Princess of Fortune. Miranda Jarrett

They had each tried to dictate to her what was proper and what wasn’t, as if they meant to replace her father. They’d lectured her about her behavior and how she’d dressed, and now—now they were lecturing someone else.

      He frowned. “What became of them, these other captains?”

      So the admiral hadn’t told him he hadn’t been the first choice. She was sorry for that. When she’d told him about the others, she’d only wanted him to realize how superior he was to them, not to make him feel as if he were fourth-rate. Ah, a man’s pride was such a delicate thing!

      “Oh, they did not please me,” she said with airy nonchalance, trying to make light of the other men to save his feelings. “I told the admiral to send them away, because I could not trust them.”

      “You dismissed them?” He sounded shocked. “Older officers, white-haired gentlemen who deserved respect for their rank and years of service? You dismissed them?”

      “I didn’t,” she said, surprised he would be so upset. At least he had some pretense to a title and noble blood. The others had been disagreeable commoners, underlings, and surely his inferiors. “The admiral did. But I do not see why I am not entitled to—”

      “You sent those other officers away,” he said, “and because of your whims, they’ve failed their orders. Because of you, ma’am, their lives and careers must be in rare shambles.”

      “Their failure is hardly my fault!”

      “Who else could be to blame?” he demanded. “How in blazes could you do that to those men, ma’am? It’s bad enough when you berate poor Lady Willoughby, but for you to ruin three honorable gentlemen officers because they did not suit you—”

      “I thought I could trust you, Captain,” she said defensively. “I thought because you were as unhappy as I am, you could understand me.”

      “Who in blazes says I’m unhappy?”

      “You don’t have to say it, Captain!” She sliced her gloved hand through the air as if to cut through his protests. “You do not have to speak one word, either in English or in your barbarous attempt at Italian. You make all perfectly clear. You are no more pleased to be in London than I. You would much rather be back on one of your great smelly navy boats with a ruffian crew of thieves and cutpurses.”

      “Ships, ma’am.” He was biting off each word. “In most cases, an English vessel of war is a ship, not a—”

      “Very well, then, Captain. A ship. You would rather be in one of your great smelly navy ships than here in this carriage with me. And I see no reason to disoblige you.”

      She stood upright, swaying unsteadily in the moving carriage, and thumped her knuckles on the roof of the carriage. “Driver, stop! Here, now! Stop at once!”

      The captain grabbed her by the arm, trying to pull her back down on the seat so she wouldn’t fall as the carriage rumbled to a halt. Through the windows Isabella could see other carriages and chaises and shops with stylish ladies and gentlemen strolling along the pavement, enough for her to realize they were on some fashionable street. To Isabella’s satisfaction, many of those passersby were already turning to look at the commotion inside Lady Willoughby’s glossy green carriage.

      The captain, of course, thought otherwise. “A moment now, ma’am,” he ordered as he tried to maneuver her back to the seat. “A moment to calm yourself.”

      She gasped with indignant shock. She could not recall the last time anyone had dared restrain her like this against her will.

      “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