Princess of Fortune. Miranda Jarrett

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      “I will not calm myself,” she sputtered, “because I do not need calming!”

      “I won’t let you go until you agree to be reasonable, ma’am.” He held her lightly, almost gently, but there was no mistaking his strength. “I don’t want you hurting yourself.”

      “The only one who’ll harm me is you,” she said, trying to wriggle free. It wasn’t easy. His hands were bigger than she’d first realized, his fingers easily spanning her arm in a way that was daunting, but oddly exciting, too. “I order you to release me, Captain, release me at once!”

      “My orders from the admiralty must come first, ma’am.” He was working so hard to stop her without hurting her, that, under any other circumstances, she would have laughed out loud. “Damnation, why won’t you show a little sense and stop this?”

      “Because I am a Fortunaro princess, Captain,” she said furiously, her temper finally spilling over, “and the Fortunari do whatever they please.”

      Abruptly the carriage halted, throwing the captain off balance, and swiftly Isabella jerked her arm free of his grasp. She unhooked the latch on the door and shoved it open, the ribbons on her bonnet blowing up across her face as she teetered on the edge. She’d come too far to change her mind now, and before the captain could pull her back, she stepped from the carriage, her head regally high.

      But she’d neglected to wait for the footman to open the step for her, and instead of descending grandly from the carriage, she pitched forward through the empty space in a tangle of red velvet and landed hard on the pavement on her hands and knees, without any grandeur at all.

      “Ma’am!” At once the captain was there at her side, kneeling on the pavement beside her. “Are you injured? Should I send for a surgeon?”

      “Of course I am not hurt,” she snapped, scrambling back to her feet and brushing him away as well as the two footmen. The palms of her hands stung inside her gloves and she was quite sure her knees were bruised and scraped, but she would never give him the satisfaction of admitting it. Even if a Fortunaro princess might be foolish enough to leap without looking, she would keep the resultant suffering to herself. “I am not some piece of delicate porcelain, to be shattered with such ease.”

      He looked relieved. “Then let me help you back into the carriage.”

      “Why should I do that?” She straightened her bonnet, retying the ribbons, and looked up at the sign over the shop before her. At least they’d stopped before one she’d plausibly visit, the windows filled with an enticement of bonnets, gloves and ribbons. “We shall go inside here, Captain, to—to Copperthwaite’s Millinery. Yes, that is my wish. A fine shop is not like an open street. There can be no danger to me inside. I shall be quite safe.”

      She smiled, proud that she’d made her mouth bend around those awkward English words. Walking forward toward the shop took effort as her bruised knees protested, but through sheer will she kept her smile in place and didn’t wince. Other people were watching, curious and listening, eager to be able to describe any mistake she might make, and she was determined to earn their admiration, not their contempt.

      “You can’t do this, ma’am,” said the captain in an impatient whisper as he walked beside her. “It’s not wise.”

      “Then I am not wise, because I cannot see reason or cause for not entering this shop.” She was enjoying herself now, relishing the attention of the growing well-dressed crowd on the sidewalk around them, and she raised her voice so the others might hear her. “How am I to earn support for my dearest Monteverde here in London if I never show myself to the English people?”

      An excited murmur rippled through the crowd, and she smiled just enough to acknowledge it. This was a part of being her that she’d missed, a part that the captain couldn’t understand, and how could he, really?

      One of the footmen hurried to open the shop’s door for her, and she sailed inside. Because Mama had always insisted upon having the dressmakers and jewelers and everyone else come to her at the palace, Isabella had no firsthand experience with shops, and she gazed about this one now with unabashed curiosity.

      One long room was lined on either side with pale green counters, and cushioned chairs for customers. While most of the goods were hidden away in the drawers of the tall cabinets behind the counters, special selections had been artfully arranged here and there to catch a buyer’s eye: wide-brimmed leghorn hats with silk flowers, pastel kidskin gloves, veils and ribbons and stocking and garters. Isabella couldn’t imagine having such a selection to choose from, and for once it actually did seem as if the common women might have the advantage over her and her mother in the palace.

      With the gracious smile still on her face, Isabella stopped just inside the doors, waiting to be properly recognized and greeted. Every shop girl had already turned to look, as had every customer, and Isabella beamed at the attention. Surely in such a center of fashion as this she would be recognized; surely no assassins could be lurking here.

      An elegant older woman glided toward Isabella, the curled ribbons on her cap floating gently around her cheeks. She dipped a genteel curtsy, and Isabella nodded in return.

      But Mrs. Copperthwaite wasn’t noticing. “Good day, Captain Lord Greaves, good day! We are so honored to have you visit us—a gentleman of your heroic reputation!”

      Beside Isabella, the captain bowed. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said. “You’re far too generous with your praise. All I did was for my country, nothing that any officer of the king wouldn’t have done in my place.”

      “Oh, no, Captain my lord, I would dare differ!” exclaimed Mrs. Copperthwaite. “You are a hero, Captain my lord, and I will not have you argue!”

      Mrs. Copperthwaite sighed and clasped her hands before her breasts in a way that Isabella found annoyingly overwrought. A hero, a hero, thought Isabella crossly. If this captain were such a great war hero, then why was he mired here on land, making her life so miserable?

      Mrs. Copperthwaite sighed again, at last recovered. “Pray, pray, what shall you have this day, Captain my lord? How might we oblige you?”

      “Nothing for me, ma’am,” said the captain. Even with the shopkeeper so shamelessly fawning over him, he was still watching out for Isabella’s safety, his eyes roving all over the counters and cabinets and other customers as he looked for danger. “Though likely my sisters would disagree.”

      “Then for—for your friend.” Finally Mrs. Copperthwaite turned to Isabella with a distinctly slighter curtsy. “How might we serve you, miss?”

      The shop owner’s expression was respectful enough, but her appraisal was so open—taking in everything from Isabella’s heeled slippers to the plume on her hat, and especially the un-English velvet and gold gown in between—that Isabella knew at once what lay behind it. Because she wasn’t dressed like a milky-mousy English lady, she must be a—a harlot.

      “I am not this man’s mistress.” Isabella drew herself up with regal disdain. “I do not know what should give you such a ridiculous idea.”

      Beside her, the captain made a growling grumble deep in his throat, and already she knew what that meant, too. He wanted her to behave.

      “Mrs. Copperthwaite has said nothing of the sort.” His voice had a forced lightness to it, more warning for Isabella. “She intends no insult to you. She doesn’t know who you are, that СКАЧАТЬ