Page 7 of The Truth About Myths
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 Animalsfilled 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.
