2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"Never let a fool kiss you, or a kiss fool you." Joey Adams"What you did yesterday put your reputation at risk," Isabel said, sitting on her bedchamber window seat. A woman’s reputation compared with a Fabergé egg, precious and, once broken, irreplaceable.

Dolly poured forth sobbing excuses, but Isabel could not face her. Had she not placed herself at risk too?

The chilly north wind invaded the bedroom, ruffling Isabel’s hair. Lisbon stretched out in front of her, its red roofs and whitewashed buildings crowding the Tagus bank. Relentless, the gale shook the pines and the cypresses, making the river surface crisp like a startled cat. Suppressing a shiver, Isabel shut the window. The night encounter had left her a tad brittle. Thankfully, her agenda included only a photo for the newspaper and a public building inauguration.

Dolly had stopped crying and now wrung her hands, rubbing her lovely nose. "The book isn’t mine. I swear I went only to get a peak of the singer, Your Highness."

"Of course, I trust you will practice restraint from now on."

The book was still inside her drawer. The verses didn’t interest her in the least. She simply didn’t have the opportunity to burn it, that’s all.

Sighing, Isabel traced the rosewood of her escritoire. Dolly’s singsong tirade faded into the background, cut off by that man’s voice. Gravely and low. As if Sapho had conjured the perfect narrator for her erotic poems. He was dangerous. Isabel had misjudged her own susceptibility. She couldn’t name the symptoms, possibly because she hadn’t felt them before—a lack of breath, an awareness of one’s own heartbeat... And the heat? As if embers had been strapped to the tip of her ears. Isabel shuddered and covered the evidence with her palms. No one was immune to a rake’s charms. Not even her. She needed to be more vigilant.

Her lady’s maid approached and climbed atop the stool, lifting Isabel’s petticoat above her head. Pink slippers peeped from beneath the hem of her austere gray gown. "Mind the coiffure, s’il vous plait, Citizen Isabel."

Isabel’s gaze strayed to the other ladies and then back to the French maid. “Sophie, not when there is an audience,” she whispered.

Today, Isabel hadn’t the stamina to deal with Sophie’s political inclinations. Sophie was... Well, there wasn’t a nice way to say it. She was a Republican. Sophie’s family had a long lineage of French rebels, but tragically, they had all perished during Bismarck’s siege of Paris. Others might consider it imprudent to keep a Republican close, but in Sophie’s defense, she had delicate hands, and Isabel’s scalp was excruciatingly sensitive. Once, her mother’s staunch royalist maid braided Isabel’s hair so tightly that tears streamed from her eyes. And Sophie’s loyalty transcended political regimes, so the French Republican stayed.

“Your Highness,” Sophie said, her lips curling.

Nodding, Isabel lifted her arms. The crinoline passed over her torso to settle at her waist. Sophie did the buttons, and then three more layers of petticoats landed over the cage.

All this, the dress ceremony, the protocols, the ladies, and the servants, and all her entourage, and charities, and obligations—they were valid and genuine and made sense. Until, at odd moments, a shiver coursed through her, like water scraping from the riverbed to show the rocks beneath, revealing an unpleasant truth she would rather not see. After a minute or two, the current rushed out again, and all was normal, as it should be.

While Isabel adjusted the front fastenings of her corset, Sophie retrieved Worth’s latest delivery. Isabel’s ladies-of-honor halted their chattering, and a hush fell over the silk-paneled bedroom.

Helped by Sophie, Isabel donned the gown and posed before the Venetian mirror, turning to check her profile. The green accentuated her eyes, and the bodice hugged her torso without revealing too much skin or curves. The colors were flattering yet demure. Why had the gentleman perceived passion in her? Why was she even worrying about it? He must speak the same lines to every woman he meets.

Her tiara had been returned from the goldsmith, and she placed it over her hair. More than the sparkle of the princess cut diamonds, she relished the slight weight atop her head. If she’d had it yesterday, the rake would not have dared to… She wasn’t sure what he did, but he certainly would not be so effective in doing it.

"Your photograph will be on the first page of the newspapers tomorrow. Every baroness, countess, and duchess will want a Worth dress for herself," Philipa said, fussing over the gown’s train.

Isabel shrugged. To influence her subjects with what was inside her, she needed to impress them with what was outside. "Remind me to use a local dressmaker next time."

The footman opened the door, and the equerry entered, bowing at the waist. "Your Highness, His Majesty requests your presence."

Isabel stood by the music room, composing herself before talking to Luis. What could he want with her? She hoped it didn’t involve the queen. A cello overture spilled from the half-opened door. The mellow notes of Saint-Saens’ Carnival of the Animals filled the corridor as they did when they were children. If she closed her eyes, she could see her brothers wrestling atop the old chaise, feeding the parrots, talking about the day’s lessons. The scents of tobacco and beeswax tickled her nose, the same as when she skipped through the palace’s corridors, the youngest of five siblings. More than a princess, she had been the only girl, a friend, an accomplice, a sweet stealer... Only Luis and she remained, Mother and Father long gone, two brothers lost to typhus, one to an assassin. Isabel brushed away a stray tear. They either learned to live with death or died trying to live a lie. Life was fickle, and passions were only passing storms. True meaning could be found only in a person’s deeds to her country, in her legacy.

Gliding inside, she placed her hands on the closed piano. "You still keep your elbow too high."

Luis stopped playing and rested the bow on his knee. "A man has only so many things under his control."

"You requested my presence?"

"I wanted to see you, yes." He took an envelope from the side table. "This arrived for you."

She picked the heavy vellum from his outstretched hand. "An invitation?"

"Our cousin Rafaela is having a party at her summer residence in Comillas, on the Spanish seaside."

Isabel traced the gilded letters. "I haven’t seen her since she married Lord Canastra. It is a kind offer, but I must send my regrets."

"Why the prompt refusal? It’s a lovely opportunity to escape the Court and enjoy a waterfront resort. Mingle with people your age."

The hospital, the orphanage… She couldn’t indulge in a vacation and leave her duties behind. Isabel had helped double Lisbon’s institutions, but she wanted to build others in Oporto and Aveiro. If it depended on her, no Portuguese girl would remain on the streets, easy marks for exploitation. "I’m perfectly rested."

He narrowed his eyes. "I strongly advise you to go."

Why was he so adamant? Her summers had never concerned him. Could it be the queen who wanted her gone? Her chest contracted, and she bit her cheek to keep him from seeing her reaction. "I’ve barely arrived from England, and already you want to send me away?"

"I just thought it would be—"

"My presence here will help to... You know the royal family image is not the same after Mother’s death." She refrained from blaming his lack of restraint and unsavory friendships. Marriage had failed to reform him.

His hand contracted over the cello’s neck, and the strings groaned in protest. "I do what I can. I’m just a man."

"Except you are not." A rake could indulge in a life of passion. A king had to conform to a life of duty. Luis wanted both—an impossibility.

"I wish everyone could be like you. Some of us are human."

First, she hoarded Vestal Virgins, and now she was inhuman? Heat rose on her cheeks, and she flung the invitation at him. "Is that all?" Tossing her head, she grabbed her skirt to leave.

"Wait." He brushed his hand over his thinning blond hair. "I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s more than a vacation, all right? I need to gauge the mood of Spain’s politicians. My refusal to be their king could have implications."

Two years before, the Spanish army had forced Queen Isabella II into exile. Their general invited her brother to be their King. Luis’ denial came as a relief. The Spanish throne had the reliability of a quicksand pit. The Duke of Aosta, Queen Maria Pia’s brother, had accepted the offer and moved from Italy to Spain to be their monarch. So far, he had one crowning achievement—he kept his head above his shoulders.

"What implications?" Isabel frowned.

"Nobody can read the aristocracy like you. Portugal’s political instability is enough to rob me of sleep. I cannot deal with foreign threats." He exhaled loudly—the sound he made when defeated.

He dragged himself to Saint John’s altar. Her mother had built the wooden devotional after the death of her heir. The Braganza’s curse became an unwanted presence in their lives then. While peasant children behaved under the threat of werewolves and phantom Moors, she and her brothers had grown up dreading a friar’s words—’No first son of their lineage will ever live to inherit the Portuguese throne’.

Isabel brushed her arms, suddenly chilled. She hated the curse, hated how it had made her mother sad, how she spent most of her free time trying to find the friar’s grave so she could atone for their ancestor’s sins.

Luis lit a candle. After crossing himself, he touched the Saint’s feet. Her brother seemed tired, his face aged beyond his thirty-five years. Isabel hoped he didn’t allow groundless superstitions to worry him.

Sighing, she clasped his hand. "You look terrible."

"You never looked better." He kissed her cheek. "I’ve missed you, Bel."

Warmth radiated from their joined fingertips, and she sighed, leaning her head over his shoulder.

"You are a Portuguese princess, but in this chess game, you are the queen. While a king has limited moves, one square at a time, you go wherever you wish."

She had to agree. Kings had to obey protocol. Their strategies were carried out by ineffective diplomats, who acted in their own interests. How many wars could’ve been avoided if women could interfere? "How should I use my influence?"

"To support my brother-in-law."

She gazed into her brother’s eyes. Did he believe in the Duke of Aosta’s capabilities as sovereign? Or did he support him because of family ties? Luis was her king, and she must accept his judgment.

Isabel retrieved the invitation, tracing her cousin’s signature. A stay in Comillas was abrupt, but she couldn’t shirk from duty. Plus, if she went to Spain, she wouldn’t risk meeting the garden rake with his twinkling eyes again. Dolly, too, would be far from Charles Whitaker and his inappropriate literature.

"I must have total command of the trip. Including who accompanies me and how long we stay there."