The Heiress Queen (Season Series Prequel)

Chapter 48

It had been a very near thing, arriving on time. Isabelle had torn through the streets of Highcastle, racing against the clock and all the delays they'd faced on the road. Lady Winters had not been as frail a traveller as they had expected, which meant that they'd only been able to overtake the Umberwood party much closer to Highcastle than Isabelle had hoped.

She, Lissa, and her guards had arrived at much the same time as the carriages for the ball, which had clogged the palace courtyard and had pushed Isabelle to the brink of losing her mind with frustration. In the end, she and Lissa had abandoned their horses with her guard, snatching up a palace footman to haul her belongings up to her old suite for her.

The one thing that seemed to have gone right was that a fire was happily crackling in the grate of her old debutante suite, chasing away the chill and helping hasten her preparation for the ball. She'd barely stepped into her dress when the music started playing, lilting wisps of a waltz floating up to them from the ballroom. It had ignited a new sense of urgency in Isabelle as thoughts of Graham's letter spurred her to hurry. She'd washed and changed out of her travel clothes into her ball finery as quickly as she could. Lissa had hastily combed back the mess of her hair into a chignon, but Isabelle didn't much care what she looked like, so long as she was presentable. In an act of defiance, she'd removed the ribbon around her neck hiding her scar, choosing to wear only her family tiara as jewels.

With a final glance at the clock, Isabelle had stifled a yelp, rushing from the room. The clocktower chimed eleven as she ran, her corset digging into her ribs as she sprinted as quickly as her heeled slippers could carry her. The hallways were dark and empty, all the light and life of the palace concentrated in the ballroom, where Graham was waiting for her.

She hoped she wasn't too late.

Skidding to a halt in the entrance hall, she caught her breath as she waited for the herald to announce her. Still panting, she craned her neck to search the sea of nobles, hunting for the head of sandy curls as her name was announced. Panic mounted inside of her when she noticed the queen sitting alone on her throne, her eyes racing over the assembled guests until finally, finally landing upon the one she'd come for.

She couldn't help but smile at the look on his face. As he turned away from a shocked Henrietta Barclay, it took all of her willpower not to dash down the steps and throw herself into his arms. The space vanished between them as the crowd parted before him while she descended the stairs.

Graham looked every inch the prince that evening, in a white formal jacket with glittering gold buttons. A crimson sash cut across his broad chest to match his crimson trousers, the golden royal insignia pinned at his chest.

But what stopped Isabelle's heart in a most spellbinding way was not his attire, but the look in his green eyes: it was the very same one he'd worn in Kentshire, that windy dawn atop the castle ramparts.

"Good evening, Isabelle," he said, bowing before her.

"Good evening, Graham," she said, curtseying. She was utterly unable to fight her smile, the tug in her stomach narrowing the world to nothing but the two of them.

"Does this mean that you have an answer for me?" he asked, unable to tear his eyes from her face, a sight he'd missed so sorely it was almost painful.

"Yes," she said, that ravishing smile growing, her blue eyes thawed and warm.

His hand was halfway to his pocket before the next words left her perfect lips.

"But there's something I need to tell you first," she said.

His hand stilled as he felt himself lean away from her, the ring suddenly as weighty as a brick in his pocket.

"And that is?" he asked slowly, aware that every inch of his body had gone taut as he awaited her reply. Whatever relief he'd felt had vanished, caution etched into every line of his body.