The Heiress Queen (Season Series Prequel)

Chapter 2

The grandfather clock in the corner ticked away the time as Isabelle stood before the great oak desk in her father's study. Aunt Gilda had not had the patience to listen to Isabelle's excuses and instead of her usual routine of a sound tongue lashing followed by confinement to her bedchamber, this time the spinster had dragged Isabelle directly to her father's study. Unfortunately for Isabelle, the Duke of Kentshire was already in a foul mood upon her arrival, his dour look souring as Gilda rattled off his daughter's offenses.

"I find it hard to believe that Saint Mary's top student would allow a man to kiss her in public," he said, barely lifting his eyes from the papers he was poring over and signing. He'd kept her standing there for five and a half minutes and she had known better than to fidget for it would only have earned her a longer wait.

"Papa, we're engaged," Isabelle said, folding her arms as she collapsed into the chair opposite him, "And he only kissed my head!"

Her father raised unamused eyes towards her as the pair of them assumed their usual verbal sparring positions around his desk.

"You are my only daughter and the future Duchess of Kentshire. You should be setting an example for your people, not dallying about like some tavern wench," he said. The words stung, but Isabelle's mounting temper dampened their effect. Her aunt's meddling had already stoked her anger and she was not one to back down from a fight, especially not with a temperament so like her father's.

"I am the future Queen of Germania," Isabelle corrected icily, "And I hardly see how you can be angry that I've found love with the man you've arranged for me to marry!"

Her father pursed his lips but said nothing to contradict her, a reaction that sent a chill down Isabelle's spine. Normally they sparred until her father's temper reached its breaking point and he realized how foolish it was to argue with as headstrong a daughter as Isabelle, the pair of them apologizing once their heads had cooled. Their fights never lasted long as they only had each other, with the harsh words and raised voices remaining behind in the study and rarely following them down to dinner. The fact he even bothered to debate with her rather than simply ordering her around, like most noble fathers, was also likely because he recognized that Isabelle wasn't a brainless fool besotted with lace and ribbons, like most girls her age. Every time she'd returned home from school, he'd taught her something new to do with the running of the duchy, much as he would have if she'd been a boy. The first time he'd showed her how to balance a ledger, she'd laughed at him and pointed out that she was in skirts, but he'd hushed her with such fervour that she'd gone ahead and listened that time and every time that followed.

"You're not saying anything," Isabelle said finally, breaking the silence.

"No, I'm not. Because this says enough," he said, pushing a thick envelope towards her. The seal was already broken, but Isabelle could make out the duelling eagle and lion of the royal crest of Pretania etched in the cracked wax. She shot a wary glance at her father as she slid the letter out, but he'd steepled his fingers, his eyes on the paper.

Dear Francis,

Please be advised that your daughter, Isabelle de Haviland, is expected at Highcastle Palace by the end of the month to participate in Prince Graham's Royal Season. We recommend that you provide sufficient allowance and wardrobe should the Season last through until the new year. She-

"Didn't you tell them about Leopold?" Isabelle demanded, tearing her eyes from the page. She flung it way, not trusting her shaking hands to abstain from ripping it in two.

"I did," her father said, picking up the letter to run his eyes over it once more, "Though it seems that our king doesn't care much for foreign engagements."