The grandfather clock in the corner ticked away the time as Isabelle stood before the great oak desk in her father's study. Aunt Gilda had not had the patience to listen to Isabelle's excuses and instead of her usual routine of a sound tongue lashing followed by confinement to her bedchamber, this time the spinster had dragged Isabelle directly to her father's study. Unfortunately for Isabelle, the Duke of Kentshire was already in a foul mood upon her arrival, his dour look souring as Gilda rattled off his daughter's offenses.

"I find it hard to believe that Saint Mary's top student would allow a man to kiss her in public," he said, barely lifting his eyes from the papers he was poring over and signing. He'd kept her standing there for five and a half minutes and she had known better than to fidget for it would only have earned her a longer wait.

"Papa, we're engaged," Isabelle said, folding her arms as she collapsed into the chair opposite him, "And he only kissed my head!"

Her father raised unamused eyes towards her as the pair of them assumed their usual verbal sparring positions around his desk.

"You are my only daughter and the future Duchess of Kentshire. You should be setting an example for your people, not dallying about like some tavern wench," he said. The words stung, but Isabelle's mounting temper dampened their effect. Her aunt's meddling had already stoked her anger and she was not one to back down from a fight, especially not with a temperament so like her father's.

"I am the future Queen of Germania," Isabelle corrected icily, "And I hardly see how you can be angry that I've found love with the man you've arranged for me to marry!"

Her father pursed his lips but said nothing to contradict her, a reaction that sent a chill down Isabelle's spine. Normally they sparred until her father's temper reached its breaking point and he realized how foolish it was to argue with as headstrong a daughter as Isabelle, the pair of them apologizing once their heads had cooled. Their fights never lasted long as they only had each other, with the harsh words and raised voices remaining behind in the study and rarely following them down to dinner. The fact he even bothered to debate with her rather than simply ordering her around, like most noble fathers, was also likely because he recognized that Isabelle wasn't a brainless fool besotted with lace and ribbons, like most girls her age. Every time she'd returned home from school, he'd taught her something new to do with the running of the duchy, much as he would have if she'd been a boy. The first time he'd showed her how to balance a ledger, she'd laughed at him and pointed out that she was in skirts, but he'd hushed her with such fervour that she'd gone ahead and listened that time and every time that followed.

"You're not saying anything," Isabelle said finally, breaking the silence.

"No, I'm not. Because this says enough," he said, pushing a thick envelope towards her. The seal was already broken, but Isabelle could make out the duelling eagle and lion of the royal crest of Pretania etched in the cracked wax. She shot a wary glance at her father as she slid the letter out, but he'd steepled his fingers, his eyes on the paper.

Dear Francis,

Please be advised that your daughter, Isabelle de Haviland, is expected at Highcastle Palace by the end of the month to participate in Prince Graham's Royal Season. We recommend that you provide sufficient allowance and wardrobe should the Season last through until the new year. She-

"Didn't you tell them about Leopold?" Isabelle demanded, tearing her eyes from the page. She flung it way, not trusting her shaking hands to abstain from ripping it in two.

"I did," her father said, picking up the letter to run his eyes over it once more, "Though it seems that our king doesn't care much for foreign engagements."

"I'm not going," she said, crossing her arms once more. Her father sighed.

"I'm afraid you don't have much of a choice, darling," he said gently.

"I'm staying here until Leopold returns from Ardalone," she said firmly, "And after that, we're getting married and I'm going to Rhysalia."

She met her father's stare with one of her own, determined to hold her ground despite the decision already lurking behind his blue eyes.

"Your king has requested your presence," he said, "And the last thing I need is him levying more taxes because you couldn't show your face at a few balls and parties."

"I'm not going to some other palace to dance with some other prince when I'm already engaged!" Isabelle shouted.

"Yes, you are!" her father said, standing, "Because you can handle a few months in Highcastle better than Kentshire can handle more taxes! We're barely projected to harvest enough to keep the peasants fed for the winter. Do you really expect me to disrespect the king so overtly and risk giving him even the slightest reason to starve our people with more taxes? All so you can sit here by the fire and read books and practice your needlework until your white knight rides back from Ardalone?"

His words gave her pause, their blue-eyed stares still facing off even as he towered over her.

"If you make me do this, I'll march into that palace and wave this in all their pompous faces," Isabelle said finally, holding up her bejewelled left hand. Her father broke the tension with a bark of a laugh, settling himself back in his chair.

"Please do," he said, "And mind that you stay away from the prince. The last thing I need is the next Helen of Troy for a daughter."

"That won't be any trouble at all," Isabelle muttered. Silence settled over them as her father reached for his quill, resuming his signatures as his daughter brooded.

Of course he was right. She could throw as many tantrums as she wanted, but whether she spent the few months that Leopold was away in Kentshire or in Highcastle made absolutely no difference at all. She'd gone over the harvest numbers with her father on one of her first days after graduating, so she knew that he wasn't lying about the harvest projections. The unusually dry summer had wreaked havoc on the crops they depended on to carry the peasants through the winter. More taxes from the king would mean less food for the people and, as much as she hated the idea of Highcastle Palace, she hated the idea of her people starving even more.

So she would go, but not willingly. If they thought they could summon her like some trained dog, heedless of the marriage treaty her father had signed so many years ago, she would show them a thing or two about how the heiress of Kentshire was to be treated.

"I suspect you'll want me to break the news to dear Leopold," her father said eventually, tearing her from her thoughts. Isabelle's stomach swooped as she imagined how her betrothed would take the news.

Leopold's hatred of Prince Graham was legendary, the pair of them loathing each other so thoroughly that neither had ever been on a diplomatic visit to the other's country. Leo said it all stemmed from a rather unfortunate incident when they were youngsters, when the evil Pretanian prince had chucked Leo's youngest brother into a well to stop the boy from pestering him. The princeling had survived, but diplomatic relations between Pretania and Germania had been tense ever since. Leo would be beside himself with anger when he learned that Graham had the gall to make a debutante of his wife-to-be.

"There is an alternate solution," Isabelle said, tracing the edge of the desk with her finger, "If we were to marry before Leo leaves, I- "

"No," her father said, his quill stopping mid-signature.

"Why not?" Isabelle demanded, rising to pace before him, "Married women can't be debutantes, which means I wouldn't be disobeying the king's orders. He would have no reason to tax us that you couldn't argue down before the council!"

"You are not getting married because I don't think you should be. Not yet, at least," her father said, "And don't bother asking me why, because that's all there is to it!"

With an angry growl, Isabelle threw her hands up in the air.

"So that's it then? We sit down and allow the king to stomp all over us?" she demanded.

"Yes, Isabelle, we do. Because one day, when you do marry Leopold, I will be telling King Charles that Kentshire and all its lands will be changing allegiance to Germania. You cannot marry him right away because I haven't amassed enough men-at-arms to secure the castle and protect the people from whatever retaliation Charles flings our way. As it stands now, he would kill us both and install one of his cronies in our seat, which I'm sure you can understand is not in either of our best interests!"

Isabelle chewed her lip as she sank back into her chair. Her father's quill scratched in the silence, the papers fluttering as he shuffled through them, scanning each before signing or stamping it. She'd known that her marriage was tantamount to a declaration of war, but Leo had always reassured her that he would defend her home as staunchly as if it were his own. Her father was right, again; If they married now, Leopold wouldn't be able to leave his men in Kentshire, not when he needed them to escort him through the notoriously rebellious Ardalone. Kentshire was far closer to Highcastle than it was to Rhysalia, which meant that it would have to stand on its own for at least a week before Germanian reinforcements arrived.

With a sigh, Isabelle mentally conceded that her father's logic was sound.

"I'll go then," she said, her father's eyes lifting from his papers, "But only if you promise me one thing."

"Name it and I'll consider," he said, his blue eyes glittering with the smile he didn't allow to curve his lips.

"You won't punish me if I spit in Prince Graham's face during our first dance," she said. At that, her father leaned back in his chair, chuckling.

"Darling, if you do that, there won't be a thing I can do to stop them from locking you in irons," he said, shooting her a wink, "But I'll be sure send the cavalry to rescue you."

~*~

Leopold left the next morning, though he was so thoroughly enraged that Isabelle would have missed him if her ladies' maid, Lissa, hadn't awakened her. He hadn't turned up for dinner and her father had been in an even fouler mood as he'd taken his seat at the head of the table. When the food was served and the place opposite her remained vacant, she knew that her father had gotten around to telling her betrothed about her summons to the royal court. She'd tried to find Leopold after suffering through a sullen, silent dinner, but her search of the castle proved fruitless. If it hadn't been for Lissa, Leopold would have ridden off into the dawn without another word, but Isabelle refused to allow them to part on such sour terms.

She'd scampered out of bed, tugging on the first dress she could find as she raced down to the stables. Most of Leo's men were already mounted, muttering to each other in Germanian as she wove through them, seeking out her prince. The air was crisp, filled with the heady scent of horses and mud.

"There you are," she said, upon discovering her betrothed talking in whispers with his captain of the guard.

"You should be sleeping," Leo said, dismissing the other man with a nod. He made a show of tugging at his riding gloves, the corners of his mouth tugged down in a frown as he avoided her gaze.

"Not if you plan on sneaking off before I get a proper goodbye," she pouted, "Why did you miss dinner?"

"Because I've had enough of your father and his empty promises," Leo said, turning away from her to fuss with the saddlebags already strapped to his great, black horse. A few paces away, the captain of the guard mounted his horse, shouting in Germanian for the rest of the men to mount up.

"His hands are tied, Leo," Isabelle said, folding her arms against both the chill in the air and her fiancé's demeanor, "Unless you can leave your men to defend Kentshire while you're away."

"Yes, he made that point already," Leo said through gritted teeth, a hardness she'd never noticed before in his brown eyes as he turned to face her, "And I still think it is a most pitiful excuse to delay our marriage."

"Then hurry home," Isabelle said, straightening the collar of his riding jacket if only so she could touch him, "Because the sooner you return, the sooner your men can defend my homeland and we can be married."

Leopold stilled her hands with his own, his leather gloves cold against her bare fingers in the chilly, pre-dawn air.

"Promise me that you won't let them change your mind," he said, the irritation gone from his voice as his expression softened. She smiled as he cupped her face with a hand.

"Nothing could change my mind about you," she said, "And I promise that should the occasion ever arise, I'll stuff Prince Graham down a well for you."

That earned the tiniest of smiles from Leopold, who pulled her in for a kiss before releasing her.

"We must be off if we're to make our ship out of Eastcliffe tomorrow," he said, swinging up atop his mount, "But I'll write to you."

He rode past her, leading his men out of the castle walls with barely a parting look as the pink sun crested the horizon.