When Vermeil painted Dolly’s portrait last season and uttered such an epithet, he did Dolly a disservice. She didn’t need her already-inflated vanity pushed to new heights.
A churchly silence descended upon the room. Competing with a world-class opera singer was unfair. The lantern clock chimed the half hour. Still half-past nine? Isabel glared at the offending piece, promising swift retribution. Glancing away, she released a strained breath. She could keep the ladies here until ten o'clock. Then they would retire, safe for the night.
The music got louder, the soprano reaching the aria's allegro.
Dolly perked up. "What if we went there… Just for a peek?"
The ladies dithered in their seats as if they all needed to visit the garderobe.
Why would they want to mingle with her brother's court? Rakes, liberals, artists, foreignbon vivants… Isabel could imagine their ranks closing in on her private rooms, like wolves circling prey, sniffing fresh meat. Instead of being thankful for her protection, her ladies had sullen looks on their faces, as if Isabel had kept them from a tasty treat.
A knock at the door brought her heart to a stuttering halt. Isabel rose, half expecting a drunken fellow to breach their retirement.
The equerry bowed deeply. "Your Highness, the queen wishes a word."
Queen Maria Pia of Savoy swept into the room. The blue and white of her ball gown accentuated her dark hair and fair skin. Still, why not adopt Portugal's colors?
The company of ladies curtsied. Black eyes shining feverishly, the queen waved her hand in dismissal and glided to the windows, where the heavy drapery allowed some privacy.
Isabel pitied her new sister-in-law. Settling in a foreign court was challenging. To make matters worse, her brother continued his dissolute ways. While she loved Luis dearly and respected him as her king, she could not help but fret. Yesterday, she had witnessed a terrible scene between the royal couple. She didn't want the same fate and would avoid marriage for as long as possible. Like all of history's powerful women—Queen Elizabeth I, Joan of Arc, Cleopatra—Isabel would remain unwed. With her fortune and influence, she could do charity, set an example of morality, and do her best for Portugal.
Isabel lowered her gaze respectfully. "Your Majesty."
The queen had calmed herself, but her smile was strained and did not reach her eyes. Could it be true? Was her brother unwilling to visit the queen's bedchamber? But why?
"I thought we were going to enjoy your presence tonight," the queen said, gazing at her fingernails.
Isabel deployed expression number three, gentle but resolute. During her years on public display, she'd learned to control her facial movements, maintaining a refined and poised demeanor no matter the situation. With a subtle brow lift, she could convey an appreciation of flattery, greet newcomers, show mild displeasure, and even refuse rancid sardines. One never knew the well-meaning presents a subject offered their princesses. "I apologize, but I must wake up early for my weekly visit to the orphanage. The girls would love it if you could come—"
"How adorable. But I don't rise before noon."
"Of course. How could I have forgotten?” Isabel sighed, crossing her arms above her chest. “You requested to speak to me. May I help you?"
Hurt flickered in the queen's eyes. "About last night, what you saw in my bedchamber…"
Isabel clasped her sister-in-law's gloved hands and pressed affectionately. "Is there anything I can do? I could—"
The queen yanked her hand away. "Just be sure to keep your mouth shut." Queen Maria's nostrils flared, her eyes flashing. She grabbed her skirt and stormed out of the alcove.
Isabel watched her leave the room, worrying her lip between her teeth.
Her ladies circled her, not even ashamed of their eavesdropping.
"Oh, that Italian is cruel. She is only jealous of you because you are so popular." Lady Philipa tittered, her chin trembling. "And prettier."
Isabel lifted her palms and bade them back to their chairs. "That Italian is our queen, Philipa."
At least the appearance had diverted them from the party. Still, the room had turned quiet. Too quiet.
"Where is Lady Dolores?"
The clock started beating the tenth hour. Isabel glared at the offending piece.Now you will do it?
Lady Anne accompanied Isabel to the door. "Dolly meant nothing untoward."
"I know she didn't. I’m sure she is just peeking at the opera singer from the ballroom’s fringes. Still, I better go retrieve her."
“Isabel,” Anne said, “what the ladies want…"
