Page 8 of The Truth About Myths
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."
Chapter 3
"It is absurd to divide people into good and bad. People are either charming or tedious."Oscar Wilde
Theautomobilesputteredtwotimes and came to a dead halt at Santo Amaro Avenue. Pedestrians passed, turning their heads to gape at the vehicle. Henrique jumped out of the driving seat and opened the engine. The exhaust had clogged again. He pulled on his fob. Five-thirty. Forty minutes to fix it and arrive at the hotel in time for dinner. A minor setback wouldn't sour his mood. The evening demanded celebration. His business in town had been highly successful. The Italian count had made an exorbitant offer for his Braganza estate. Before embarking on the steamer to Liverpool, all that remained was to ask the king to sign the deed and say goodbye to his friends. He would tackle both tonight.
"Gardenia, thy mouth blooms in exquisite delight." Sprawled in the passenger seat, Dio pulled a pencil from his meticulously disheveled locks and scribbled on a notebook. "She loves my poems… Said I was her blond Byron." He smiled self-deprecatingly. "I'm glad she has no literary taste."
Henrique shook his head, laughing. Diomedes da Veiga, Marquess of Faial—assumedbon vivant, a passable poet, as entertaining when drunk as in a hangover... Of all Henrique's friends, he would miss him the most.
"She loves your money." Not that Henrique judged it. As long as both parties understood what they got from a relationship, they could enjoy themselves without the added burden of unfulfilled expectations. Henrique cleaned sweat from his forehead. "Can you give me a lift here?"
"Of course. How lazy of me." Dio straightened and looked at him, all seriousness. "You are the greatest scientist this country has ever known. Handsome, too, if a little long in the tooth. If those scurvy politicians ignore your work, the fault is in their shriveled minds. Is that enough, or should I write an ode to your twinkling blue eyes?"
“I'm thirty-two, hardly older than you.” Henrique lifted his brows. "And I need a literal hand."
"I would lend it to you, but I cannot possibly do it without ruining my clothes." Dio leaned back and crossed his ankles. "Why did you leave the palace early last night?"
Henrique stopped rattling the manifold, gazing at nothing in particular. Mossy green, the Tagus River flashed at him from gaps in the two-story buildings. The color of the frosty lady's eyes. "I was ambushed by a dangerous species."
Dio sighed dramatically. "What was it this time? A nasty disease you spotted in your microscope?"
"This species is glaring to the naked eye, I assure you. They stalk their prey and disorient them, using their venomous tongue to administer the final blow."
Dio glanced at the Rocio square as if it were the Serengeti plains. "Do we have a loose viper in Lisbon?"
"Worse. A virgin." Virgins were a bachelor's natural predator. Especially a green-eyed one with aretroussénose and a cutting wit. The temptation to prove how much passion she had underneath her breastplate had been so strong he almost forgot his vow to restrain his amorous conquests to the married variety.
Dio laughed. "One of the princesses' maids of honor? That's rich."
"Why does the princess keep them in chains?"
Dio avoided eye contact, polishing his nails on his superfine coat. "Some blame her time in Victoria's court. That it turned her into a prude. Others say she hates women. Who knows? She could be the priestess of a cult to the hymen."
Dio was being cryptic on purpose. If anyone knew about the princess, it was him. As the son of the Duke of Palmella, the country's top diplomat, he grew up with the royal brood... Until he refused a post as an attaché in Geneva to pursue his literary vocation and became his family'sbete noir. No news there. In this country, you either followed your aristocratic father's footsteps, or you received said foot in the arse.
"Hymen cult? What nonsense."
"Careful, a feminist might call you a misogynist."
