THE HEIRESS
EPISODE 11
From U.S Bah ❤✌?
“I’m so happy you’re here,” Isabelle muttered to
Sam as she tucked her napkin into her lap.
Cora had immediately pounced on the prince,
batting her lashes at him as she conversed
about whatever monotony she thought might
interest him. Henrietta Barclay repeatedly
attempted to interject, while Byron Fletcher
swirled his wine gla-ss moodily.
“Likewise,” Sam said, the jovial mask dropped
as he turned to her. “Do you have any idea
what you’re doing?”
Isabelle looked over at him in surprise.
“What do you mean? It’s not as if I asked to be
here,” she said.
“Yes, I a-ssumed as much when I received my
own summons to court,” Sam replied. “But I,
unlike you, am not betrothed.”
“Leopold knows, though he isn’t pleased,”
Isabelle said, shooting a glare towards the
head table where the king sat surrounded by
his cronies, his hag of a queen beside him.
“I wouldn’t be either, if my bride-to-be was off
in my enemy’s court, spending every waking
hour with its prince,” Sam said. When Isabelle
whirled back around to gape at him,
incredulous, he lifted an eyebrow.
“It’s not like I’m trying, Sam!” Isabelle hissed,
leaning towards him so Graham wouldn’t
overhear. “I didn’t want to be his choice of
dance partner, nor did I want him to escort me
to dinner tonight!”
Sam opened his mouth to reply, only to draw
himself back as the first course was deposited
before them.
“My, this soup smells delectable. I’ve always
enjoyed soup so very much. Do you enjoy
soup, your Highness?” Cora asked. Isabelle
stared flatly at her once-friend, wondering
whether she really thought the prince would
find such idiocy attra-ctive.
“How does that saying go? Simple things
amuse simple minds?” Graham asked no one
in particular.
Isabelle bit her li-p to keep from
laughing aloud as Cora nearly choked on her
soup, horrified.
“I think the soup is wonderful,” Sam replied
evenly. Isabelle looked around at him with a
frown, only to get a shrug in response as he
eyed Cora.
“You would, wouldn’t you?” Graham chuckled.
“You know, Sam, you’re quite the gentleman for
a highland brute.”
“That’s how I was raised, your Highness,” Sam
replied, that easy smile on his face while
something flinty sparked in his grey eyes.
Isabelle swallowed a spoonful of her own
soup, longing to stop on Graham’s foot for
insulting Sam so blatantly. Across the table, a
smile had cracked Byron Fletcher’s surly face.
“You mean they have manners all the way up
there?” Byron put in, taunting Sam. “I heard that
they’d only just discovered the flame in your
backwoods of a lordship.”
At that, Isabelle tou-ched Sam’s forearm,
watching Byron warily as Sam’s fingers edged
towards his knife. The Winters men were
known for their quick tempers and tendency to
brawl away their arguments, something which
wasn’t unheard of up north in Sam’s lands, but
which would be highly frowned upon in
Highcastle Palace’s dining room.
“Tsk tsk, Byron,” Graham said, his green eyes
sliding away from Isabelle’s hand, where
Leopold’s diamond still glittered. “Your family
isn’t much more than a pa-ssel of jumped-up
sailors.
If they hadn’t crashed a ship into the
New World, you’d be hauling cargo on the
docks like your dear old great-granddad.”
The tension at the table thickened into mud,
Cora and Henrietta exchanging horrified
glances as Byron ba-red his teeth in a grimace.
Graham, however, was decidedly unperturbed,
returning his focus to his soup. Beside
Isabelle, irritation was rolling off Sam in
waves, his hand sliding even closer to his
knife.
“How fortunate, then, that we did crash said
ship,” Byron managed, na-ked hatred in his eyes
as a dangerous smile lit his face. “Especially
for you, your Highness. I daresay Highcastle
has greatly benefitted from us jumped up
sailors, as you call us.”
Graham fixed Byron with a decidedly
unimpressed look.
“Must I really stro-ke your fragile ego at dinner,
Byron? Or are you sullen because none of
these lovely ladies are remotely interested in
you?”
Henrietta’s soup spoon clattered into her bowl,
her pretty mouth agape before she snapped it
shut. Cora was staring down into her soup with
raised eyebrows, tension in every line of her
face.
“Graham, I would thank you to remember-”
Byron started, slamming his spoon down.
“Oh hush, Byron. I’ll remember what I please
about you and your family, just as I’ll remind
you to remember whom you are addressing.”
The table fell silent as Byron paled, Graham’s
steely green-eyed gaze holding his.
“Of course, your Highness,” Byron amended, his
terror and his temper openly warring on his
face.
“That’s better,” Graham said, tearing his eyes
from Byron to nod at a servant. The bowls
were cleared almost instantaneously, Cora
hastily dropping her spoon before she’d even
swallowed her mouthful as her bowl was
swept off the table. Her appetite gone thanks
to the knot of tension coiled in her gut,
Isabelle fixed a wary look on Graham, keenly
aware that Sam’s hand was still resting near
his knife.
“As exhilarating as it is to publicly put Byron in
his place, I think it’s time we turned our
conversation to something a bit more
enjoyable for the rest of you,” Graham said,
patting his li-ps with his napkin before fishing
something out of his jacket pocket.
“Miss de Haviland had asked me whether there
were any other debutantes I could torment in
her stead,” Graham continued, the ghost of a
smile flitting across his face as he repeated
Isabelle’s words, turning to her.
“Perhaps you
could a-ssist me in deciding which of said
debutantes deserves my invitation to the ballet
tomorrow.”
Across the table, Cora straightened.
Graham handed Isabelle the envelope, “By
invitation of His Royal Highness, Prince
Graham of Pretania” written in looping, gilded
calligraphy on the front. Isabelle turned it over
in her hands as she turned Graham’s question
over in her head. Acutely aware of the intensity
of Cora’s gaze, Isabelle couldn’t help but
glance over to where Violet was miserably
staring down into her soup.
If she gave the invitation to Cora, it would be a
step towards repairing their friendship, though
her friend had hardly done anything to deserve
it. Giving the invitation to Violet would surely
earn her quiet friend more notice from the
other men, but it would mean that she would
be for-ced to endure Prince Graham for the
entirety of a ballet. Given that a mere dinner
with the prince had degenerated into a mess of
slung insults and poisonous words before the
main course had even been served, Isabelle
doubted whether Violet would last an entire
ballet before bursting into tears un-der
Graham’s prodding.
“Cora Neasmith would be a fine choice, your
Highness,” Isabelle said, handing back the
invitation. One of Graham’s eyebrows hopped
up in surprise before his features schooled
themselves back into his trademark arrogant
half-grin.
“Very well. Miss Neasmith, would you
accompany me tomorrow night?” Graham
asked, turning to Cora.
“Yes, of course,” Cora said breathlessly, so
overeager that she nearly interrupted him.
Beaming, she accepted the invitation with
reverence. As the servants slid their main
courses onto the table before them, Cora
caught Isabelle’s gaze from across the table.
He friend nodded almost imperceptibly,
something thawing in her blue eyes.
~*~
“I need you to do me a favour,” Isabelle
whispered, as Sam helped her from her chair at
the end of dinner. The rest of the evening had
pa-ssed far less turbulently than the beginning,
Cora’s desperation vanishing to reveal her
usual, conversational self now that she’d
secured Prince Graham’s ballet invitation.
She’d successfully steered their dinner talk
away from touchy subjects, easily smoothing
over Byron’s injured pride by chatting with him
over the newest perfumes his shipping
company had imported from the East, while
preempting any further outbursts by the crown
prince. Henrietta was the only one whose
panicked look hadn’t eased as the evening
progressed, her gaze constantly darting over to
the invitation sitting casually beside Cora’s
wine gla-ss.
“Yes, I’d love to escort you to the ballet,” Sam
said, grinning.
“Not me, Violet Harwood,” Isabelle said, fixing
her eyes on her brunette friend as an unknown
man escorted her out of the dining room
ahead of them.
“Who’s Violet Harwood?” Sam asked,
confused.
“A very close friend of mine that I was
attempting to introduce you to earlier,” Isabelle
replied. “I think the two of you would get along
quite well.”
Sam made a noncommittal noise in his throat.
“You said it yourself, you’re not betrothed, so
what’s the harm in spending an enjoyable
evening at the ballet with one of my friends?”
Isabelle asked.
“I was hoping to ask another friend of yours,
but she accepted the prince’s invitation
instead,” Sam said as they exited the dining
room.
“Cora?” Isabelle blurted out. “Sam, please tell
me you’re joking.”
He shrugged.
“You thought she deserved the prince’s
invitation,” he said, “Doesn’t that make her
worthy of my attention as well?”
Isabelle sighed, fighting back her frustration.
“Cora is many things, Sam, but a sweet, kind
woman who would make you happy is not one
of them,” Isabelle said. Sam gr-unted again, this
time earning himself an elbow into his side.
“Easy, la-ss! I’ll ask Violet,” he grumbled. “But
what of you? Don’t you want to go to the ballet
as well?”
“I could do with an evening away from the
charms of our crown prince,” Isabelle said,
watching as Cora threw her head back with
laughter, her arm entwined with Graham’s just
ahead of them.
“un-derstandable,” Sam nodded. He paused,
ready to kis-s her hand in farewell as all the
other men prepared to take their leave to the
smoking room.
“Come, I’ll introduce you,” Isabelle said,
dragging Sam towards where Violet was
standing in the corner, looking around for a
friendly face. Upon noticing Isabelle dragging
the big redhead her way, Violet blus-hed.
“We were interrupted before,” Isabelle said,
throwing on a smile, “But Violet, this is Sam
Winters. Sam, this is Violet Harwood.”
As Sam released Isabelle so he could kis-s her
friend’s hand in greeting, Violet fixed Isabelle
with a smile so relieved it nearly broke her
heart. As Sam struck up a polite conversation
with Violet, asking her whether she’d enjoyed
her dinner, someone tou-ched Isabelle’s elbow.
Looking around, Isabelle couldn’t keep the
surprise from her face as Byron Fletcher stood
beside her, his surly face unreadable.
“May I help you, Mr. Fletcher?” Isabelle asked.
His jaw muscle twitched in his cheek before
he bowed before her.
“I have been instructed to ask you to the ballet
tomorrow night,” Byron said flatly, “By order of
the crown prince.”
Isabelle felt her shoulders sag as she caught
Prince Graham watching her from across the
room, his arrogant grin spread wide across his
face.
To be continued….