exotic dancers to tumble out, wiggling their hips and shaking their cymbals.

"With sweet myrrh oil worthy of a queen, you anointed your limbs…"Cheeks flaming, she ripped her eyes from the lines and searched the front matter. A scrawled dedication read, "My lovely porcelain Doll, meet me tonight."

She turned the book around and located a name—Charles Whitaker. She had never forgotten a rake, and that one she had seen several times in London. The Englishman, not much older than she, belonged to the Prince of Wales’ set, partaking in his debauchery. What did he want with Dolly? As if Isabel didn’t know. He would either rob her fortune or her virtue.

The book alone could ruin a girl’s reputation. Isabel concealed it inside her skirt pocket and hastened through the dimly lit corridors. More than ever, she needed to find Dolly. Heart speeding, Isabel lifted the hem of her gown and maneuvered between the furniture.

A shadow shifted five paces ahead. The door to her mother’s garden lay open, a soft breeze blowing through the curtains.

Foreboding rippled through her stomach, lifting the hairs on her arms. Isabel had avoided the garden since she let go of her childhood. What nonsense, she told herself. Her body is only aware of brute urges. Her conscience ruled her. Gingerly, she opened the glass panel.

Cool night air touched her cheeks with invisible hands. Moonlight washed the tiled floor, casting shadows over the pathways. A single cicada sang. Water flowed in a soothing cadence.

It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, but when they did, her steps faltered. The silvery leaves of an olive tree concealed the dark shape of a man. The stranger lounged on the fountain’s rim, his frame so still he could be one of the statues. Isabel tiptoed closer and crouched behind the begonia bush. Could it be Mr. Whitaker? Waiting for an amorous tryst?

Wings flapped, the sound coming from the pond’s direction. Isabel inspected the surface, unable to glimpse any feathered creatures. When she gazed back at the fountain, the stranger had disappeared. She bent over the rim, inspecting the rose bushes and the oriental pagoda—all empty.

"Where is he?" she muttered.

A smoky voice sounded behind her. "Who are we looking for?"

Isabel jumped, the top of her head colliding with an object as hard as marble. She lost her balance and flailed her arms, dreading the encounter with the chill water.

Something caught her waist, pulling her backward. With a swoosh, she landed on her posterior, her crinoline taking the brunt of the impact. Isabel blinked at the starry night, her breath stuttering. The petticoat moved underneath her. Gasping, Isabel rolled to the side.

A silhouette materialized on the floor.

It groaned.

Isabel’s cheeks burned with mortification. She had felled a stranger. How... how undiplomatic of her. Well, he shouldn’t have startled her in the first place. He unfolded himself to a considerable height. A garden torch cast flickering shadows over his full dress attire. He sported the black and white finery with the ease of one who wore it every night, unlike others who only succeeded in looking like overgrown penguins. When her perusal arrived at his face, jewel-blue eyes returned her gaze, the color made riveting by his tanned skin. His hair fell in waves over his ears and collar as if windswept, the style too messy. She preferred the neatness of the pompadour, but at least the dark color ruled out Charles Whitaker.

"Pardon me. It’s not my custom to startle fountain sprites." His voice belonged in the opera, not singing the heroic tenor, but graver and more velvety, like the seductive baritone who always tried to steal the heroine.

The stranger bowed and offered his arm. He seemed contrite, and it had been an accident, so Isabel used expression number five, meaning she was mildly aggravated but willing to forgive, and allowed him to help her stand. A little shaken by the stranger’s regard, she smoothed her skirts. They were considerably less weighty.

The book! It must have slipped during the fall. Biting her lip, she scanned the tiles.

Lo and behold, the volume lay sprawled near the begonias, less than two feet from her. Her determination flared, and she reached down, her fingers poised to grasp it. Swift as a meddling hawk, the gentleman swooped in. His gloved hand met hers in a burst of electric energy. He came out with the prize, and Isabel clenched empty fists.

While she mentally berated him for his sharp reflexes, he took his time bringing the proof of Dolly’s indiscretion to the front of his nose.

Isabel swallowed a groan.

A devilish grin transformed him into an overly handsome satyr.

Who had dimples like that? A hazard, they were. One could get lost inside them. She bet many did. The humane thing to do would be to send an expedition. Women must be trapped there, dazzled. They were lured within and vanished without a trace.

Lowering the book, he aimed his gaze at her, raking her from the hem of her gown to the braids crowning her head. His demeanor changed from solicitous to speculative. It didn’t take telepathy to see the wheels turning in his head. He found a lady alone carrying erotic tales. What would he do next? Assume she was fair game?

He gave her no alternative but to use her expression number seven, the one she’d been grooming to repel rakes. Lifting her chin as high as it would go, which was a lot given her flexible neck muscles, she looked down at him. Well, she pretended to look down at him, his lofty height making it deuced uncomfortable.

He tilted his head to the side, unaffected by her efforts. "Have I died? Are you here to take me to my heavenly abode? If so, lead the way, lady knight."

Isabel’s chin dropped to her chest, and she stifled a groan. Why in Athena’s name had she not removed the breastplate? "I played charades. The armor was part of my costume."

"I see… What were you? Penthesilea, the Amazon queen?"

"Joan of Arc," she said, hoping the martyr would cloak her in respectability.

"Saintly Joan carrying Sappho’s poems… Interesting." He shrugged and leaned back over the garden wall. "Should we play a charade for your real name?"

He had not recognized her, even though her life-sized portrait crowned the gallery not a hundred paces from here. But the light was dim, and she wasn’t wearing her tiara. Perfect. She would just retrieve the book and leave.

Isabel sucked in a breath, but before she could speak, he placed his finger atop her lips. "Don’t tell me. Are you one of the princess’ Vestal Virgins?"

Beneath his touch, her face flushed. Did they call her court The Princess’ Vestal Virgins? "How dare—"

"Did you leave Olympus on a night of revelry? I can’t say I blame you. And if you ask nicely, I might be of help. Gardenia’s performance was quite entertaining, but I’ll make an exception for a lady in need."

This was getting out of hand. She gritted her teeth. "Your Excellency—"

"Call me Henrique. I don’t stand on formalities." He shrugged his broad shoulders, flaunting protocol with the same ease he flaunted his… his taunting male grins, and expertly cut male clothes, his male squinting eyes, and his gravelly, absurdly low male voice.

"Pity. I do." Isabel presented her hand, palm poised up. "I require the book. Now."

He seemed taken aback by her curt reply but then gazed at the cover. "Is it everything the critics claim?" Frowning, he flicked through the pages until one caught his interest. A devilish smile lit his face. “Come to me and loosen me from blunt agony. Labor and fill my heart with fire."

The words brushed against her, the breastplate no protection against such intimacy.

He closed the book. "I can see the appeal."

"It’s not mine," Isabel blurted and cringed. Why explain herself to this man?

He studied her. "It isn’t yours, but you want it back?"

Isabel raised her brows. "At least your observation skills are better than your literary taste."

He chuckled, and the sound lifted pinpricks on her skin. "Thank you. I’m proud of my senses. Especially touch."

Isabel crossed her arms above her chest. "Careful. Words enlighten the spirit, while the senses can lead you astray."

He came closer. "I’ve been allowing the senses to lead me astray for a long time now, but I would gladly give you the reins."

Was this the sort of banter that enthralled other ladies? "You should return to the opera singer, Your Excellency. Your company is quite tedious."

"Ouch." A rakish grin lit up his swarthy face. "The princess is doing us a favor by keeping you locked away. Your tongue can crumple a male’s pride."

Isabel ground her teeth so hard her jaw hurt. She didn’t imprison her ladies. She protected them from males like him! "If your pride can crumble so easily, then it was not much to begin with, was it?"

His chin dipped low, and he lifted his dashing eyebrows. "Do you blame the moonlight? Or is my presence enough to ignite such passion?"

"I don’t allow passion to rule me."

"I know passion when I see it. Right now, it is staring at me with flaming green eyes."

Controlling her breaths, Isabel pretended to clean a speck from her bodice. "Flaming? Sir, your senses are running ahead of you again. Where you see fire, there is only ice. Nothing you do or say affects me."

"No?" His gem-like eyes sparkled, and he bent forward.

His cheek brushed against her, the bristles of his stubble tickling her skin. Locking a gulp of air in her lungs, she mentally slapped her hand. Why provoke a reposing rake? Warmth wafted from him in waves, and her nostrils flared at the citric spice of his cologne. His gaze drilled into hers, consuming her space. Unnerved but unwilling to lose the advantage, she stared right back. A mistake. Up close, the curves drawn into his irises had a hypnotic symmetry—a maze seen from above. One more inch, and they would trap her.

Pulse speeding, she arched her back. "Release me."

Her glance shifted from his bottom lip to his heavy-lidded eyes. Quite suddenly, he dipped his nose to her collarbone and sniffed her—neck to earlobe—waking up the down covering her skin.

"Are you sure, Joan?"

She was sure her heart had become a treacherous belly dancer, as it literally danced in her belly. "Yes?"

"I’m not holding you." He stepped back.

The heat engulfing her vanished, replaced by the drafty air.

Disoriented, Isabel blinked once, twice. Indeed, he wasn’t. Then how? She had felt trapped by him as clearly as if he had woven a web of crystal threads around them. Was it all in her head, an illusion? Or did he possess a hidden power of seduction?

He eyed her expectantly, smirking, and she realized he had proved his point. How easily he affected her.

"Keep the book." Clutching her skirts in her clammy palms, she brushed past him.

He grabbed her arm, his black-gloved hand shockingly hot. Isabel sucked in a breath.

His eyes twinkled mischievously, and he placed the book into her hand. "You should read a few verses, little Joan. Perhaps it can thaw ice maidens."

Her wrist tingled where he touched her, and she jerked free from his hold. Panting, at a loss for a proper set down, she watched as he swaggered away.