2

Isabella rode into her family estate and dismounted in front of the stables. Willy, her family’s stable hand, took her mare by the reins. He was an older man with long white hair and a frail body. He and his wife had worked for her family since before she was born. “My Lady, your brother, is looking for you. He is very angry,” Willie warned her as she removed her riding gloves.

“When is he not?” She smiled, trying to put the older man at ease.

With long strides, she headed for the manor. She mounted the steps as the door opened, the head maid holding the door. She was Willy’s wife, a plump woman of meagre means. Most of the staff had been discharged; only a handful stayed on. “The Duke is in his parlour. He wishes to see you the moment you arrived home,” the maid whispered. “He is in a foul mood.”

“Isn’t he always?” Isabella jested as she removed her riding cloak and passed it to the maid. “Do not worry, Marie; I can handle Philip.” Philip had come into his title just last year when their father died in a duel over his mistress. Their father had been a terrible gambler and a shameless philander, neither of which could tarnish the man’s reputation but would have destroyed the life of a good woman. The hypocrisy disgusted her. They had not realized just how bad their father’s debts were until he passed and left the burden on his children.

The shame of her husband’s death drove their mother to suicide shortly after, leaving Philip and Isabella alone and penniless. His illustrious title was all they had left. Philip would have to marry a wealthy nobleman’s daughter to rebuild his wealth, and he found both his sister and a wife to be a terrible burden. Since he could not do without a wealthy wife, he would do without her.

Isabella had been livid when she found that Philip had struck a deal to trade Isabella’s hand for a hefty infusion of funds. Isabella strolled into her brother’s parlour and found Philip seated in their father’s favourite wing-backed chair, drinking brandy. “You wished to see me, dear brother.”

Philip was four years her senior. Unprepared for his title and responsibility at such a young age. His dark hair was tied back, and despite their momentary state of poverty, he remained finely dressed in his tanned pantaloons and dark blue waistcoat. He was not an unattractive man but far too serious; Isabella was unsure if she had ever seen him smile. Phillip rose from his seat with annoyance in his eyes. “You have been riding again?” He said, eyeing the brush in her hair.

Isabella quickly did her best to remove it and set herself right. “I ride every day,” she said. “You know that.”

“You should not have gone out. You have far too many things to attend to this day,” he scolded.

“Do not fret; I will be prepared for my slave master as soon as I bathe and change,” she said bitterly.

“The crowned prince of France is hardly a slave master. Other girls would jump at the chance to wed the future king,” he said with annoyance at her lack of gratitude. He had made her a good match despite her penniless state. Her fine breeding and lineage were her biggest selling point.

However, Isabella did not see a forced marriage of convenience to be a blessing. She had seen how miserable marriage of convenience had made her mother, and she would have rather died a spinster than suffer a man she did not love. “Then I suggest you sell one of them.”

“I do not ask for your gratitude, you foolish child, just your compliance. When you are presented to his Majesty, you will be poised, polite, and demur,” he demanded.

“I shall be the pinnacle of propriety,” she assured him.

“Now, go prepare,” he demanded. “You must be at your best when you meet your future husband this evening,” Isabella did not say another word. She turned and left the parlour and started up the stairs to her rooms on the second floor.

Reaching her room, Isabella found her handmaid already preparing a bath for her return. Fran was the same age as Isabella and her best friend. Marie and Willy’s only daughter, she had been born into service and attended both Isabella and her mother. Fran was plain by many standards, uneducated but loyal and sweet. Her mousy blonde hair was always pulled back in a tight braid, and she always had a smile on her face.

“How was your ride, my Lady?” She asked as she added lavender oil to the water in the washtub.

“Invigorating until some self-important Lord frightened me off my horse,” she said, placing her riding gloves on the vanity and taking a seat. In all her eighteen years, Isabella had never encountered such an insufferable cad. She frowned when she saw the state of her hair in the looking glass.

Fran smiled and began to untie the back of Isabella’s riding habit. “A nobleman? Was he attractive?”

Isabella stared at her friend through the mirror with surprise. “Should it matter?”

Fran cocked her head as she freed Isabella from the confines of her dress. “If he were, you might take him for your lover when the pampered prince neglects you,” she teased.

Isabella gave a little chuckle; she was ashamed to admit that such thoughts had occurred to her. “As he is sure to do,” Isabella agreed, reaching for her brush and trying to brush the grass from her hair. “It would not matter this particular Lord was boorish,” however attractive. He had been with those bright blue eyes and muscled form. His long dark hair pulled back as he rode the countryside scandalously underdressed. But a handsome face could not make up for arrogance.

Fran assisted Isabella out of her dress and draped it over the chair to brush off the dirt. “Oh, dear, your dress is filthy.”

“I fell off my horse,” Isabella informed Fran as she stepped into the washtub and sunk deep into the warm water. She sighed with pleasure. The warm water soothed her sore muscles.

“Oh my, are you alright?” Fran asked, coming to the tub to help Isabella wash her long dark hair.

“I will be fine. Just some soreness,” she said, closing her eyes as Fran dumped warm water over her head to rinse away the soap. “I needed to feel free one last time before I became shackled in matrimony.”

“I’m sure it will not be all that bad. After all, you get to be queen one day,” Fran said, trying to brighten Isabella’s dark spirits.

“I cannot see it being worth the life of neglect and humiliation of his sexual exploits,” she had heard gossip that the young prince was a notorious philander leaving a trail of broken hearts across Europe. She could not imagine him changing his ways.

Fran rose from her task and walked over to the armoire. “His Lordship bought you a new gown for the ball this evening,” she said, removing an elegant golden gown of fine imported Chinese silk, with long loose sleeves and a high empress waistline that boosted her bust as the dress draped gracefully to the floor. “It is so beautiful,” Fran grinned, holding it up to herself for Isabella to judge.

“It is very lovely. It would look good on you,” Isabella smiled. “Perhaps we should trade places,” she teased, sinking farther into the water. She would give anything to avoid her fate, if even for a few more days.

But her fate would not wait, and the hour arrived quickly. Fran assisted her into her ball gown and brushed her hair, tying it back with golden ribbon and baby’s-breath, a diamond necklace draped around her neck. Isabella pulled her gilded slippers onto her tiny feet and headed downstairs to meet her brother. He was to escort her to the ball.

As always, Philip was at the height of fashion with his dark green waistcoat with silver embroidery and a matching vest. His cravat was perfectly tied, and his hair groomed most fashionably. “You look lovely this evening,” he said as he held up her black dress cloak.

Isabella refused to speak to the man who was selling her for profit. Her head held high, and her chin thrust out defiantly. Philip wrapped her cloak around her shoulders and offered Isabella his arm. She shot him a nasty glare and exited the manor without his escort. Outside, Willy had been dressed as a coachman. He offered his hand and assisted Isabella into the family coach. Philip climbed in and settled in the seat across from her.

“Your manners had best improve before we meet the King,” he warned as the coach pulled forward. Her manners would, but her disposition would not.