5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Twenty minutes before…

"The natural desire of good men is knowledge." Leonardo da VinciHenrique drove through Ajuda’s crowded streets, pitying the poor sods who climbed out of their warm beds to glimpse a woman just because she carried a crown on her head and blue blood inside her veins.

Henrique felt his grip tightening on the wooden wheel and forced his muscles to relax. Princess or not, she was a woman like all others. How hard would it be to woo her a little? After living cloistered her whole life, she must be starved for male attention. Charm and finesse could go a long way to convince her to curtail this blasted trip.

Soon, he would be back in Portugal and his plans. With this gratifying thought, he halted outside the palace’s gates, honking to alert the guard of his presence.

The crowd opened, revealing a courtyard filled with nickering horses, traveling coaches, and humbled servants. His heart picked up speed, anticipating seeing fiery Joan, but he squelched the perspective. When he asked Dio if the ladies-in-waiting would accompany them to Spain, his friend told him the princess had dismissed them so they could return to their country abodes for summer. Some people had all the luck.

Henrique parked the car, blocking the aligned coaches. A trio gathered in front of the royal carriage. Dio waved at him, his expression relieved. A plump blond girl tumbled out of the coach, her eyes openly admiring him. If this were the princess, Henrique would accomplish his goal with minimal effort.

She curtsied, bending her torso until the ostrich feathers on her bonnet licked the ground.

Sparks flashed behind her.

Frowning, Henrique vaulted from the driver’s seat, riveted by the Tyndal effect—the scattering of light by tiny particles suspended in the air. He searched for the cause, usually diamonds, and found a tiara. He lingered over the colors, half mesmerized by the precious stones, half afraid of what he would find if he acknowledged the owner.

Dio cleared his throat.

Henrique’s gaze crashed from the crown to a pair of flashing green eyes. His heart ricocheted against his ribs, and he stepped back. His mind took longer to process what his body already understood. The princess was his midnight Joan of Arc.

Her eyes locked into him, more striking than he remembered, broad daylight emphasizing their liquidness. The absence of a rusty breastplate revealed a slender torso. She looked every part a perfect princess. Fashionable, hair done the right way, skin flawless. Hers was the beauty women marveled at, poets fawned over, but hot-blooded men should be leery of. Despite the necessity of being leery of her, a lightness buoyed his chest, and his mouth turned dry. If he didn’t know himself, he might believe he was excited about spending weeks in her presence.

Dio flashed a wicked grin.

Henrique glowered. A dried-up maid with long teeth? He hoped his friend had enjoyed the joke. During the first stop, Henrique would douse his friend’s hair with phosphorus and set it on fire.

Ignoring Dio for the moment, Henrique turned to his charge. A ruby-colored blush and a murderous grip on her parasol were the only telltale signs little Joan had recognized him. Had their garden tête-à-tête ruffled her feathers the wrong way?

That wouldn’t work now, would it? Time to woo her properly.

Henrique bowed and flashed a grin. "Princess Isabel, daylight pales compared to your beauty."

She tilted her head, impervious to the innuendo about their midnight encounter. "Thank you. We are extremely late, so—"

"The trip will be awfully long, I’m afraid. I hope you brought some reading material. Greek poetry is perfect for passing the time." He winked.

"I’ve packed the complete history of Spain. Three volumes, two thousand pages," she said, her expression turning glacial.

"How… entertaining." Henrique narrowed his eyes. Well, the teasing had no effect. Perhaps some bribery. "It’s such a lovely day. Your brother advised me how much you love horses. Do you wish to ride? I’ve selected one of Pedro Daun’s prized Lusitanos for your pleasure."

She let out a little gasp, and then her gaze escaped to the horses. Henrique pressed his lips not to smile. She was mellowing already. Who wouldn’t want to ride on such a fine day?

"Oh, Your Excellency. I get terribly sick inside the coach. A tragedy, really. I’ll accompany you." Lady Dolores pawed his jacket.

He had been so engrossed by Isabel he forgot the girl.

"My pleasure," Henrique said and turned to Isabel. "Your Highness?" Henrique kept eye contact, glad he didn’t choke on the formality of the address.

"It looks like rain. I’ll travel inside. Thank you for the kind offer."

So, that’s how she wanted to play... Henrique nodded, making sure his expression was as blank as hers. "We’ve dallied enough here. We better depart."

When they finally approached the hotel, Henrique couldn’t recall a single idea, original thought, or coherent opinion passing through Lady Dolores’ mouth. His ears had absorbed so much inane chatter they had become numb. The only thing he could fathom from her chitchat was her boredom. Princess Isabel kept her ladies from mixed company unless she had vetted the guests first. They couldn’t stroll unescorted and had a strict diet and exercise routine.

He glanced at the royal coach. Could the princess believe in such rules? Why would a woman with her wit keep herself so restrained? Henrique shook his head and dismounted. After enduring thirty miles of dusty roads and Lady Dolores’ frivolous conversation, Henrique arrived at this conclusion—he didn’t understand Princess Isabel de Orleans. No matter. The princess was a puzzle he had no intention of solving. He decided upon a course of action. If the princess could act the Antarctic glacier, so could he. He would be perfectly civil. Warring didn’t go well with summer.

The Copa Hotel, a pleasant neoclassical building in Beira’s central square, opened its doors to receive them.

The princess alighted from the coach and sped to them, sniffing over Lady Dolores like a lioness with her cubs. What did she think he would do with the girl? Debauch her in plain sight of three carriages while being assaulted by her chatter?

Henrique rolled his eyes. "Are you done?"

She bestowed upon him a gelid smile.

He preferred her disheveled and wearing a breastplate. Even armored, she had been more approachable. In full princess regalia, she was too perfect, and her perfection rubbed his skin like pollen, making it itchy. He’d bet it had the effect of turning the male public into contrite schoolboys. A glimpse of Isabel’s perfection worked as a schoolmaster’s ruler, compelling them to keep their eyes to themselves and their hands above the table.

But not him.

Growing up, he’d been immune to correction, and in fact, his rebellion grew exponentially with the threat. Right now, his fingers tingled to muss her hair and steal her tiara just to hear a perfect gasp. His devious mind conjured all sorts of pranks, including attaching it to a peacock or hiding it inside his mattress so she—the image of Isabel wearing nothing but the crown assaulted him, and desire pulsed through his veins. He mentally bashed his palm. She was his friend’s sister, for Christ’s sake. Better keep the schoolmaster’s ruler close by.

She linked her arm through Dolly and deigned to look at him. "Since you’ve stopped at this inn and not the hotel I had chosen, I must assume you’ve informed the establishment of our arrival?" she said in cool, cultured tones.

"They are expecting Viscount Penafiel and Baroness da Beija."

She frowned. "Why use my lesser title?"

Any of the twelve would’ve done. "Do you mean to cause a stir every time we stop?"

She lifted a dainty shoulder. "The country should be able to see their princess, don’t you think?"

Is Portugal obliged to endure her, too? "I’m sure most are not ready for such honor and would expire in ecstasy. Shall we?" There, he had acted civil enough. He offered his arm and escorted them to the reception area.

Though it was not the Hermitage Hotel, the rosewood furniture and toile du jouy tapestry gave it a charming hunting lodge atmosphere. Not even a princess could find fault with it.

Piano music floated from the restaurant, and the scent of roasted pig flavored the air. His stomach rumbled. A hearty meal and some rest would restore his temper, and acting cool with Isabel in the morning wouldn’t be as straining as carrying a boulder uphill.

At the reception, Lady Dolly toyed with a silver candle holder, attracted to the shiny object. The princess tapped her impatient feet on the parquet. The hotel clerk gave them the room keys and beamed, offering a place in the restaurant.

Henrique nodded. "I’ll escort the ladies to the table. Their açorda dish is famous in the region."

Dolly licked her lips, her gloved hand extending to Henrique’s arm. "How delicious. Thank you."

"The common room isn’t appropriate for unmarried ladies." Isabel turned her nose up as if scenting an offensive smell.

Henrique counted to ten and forced a diplomatic smile. "There are families inside, surely—"

"Lady Dolores and I will have dinner in our bedchamber."

Henrique gritted his teeth. "Why deprive the girl of such simple pleasures?"

Isabel glared at him. "Lady Dolores, please accompany Sophie and the porter to our room. I will join you momentarily."

The girl dropped her shoulders and sulked. "If I must heed the curtain call, I bid you good night." With a parting sigh, she dragged her feet to the stairs.

"I would appreciate it if you stopped interfering in my household." Isabel’s silvery voice could cut steel.

Someone opened the restaurant door. Upbeat notes of a modinha floated to the reception, cheery and inviting.

Isabel gasped. "Must she make a spectacle of herself?"

Henrique followed her ominous stare, expecting to see an odalisque shedding her seven veils. Inside the restaurant, a voluptuous woman danced with a coarse man. What could’ve shocked Isabel? The poor lady’s sin lay not with her choice of conduct but with her partner.

Cool, remember? "The lady is just dancing."

Pressing her lips into an unforgiving line, Isabel averted her eyes. "A woman need not lose her virtue to dance."

Perhaps it was the long day of hearing about modistes and fashionable gossip, or that his stomach protested its emptiness, or the minor detail that Henrique’s whole life had been put on hold to accommodate Isabel’s wishes—whatever the catalyst, he’d had enough.

"Here is a new concept for you. Some people enjoy having fun."

"Fun can be had in less public venues."

Henrique smirked. "I assure you, it can."

"Use as many innuendos as you please. Not every woman cares about the type of fun you flaunt."

Chill and detached, Isabel behaved as if she alone belonged to a different species, immune to the principle governing all beings under the sun—seek pleasure and avoid pain. But she was wrong. Evolution overruled a barely out-of-the-schoolroom princess.

"Don’t you? And must you keep your ladies from life’s pleasures?"

The top of her ears went fiery red, and her nostrils flared. "Leave them out of this."

A sore point if she had any. "Why, so you can continue bullying them into doing your bidding?"

She bristled like an eagle defending her chicks. "Dolly is perfectly content, I assure you."

He snorted. "Of course. Content as a nun in a convent."

"Nuns have higher callings. At least their lives are meaningful." She gave him a pointed look.

The innuendo hit him in the chest. So she thought life as a scientist was frivolous? Henrique locked his jaw. "You are right. The ladies are better off living in your household." He leered at her, his smile showing too many teeth. "Much worse to kiss the mother superior’s hands than your royal rump."

Isabel speared him with a stare deadly enough to smite a lesser man. Her alabaster skin became as red as any common Douro wine, her eyes flashing like amethysts in a jackal’s statue. "Viscount Penafiel, my brother made you my escort, but he could not make you a gentleman."

She tossed her beautiful hair and stormed past him.

Panting, Henrique watched Isabel climb the stairs. Somewhere, his ancestors were hooting at his atrocious manners. Good God, she had dropped the icy breastplate, hadn’t she? What a sight to behold.

Clapping came from behind him. Dio sauntered to the light. “For a second there, I thought you had lost your finesse with the ladies. Old age and all…” He drawled, cleaning tears of mirth from his eyes. “But then you ended your couplets with ‘royal rump.’ You managed alliteration, consonance, and personification, all in two words. No wonder Isabel is so smitten.”

"Shut up."