Page 26 of The Truth About Myths
Henrique swept into their midst and introduced himself with the savoir-faire of a man who exuded self-confidence. The days riding outside the carriage had made the laughing lines around his eyes more pronounced.
Rafaela curtseyed deeply, showing a blatant amount of decolletage. "Welcome to our country, Your Excellency."
"The Viscount of Penafiel has no trouble embracing any country he is in," Isabel said, plastering a sweet smile on her lips.
"I am easy to please." He addressed Rafaela, but his eyes flashed at Isabel. "Unlike some others…"
The Duke of Canastra cleared his throat. The middle-aged aristocrat towered over the courtyard's center, two Galgo hunters guarding his legs.
Smiling, the duke bowed over Isabel's hand. "Princess Isabel. More stunning than I recalled. You are an asset to our humble home." A white streak marked his black hair, giving him a severe countenance. The red and ochre military uniform emphasized his lean figure, but the epaulets seemed too large for his shoulders. Was he an officer now? How odd. Canastra came from trade, and gossip had it he bought the title with shipping money.
"The pleasure is all mine. It's been ages since I came to Spain. Your country is lovely in summer," Isabel said.
Rafaela cut in front of her husband. "You arrived just in time. We're having afiestaon the beach. Today isCavatast, and we will honor the tradition of tasting the year’s firstcavawine."
Guests talked in small groups or lounged around cocktail tables. Games of shuttlecock, lawn tennis, and cricket made the grass colorful and alive. Paper flowers in yellow and rose decorated a trellis. The ocean glittered, the blue interspersed by pointy sails.
"Your Highness, I was waiting for your arrival." Canastra pointed to an austere portal leading into the house. A stuffy butler held the door open. "If you can forgo my wife's frivolous party, I would love if you could attend a meeting with me—"
"Por favor, Ignacio." Rafaela sidestepped the growling dogs and placed her bejeweled fingers atop her husband's arm. "Isabel and our guests just arrived. Allow them to have fun before you accost them with politics."
Isabel gazed from the party to the portal. Laughter floated with the breeze, and the scents of cotton sugar and currant jam wafted to her nose.
Still, her brother had asked her to understand the current mood of their neighbors. Who needed a delicious and fragrant celebration when she had the chance to speak with tedious aristocrats? She gazed from the lawn to Henrique, and her mouth watered to join the fun. Why this now? She had never shirked her duties. Parties meant little to her. It was Henrique, she realized with dismay and the promise of laughter dancing in his eyes. What tempted her was experiencing the party with him.
Henrique lifted his brows at her as if aware of her weakness.
"I will be happy to join you," Isabel blurted and placed her hand above Canastra's forearm.
Rafaela shrugged. "Still the diplomat in the family."
Isabel watched her cousin collect a paper flower from the trellis and insert it in Henrique’s coat pocket. Then, she playfully shooed the guests to the beach. They all laughed. None looked back.
Isabel lowered herself to a Chippendale chair in Canastra's drawing room. The effort to keep her attention focused on what mattered was fruitless. Every time laughter intruded from outside, her thoughts wandered. Isabel mentally shook herself. This was her chance to make a sterling impression and show her support for the Duke of Aosta.
She forced herself to notice the details. The ceiling rose as high as a cathedral, and Italian marble lined the floors, walls, and arched columns. Statues and mirrors adorned the niches. All attested to the rumors Canastra was the wealthiest man on the peninsula. As she expected, she was surrounded by the cream of the Spanish aristocracy. She recognized the Duke and Duchess of Montijo, one of the oldest lines in Spain, and the Marquiss of Albuquerque.
The table before her had a lavish tea service, including pastries, sweetmeats, and atarta de Santiago.
Canastra offered her a plate. "Your Highness, do you accept a treat? You look a little pale."
Isabel's mouth watered, but she forced her gaze from the tray. She would not allow the temptation to control her. Isabel de Orleans was not governed by her senses.
"Thank you, but I must decline."
He lowered the plate. "How is your Spanish?"
"I hope not to disgrace myself with my poor pronunciation," she said demurely, omitting the fact that she spoke five languages fluently.
The duke fired a sequence of questions. Her upbringing, how many of her mother's progeny had survived infancy, the number of instruments she played, and her exact opinion of their constitution. Bespectacled and monocled eyes observed her from their perches around the drawing room. Even a trumpet was pointed at her, capturing her every word. Why had she become the center of attention?
"I'm a decent chess player." Isabel lowered the cup to the saucer. "Do you know who else plays a great game of chess? The Duchess of Aosta. Will we have the pleasure of her presence this summer?"
Disapproving murmurs rose from the assembly.
Isabel swallowed, and a prickle of unease climbed up her spine.
Canastra stood and stared at a gruesome painting lining the wall. Light focused on a Spaniard pleading for mercy. Other dispatched souls sprawled on the blood-splattered ground. A line of French hussars pointed their guns at the unarmed man. In the background, Madrid burned.
