4

Isabella could not believe her luck. The pompous jerk and the boorish oaf were the same. “Rise, fair child,” the King said with his arms wide. “And let me welcome you as a daughter.”

Isabella rose and came up the three short steps. His Majesty took her gloved hand in his and placed a kiss on the back of her knuckles. He was an older man of silvered hair and a thick grey beard. A little dumpy and draped in heavy layers of royal blue and white kingly robes — a red, royal sash over his shoulder and the heavy gold crown atop his head. Isabella offered him a smile. “I thank you, Your Majesty.”

The Queen wrapped her arms around Isabella in a warm hug. “You will be a fine addition to our family, my dear,” the older woman said with a bright smile.

“I shall try to be worthy of such an honour,” Isabella said, trying to hold the happy smile she did not feel.

She was then directed to her would-be husband. The smug smile on his handsome face annoyed her. Prince Pierre took her gloved hand in his and lifted it to his lips. “Enchanté Mademoiselle Donfey,” he said lasciviously. “Might you grace me with a dance?” He asked, knowing she could not refuse him.

She forced a demure smile and opened her fan. “Oh, your Majesty, nothing would please me more, but I do fear the excitement has me swooning. If you would bid me leave, I feel a frightful need for air,” she said ever so sweetly as she fanned herself.

“Of course, my dear. We may dance when you have recovered.” Pierre said, excusing her. The music resumed, and Philip took up a dance partner. Isabella used the distraction as a way to slip from the ballroom once more. She stepped out onto the veranda and followed the winding stone steps down into the exquisitely sculpted garden below.

The moon was bright, and the flowers were in full bloom. The sweet fragrance filled the air. The gardeners were skilled, she mused. Not one leaf was out of place. It must have taken hundreds of painstaking hours to make it perfect. In the center of the grand garden was a tall marble statue of lovers. Isabella paused to look at the marvellous sculpture. The artist had captured the emotion perfectly. She could almost feel the love between them.

Her heart sank as she thought of how she would never be so blessed as to experience love. So many nobles went all their lives, never knowing love. The poor did not realize how lucky they could be to marry for love. She would rather be poor and happy than wealthy and miserable, but she was born to a life of privilege and limitation.

“Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies,” a voice said from behind her. Isabella glanced over her shoulder and saw the Prince in the moonlight, a smile on his lips. She was impressed, as he quoted Aristotle.

“At a touch of love, everyone becomes a poet,” she shot back with a quote of her own.

“Ah, Plato,” He smiled with admiration. “You are well-read.”

“No matter how busy you may think you are, you must find time for reading or surrender yourself to self-chosen ignorance,” she said proudly.

“Confucius.”

She smiled and turned to face him. “I see you too are well-read, your Majesty.”

He took a step toward Isabella in a slow, relaxed stroll. “Women of your ink do not usually trouble themselves with philosophy.”

“My peers are usually satisfied with shiny bobbles and a trip to the modiste,” she said with intolerance. “I prefer to better myself.”

“A woman’s mind is not in fashion,” he smiled, taking another step toward her.

Offended, Isabella squared her shoulders and thrust her chin out defiantly. “I do not care for fashion, your Majesty. I am comfortable in my skin, and should that bother others. They may look away. I am fine with my own company,” she snapped.

“A sharp tongue lashing,” he smirked, amused by her ire. “How sweet it must taste,” he drawled, leaning in to kiss her.

Isabella snapped her fan open and lifted it in front of her face to shield herself from his unwanted affection. Their gaze met over the top of her fan. “Such familiarity would be improper, your Majesty; we are not yet wed.”

Amusement danced in his eyes as the stars above twinkled in the night sky. “Ah oui ma chérie, we are engaged. Certain leniencies are permitted,” he drawled.

She flashed him a playful smile and snapped her fan shut. “Perhaps, your Majesty, but you are known for pressing limits. It is best we do the honourable thing. Just being alone with you risks my reputation.”

“As my fiancé, your reputation is safe when finding that we have stolen a quiet moment to acquaint ourselves better,” he whispered. “You have nothing to fear.”

“With you, I have everything to fear. You threaten my very virtue.”

“Your virtue is mine to threaten,” he smiled mischievously.

“Not yet,” Isabella said and began strolling along the stone pathway. Her attempt to escape him was foiled, and the Prince chose to follow her back to the veranda. She climbed the stairs and paused outside the open doors listening to the music inside. She then turned to find the Prince but a few steps behind her. “Do you intend to follow me all evening?” She asked with some annoyance.

“That depends. Do you intend to flee the very sight of me all night,” it had been her intention, but it would seem her plan was failing. The Prince was adamant about sharing her time. “Perhaps that dance? The people wish to see their future Queen.”

She rolled her eyes at the very idea. “If I dance with you, will you leave me be afterwards?” She asked.

“Is my company so distasteful?” He asked.

Yes, she wanted to say, but instead, she replied. “Let us dispense with the sweet lies, shall we. Neither you nor I want this farce of a marriage. Unfortunately, we are both bound by duty. I will marry you, and I will bear you a child, as is my duty. You will rule your kingdom and sire an heir, as is your duty. I see little reason otherwise, why either of us must suffer the other,” with that note, Isabella walked away, and to her pleasure, the Prince did not follow her.