Page 6 of The Truth About Myths
Controlling her breaths, Isabel pretended to clean a speck from her bodice. "Flaming? Sir, your senses are running ahead of you again. Where you see fire, there is only ice. Nothing you do or say affects me."
"No?" His gem-like eyes sparkled, and he bent forward.
His cheek brushed against her, the bristles of his stubble tickling her skin. Locking a gulp of air in her lungs, she mentally slapped her hand. Why provoke a reposing rake? Warmth wafted from him in waves, and her nostrils flared at the citric spice of his cologne. His gaze drilled into hers, consuming her space. Unnerved but unwilling to lose the advantage, she stared right back. A mistake. Up close, the curves drawn into his irises had a hypnotic symmetry—a maze seen from above. One more inch, and they would trap her.
Pulse speeding, she arched her back. "Release me."
Her glance shifted from his bottom lip to his heavy-lidded eyes. Quite suddenly, he dipped his nose to her collarbone and sniffed her—neck to earlobe—waking up the down covering her skin.
"Are you sure, Joan?"
She was sure her heart had become a treacherous belly dancer, as it literally danced in her belly. "Yes?"
"I'm not holding you." He stepped back.
The heat engulfing her vanished, replaced by the drafty air.
Disoriented, Isabel blinked once, twice. Indeed, he wasn't. Then how? She had felt trapped by him as clearly as if he had woven a web of crystal threads around them. Was it all in her head, an illusion? Or did he possess a hidden power of seduction?
He eyed her expectantly, smirking, and she realized he had proved his point. How easily he affected her.
"Keep the book." Clutching her skirts in her clammy palms, she brushed past him.
He grabbed her arm, his black-gloved hand shockingly hot. Isabel sucked in a breath.
His eyes twinkled mischievously, and he placed the book into her hand. "You should read a few verses, little Joan. Perhaps it can thaw ice maidens."
Her wrist tingled where he touched her, and she jerked free from his hold. Panting, at a loss for a proper set down, she watched as he swaggered away.
Chapter 2
"Never let a fool kiss you, or a kiss fool you." Joey Adams
"Whatyoudidyesterdayput your reputation at risk," Isabel said, sitting on her bedchamber window seat. A woman's reputation compared with a Fabergé egg, precious and, once broken, irreplaceable.
Dolly poured forth sobbing excuses, but Isabel could not face her. Had she not placed herself at risk too?
The chilly north wind invaded the bedroom, ruffling Isabel's hair. Lisbon stretched out in front of her, its red roofs and whitewashed buildings crowding the Tagus bank. Relentless, the gale shook the pines and the cypresses, making the river surface crisp like a startled cat. Suppressing a shiver, Isabel shut the window. The night encounter had left her a tad brittle. Thankfully, her agenda included only a photo for the newspaper and a public building inauguration.
Dolly had stopped crying and now wrung her hands, rubbing her lovely nose. "The book isn't mine. I swear I went only to get a peak of the singer, Your Highness."
"Of course, I trust you will practice restraint from now on."
The book was still inside her drawer. The verses didn't interest her in the least. She simply didn't have the opportunity to burn it, that's all.
Sighing, Isabel traced the rosewood of her escritoire. Dolly's singsong tirade faded into the background, cut off by that man's voice. Gravely and low. As if Sapho had conjured the perfect narrator for her erotic poems. He was dangerous. Isabel had misjudged her own susceptibility. She couldn't name the symptoms, possibly because she hadn't felt them before—a lack of breath, an awareness of one's own heartbeat... And the heat? As if embers had been strapped to the tip of her ears. Isabel shuddered and covered the evidence with her palms. No one was immune to a rake's charms. Not even her. She needed to be more vigilant.
Her lady's maid approached and climbed atop the stool, lifting Isabel's petticoat above her head. Pink slippers peeped from beneath the hem of her austere gray gown. "Mind the coiffure,s'il vous plait, Citizen Isabel."
Isabel’s gaze strayed to the other ladies and then back to the French maid. “Sophie, not when there is an audience,” she whispered.
Today, Isabel hadn’t the stamina to deal with Sophie's political inclinations. Sophie was... Well, there wasn't a nice way to say it. She was a Republican. Sophie's family had a long lineage of French rebels, but tragically, they had all perished during Bismarck’s siege of Paris. Others might consider it imprudent to keep a Republican close, but in Sophie's defense, she had delicate hands, and Isabel's scalp was excruciatingly sensitive. Once, her mother's staunch royalist maid braided Isabel's hair so tightly that tears streamed from her eyes. And Sophie's loyalty transcended political regimes, so the French Republican stayed.
“Your Highness,” Sophie said, her lips curling.
Nodding, Isabel lifted her arms. The crinoline passed over her torso to settle at her waist. Sophie did the buttons, and then three more layers of petticoats landed over the cage.
All this, the dress ceremony, the protocols, the ladies, and the servants, and all her entourage, and charities, and obligations—they were valid and genuine and made sense. Until, at odd moments, a shiver coursed through her, like water scraping from the riverbed to show the rocks beneath, revealing an unpleasant truth she would rather not see. After a minute or two, the current rushed out again, and all was normal, as it should be.
