Page 28 of The Truth About Myths
Henrique lowered Isabel to the bed. To reach the skin of her wrist, he had to unbutton the glove and rip the lace from her long-sleeved dress. Her pulse beat erratically, her breathing shallow. Damn her prudish clothing. He could barely see her throat through the ruffles of her bodice, the taffeta stiff as armor. How could the woman breathe in the cursed thing?
"Help me remove her gown."
The maid wrung her hands. "But, sir—"
"Now, Sophie."
The tone of his voice forced the maid into action. With her help, Henrique unhooked the bodice's fastenings. The cloth gaped to reveal a corset hard enough to shame any breastplate. The top reached her collar, smashing her chest, and the other end nipped at her waist—too tight. Most women abused corsets for two reasons—to produce a cinched midriff or enhance their bosom. Not Isabel. Her corset did the opposite, flattening her curves.
"Why in heavens do you pull it so?"
The maid sucked her lips in. "I'm a sans-culotte, sir. I follow orders."
Henrique grunted. Frustrated, he took a knife and cut the tapes. Isabel's chest inflated with the force of her inhale. His shoulders sagged, his eyes closing in relief. She still was pale and wan, but a monstrous corset coupled with Spanish heat could do that. Efficiently, they tugged the bustle from her waist and removed her petticoats.
From beneath layers of cloth and wire emerged surprising softness. Rounded breasts strained the translucent cotton of her chemise. Tapered legs stretched into arched feet. Without the armor, she was all woman. The knowledge would haunt him later, but he couldn't avoid feasting on the view.
Henrique took a step back, his breathing rough. He looked away, cursing his body's reaction, and focused on the ever-present tiara above her head. He better not forget who she was—his friend's sister, Princess of the Blood.
Color returned to her lips. Sophie moved quickly to cover her with the counterpane, no doubt conscious Isabel would rather die than be seen in dishabille.
"When was the last time she ate?"
The maid fussed with the pillows. "Sometimes she—"
"Should I send for the doctor?"
"No, they will want to bleed her, and… Well, some days she refrains from food, sir."
"She refrains?" Food wasn't superfluous, damn it. People refrained from gambling, champagne, or French courtesans, not food. "Why in heaven's name would she do that?"
The maid fidgeted with her austere gown, her discomfort palpable. Sophie was not at fault.
"Go to the kitchen. Bring back a light meal. Broth, bread, and tea."
She left, closing the door with a soft click.
Alone with Isabel, Henrique exhaled. His chest bothered him as if someone had filled it with cement. He wanted to strangle her for endangering her health. No, too quick. What she deserved was a good, long spanking—a tanning of her royal rump. Henrique sat by Isabel’s side. A strand of hair had been lucky enough to escape her chignon and now rested on her cheek. He twirled it around his fingertip. So soft. "Foolish, foolish girl, what will I do with you?"
Isabel's eyes fluttered open and focused on him. Lifting her hand, she picked something from his coat. The paper flower.
She frowned at the wrinkled petals. "I'm sorry you had to leave the party to carry me here."
Her voice had a hurt, sad note, and damned if it didn't make him feel guilty. He shook away the feeling. If she wanted to waste an afternoon instead of enjoying herself, it was her choice, not his. "Why don't you eat, Isabel? Are you trying to kill yourself?"
"My eating habits don’t concern you.”
Henrique gave her a look to rival Hercules’ wrath.
Biting her lip, she tugged the covers to her neck. “If you must know, I received some unexpected news. And the long journey… I'm perfectly fine now. You can return to your entertainment."
"Don't tell me you want to mimic those consumptive women." If this was a whim to follow a silly fashion trend, he would indeed thrash her, and then he would lock her up and feed her until she dropped the nonsense. "To starve is dangerous, Isabel, and you are barely above a wisp as it is."
"I'm not a wisp, and I have no intention of starving. I merely believe some indulgences should be restrained."
"Enlighten me, if you please." Henrique shut his eyes, knowing whatever she meant by including the word indulgences and restraint in the same sentence would make him groan.
She lifted a royal shoulder as if readying herself to impart common sense knowledge. "Food, drink, gambling, and other private pursuits overstimulate the senses. The senses can lead us to forget morality. When we forget morals, we lose track of our purpose."
