THE HEIRESS
EPISODE 09
From U.S Bah ❤ ✌?
“Oh, damn,” Isabelle muttered, watching as
Cora dropped her gaze to her plate, fuming.
Beside her, Violet had pressed her li-ps into a
line.
“That is most certainly not how we thank
people in Highcastle,” Graham said, glancing
down at her in amusement. Isabelle grimaced,
too hungry and short-tempered to play along.
“Thank you, your Highness, for escorting me in,
though I’m quite sure I can find my way on my
own now,” she managed throu-ghgritted teeth.
Graham chuckled.
“Did you really think I’d let you get away so
easily?” he asked, stopping in the middle of
the room to face her. Isabelle realized with a
sinking feeling that he’d chosen the exact sp-ot
that afforded each table a perfect view of the
pair of them.
“I suppose this is where you call me a foolish
little girl for hoping,” she said, watching him
warily. That devious grin lifted the corners of
his mouth.
“Perhaps, though I’d much prefer to continue
this conversation when your stomach isn’t
constantly interrupting us,” he said, his eyes
running down her figure again on their way to
her growling belly.
“Or I could curtsey and thank you before we go
our separate ways,” Isabelle suggested,
wishing that Graham would let her go so she
could eat. Around them, servants were placing
plate upon plate of food at each of the tables,
the smell of cooked bacon and warm bread
setting Isabelle’s mouth to watering.
“As I said, you aren’t getting such a favour
from me for nothing. But I’m feeling generous
this morning, so I’ll release you…for now,”
Graham said, his eyes dancing as he leaned
down to kis-s Isabelle’s hand in parting. “After
all, even prize cows must eat.
Have a
wonderful day, Miss de Haviland.”
Isabelle watched Graham’s retreating back,
anger simmering into an unpleasant mix with
the hunger in her stomach.
Growling anew, it
was her stomach that propelled her towards
Cora and Violet’s table, brushing off the
prince’s favourite insult.
“Good morning,” Isabelle smiled, casting a
glance around the table as she took her seat.
Violet was the only one to reply, her wide
brown eyes darting between Cora and Isabelle.
Across the table, Cora continued her
conversation with Henrietta Barclay, the pair of
them thorou-ghly ignoring Isabelle.
She had
expected as much from bitter, competitive
Cora, but that Henrietta was now shunning her
meant that Graham’s favour had just made
Isabelle’s life a little more difficult than she’d
anticipated. It was no secret that Henrietta, the
pretty redheaded daughter of the Duke of
Shefford, had been the most titled debutante at
court before Isabelle’s arrival.
Clearly Isabelle’s
proximity to the prince was doing her no
favours, instead earning her spiteful glares
whenever Henrietta happened to glance her
way.
With a shrug, Isabelle reached for the array of
breakfast foods before them. Her stomach
growled even as she ate, employing every
ounce of her willpower to stop herself from
shovelling down her food like some sort of
ruffian.
She ate as quickly as she dared,
however, aware of the queen’s pale eyes on
her.
Yes, Graham’s favour would come at a cost
indeed, she thought darkly.
“Goodness, it’s as if you haven’t eaten in
weeks,” Henrietta said, finally turning her
attention to Isabelle. The redhead had pushed
around a few slices of fruit on her plate, ba-rely
touching them.
“Since I arrived, to be exact,” Isabelle said
between mouthfuls. She fixed Henrietta with an
icy glare to match the one that the redhead
had fixed on her, holding it until the other girl
looked away in annoyance.
“A barbaric appetite to match her barbaric
origins,” Cora put in. Isabelle didn’t even
bother to look at her, rolling her eyes as she
speared a piece of sausage with her fork.
“Don’t pretend you wouldn’t cut off your own
hand to have my title, Cora,” Isabelle said.
“Call me whatever you like, but I am still the
future Duchess of Kentshire. And Queen of
Germania.”
That silenced the table, the other debutantes’
forks stilling on their plates.
“Well I would certainly be unimpressed if my
betrothed was throwing herself at some other
man,” Cora huffed.
Isabelle’s eyes leaped up
to meet hers.
“I beg your pardon?” Isabelle demanded,
setting down her fork and knife despite the
food still on her plate.
“I said, I would be unimpressed if my
betrothed was throwing herself at some other
man,” Cora said.
“Perhaps someone ought to
tell Prince Leopold exactly what you’ve gotten
up to here in Highcastle.”
“Cora…” Violet said, disappointment and pain
warring in the single word.
“Don’t you Cora me, Violet!” Cora snapped,
throwing her napkin down onto the table. “She
told us she was engaged and here she is,
waltzing with the prince and sauntering in with
him for breakfast.
I know a harlot when I see
one and, unfortunately for us, she’s sitting at
our table.”
Isabelle’s fist curled around her knife.
“Call me that name again,” Isabelle said
frostily, her heart hammering in her che-st.
“Which one? Harlot?” Cora repeated, co-cking
an eyebrow.
“You jealous little shrew,” Isabelle sneered. “To
think I had ever considered using my position
to help you.”
Cora swallowed, the rage briefly sli-pping from
her face to give way to panic. But it didn’t last
long before she narrowed her eyes.
“Lies,” she said, “Just like everything you
spout.”
“Ladies, I-” Violet started, but Henrietta
shushed her, too enraptured by the scene
unfolding before her.
“I made you a promise that I intended to keep,”
Isabelle said as evenly as she could despite
the anger coursing throu-ghher. “But now that I
see what kind of jealous, cutthroat dog you
really are, I have no reason to help you.”
Cora opened her mouth to speak, clamping it
closed as her eyes darted to the head table.
Swivelling around, Isabelle let out a groa-n.
The
queen was standing, commanding the attention
of the room while her eyes were still fixed on
Isabelle.
“Ladies, we will allow the gentlemen to
continue their breakfast in peace. You will all
follow me to my drawing room,” the queen
said, before sweeping from the room.
Isabelle sque-ezed her eyes shut, praying for
patience as she gobbled back the last bits of
food on her plate. Cora and Henrietta left the
table abruptly, exchanging whispers, while
Violet hung back.
“We should get going,” Violet said, when most
of the debutantes had filed from the room
behind the queen.
Isabelle nodded, still
chewing as she dabbed her mouth with her
napkin. When she stood, some invisible power
drew her eye to the head table.
As if the morning hadn’t been infuriating
enough, Prince Graham was watching her, a
maddening grin on his face as he looked from
her to her plate with raised eyebrows.
“Curse this infernal place,” Isabelle muttered
un-der her breath, hurrying after Violet.
They followed the rest of the debutantes and
ladies-in-waiting upstairs and de-eper into the old
palace, filing in to a room that positively
reeked of the queen’s stifling rosewater
perfume.
The room was dark despite the
summer sun outside, heavy red velvet dra-pe s
drowning the sunlight. The walls were painted
red and peppered with paintings of members
of the royal family, hung to cover nearly every
inch of available space. Yet more chintzy chairs
littered the room, with a raised dais off in a
corner. To Isabelle’s dismay, there was not a
bookshelf in sight.
She took a seat in a corner next to Violet, as
far from Cora’s glares as possible. Once they
had all taken seats, a trio of maids circled the
room, pa-ssing out decks of cards, board
games, and squares of embroidery and thread.
By the time they reached Isabelle and Violet,
all the games had been claimed, so they
settled for needlepoint.
“So are we now a simple pair of two?” Isabelle
asked eventually, the room filling with soft
piano music from a musician in the far corner.
Violet sighed.
“We can’t really blame her, can we?” Violet
asked. “It looks awful, Isabelle.”
“If I hadn’t been absolutely starving, I never
would have allowed him to escort me in for
breakfast!” Isabelle protested, her needle flying
throu-ghthe square.
“Well, Cora isn’t exactly the most
un-derstanding of people,” Violet said, twisting
her fingers in her skirts as she always had
back at school. “She was already angry last
night and it didn’t help matters that you
sauntered in with him this morning.”
Isabelle let out a sigh, punching her needle
throu-ghthe handkerchief so ha-rd she pricked
herself.
“I can’t spend all of my time here apologizing
to Cora when the prince and his mother have
clearly made it their mission to torment me,”
Isabelle said. “It’s not as if I’d asked him to
choose me! I was wearing my engagement
ring, for goodness’ sake! And besides, I left
straight afterwards. Surely that was scandalous
and embarra-ssing enough to appease Cora.”
“Somewhat,” Violet conceded, “But it only
added insult to injury that she thought he was
about to choose her for his first dance when
you drew his attention. He chose Henrietta
Barclay after you and only chose Cora third.”
“Then perhaps he was simply dancing with us
in order of station,” Isabelle said, su-cking on
her pricked finger. Violet hummed
noncommittally.
“I’m sure she’ll calm down in a day or two.
Besides, I think she should be happy that she
even danced with him.”
“He didn’t dance with everyone?” Isabelle
asked, resuming her embroidery with less
aggression.
“Hardly, he left halfway throu-ghthe ball,” Violet
said, her cheeks colouring as she ducked her
head. Isabelle frowned.
“All right, have out with it. Why are you
blus-hing like a bashful goose?” Isabelle
pressed. Violet shot her a worried glance
before ducking her head again.
“Only that…well, he wasn’t alone when he left,”
she managed, tripping over her words.
“Who was he with?” Isabelle asked, confused
as to why her friend was so embarra-ssed to
be spreading gossip when it clearly had
nothing to do with either of them.
“One of your ladies-in-waiting,” Violet
mumbled. Isabelle dropped her needlepoint
square, the frame clattering to the ground.
“One of his cousins?” she asked in disbelief.
Violet shook her head.
“No, the little brunette one,” Violet said.
Isabelle followed her gaze to where Alicia was
gossiping in whispers with Laura and Marjorie,
their embroidery forgotten on their lap-s, the
three of them clearly bitter that they’d missed
breakfast.
“Well that is certainly interesting,” Isabelle said,
her eyes on Alicia as she leaned down to
collect her needlepoint. “When you say that
they left, do you mean that they went out to the
gardens together?”
“No, they left throu-ghthe doors to the old
palace,” Violet said. “The other debutantes
were quite scandalized and the queen didn’t
look very pleased either.”
Isabelle’s eyes hopped over to the pallid
monarch who was thorou-ghly ignoring the lot
of them as she conversed with her ladies-in-
waiting. But one of the women, the one who
bore the closest resemblance to Laura and
Marjorie, kept glancing over at Isabelle’s
ladies-in-waiting, a frown creasing her pale
blond brows.
“How very interesting that the queen’s spy is
also the prince’s plaything,” Isabelle muttered,
returning her attention to her embroidery. If
she’d disliked Alicia before, she despised her
now. Was it some cruel joke of the queen’s,
saddling her with a lowborn harlot for a lady-
in-waiting? Or was there more afoot than
Isabelle had yet discovered?
To be continued…..