Graham's ruse worked.

As he'd warned, he arrived at dawn the next morning with the captain of his father's soldiers in tow. The prince was all formalities when Marcus greeted him, politely accepting Graham's request for an audience with the duchess. Isabelle made them wait while Lissa helped make her appear as haggard and exhausted as possible.

It wasn't too difficult a job, given that Isabelle's wounds still hadn't completely closed. She'd tossed and turned as she slept, accidentally re-opening her injuries in the night. She'd refused to change her bandages, preferring to use them as props for her act. Lissa powdered her face and neck to add to her pallor, careful to leave her bruises uncovered.

When Graham and the captain entered the room, Isabelle's heart soared when the prince fought a grin behind the other man's back. Isabelle had caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror before declaring herself ready, both glad that she looked so awful and hating to appear so disheveled and unkempt before the man she loved.

But the way his green eyes danced as the captain expressed his condolences for the late duke almost ruined Isabelle's act. Lissa thrust a handkerchief into her hands, shooting Isabelle a look to remind her of the part she was supposed to be playing.

With an exaggerated sob, Isabelle pressed the handkerchief to her face, sniffling and thanking the captain for his words. She grimaced as she handed the handkerchief back to her maid, making a great show of being unable to use her hands properly when she reached for the cup of water at her bedside. Lissa helped her drink, Isabelle wincing with each swallow before waving her maid away.

"I wish you a safe return journey," Isabelle said, coughing with yet another wince as she touched a hand to her throat. When she looked up at the captain, he wasn't quick enough to mask his horrified expression.

She covered her smile with another cough.

"Thank you, your Grace," Graham said, bowing. "We will not disturb you any longer."

The captain bowed in turn, wishing Isabelle a speedy recovery. When he turned on his heel to leave, Graham fixed her with a look so full of adoration it nearly had her tearing the blankets away so she could kiss him one last time. The prince winked before slipping out behind the captain, gently closing the door behind him.

Isabelle slumped back against her pillows, clinging to that last look of his as she fought the sadness seeping back into her thoughts. Lissa watched through the window for the prince and the captain to leave the castle grounds before allowing Isabelle to rise from her bed. Her maid helped tidy up her disheveled appearance before Isabelle called for the healers to dress her wounds and sent word to Marcus that she was ready to get to work.

Rather than allow the loneliness to suffocate her, Isabelle threw herself into running the duchy. The days turned into weeks as Marcus went through her father's affairs, educating Isabelle on all that had happened while she had been in Highcastle.

With the Winters' men still in Inverloch, their garrison was more than sufficient should Leopold renege on the treaty. Her father had stockpiled enough food to see them through until the spring, the garrison included. Lord Roxton, the Marquess of Eastcliffe had sent his condolences, along with a request for a meeting with Isabelle at her earliest convenience. He was not the only noble to do so, most of her liege lords sending similar letters requesting audiences.

Marcus counselled her to wait before accepting any of them, advising her instead to meet with Lord Winters first. He was their closest ally and had been the first to step in during their time of need. According to Marcus, Lord Roxton would most likely attempt to capitalize on Isabelle's youth and inexperience for his own benefit and slighting Lord Winters by seeing the Marquess of Eastcliffe first was not a wise move.  Marcus also warned her that her father had usually been caught between Kentshire's two neighbouring nobles, both Lord Winters and Lord Roxton frequently butting heads and forcing the late Duke Francis to act as a mediator.

Isabelle remembered Lord Roxton from her childhood, a blustering, red-faced man who too-often loosed his unflattering thoughts about the king when he'd drunk too much wine. Where Lord Winters was calm and calculating, Lord Roxton was impulsive and quick-tempered. He was a large, loud man that had barely ever spoken to her, but Isabelle now outranked him. Marcus wasn't certain how the Lord Roxton would handle such a shift in power, especially as the Marquess of Eastcliffe seemed to think that all women were pretty, dainty, brainless things.

The reality that she now outranked the vast majority of Pretanian nobles slowly settled onto Isabelle's shoulders as the days marched on towards the winter solstice. Two weeks after her father's passing, she resumed duke Francis' Sunday tradition of mediating her subjects' grievances. It was an exhausting affair, sitting atop Kentshire's throne after their weekly service with Father Hammond, listening to her people plead their cases before her. She kept Marcus close, frequently leaning in for his advice and any pertinent information he could provide. It tried her patience and her wisdom, but she did her best to be just and unbiased.

With so much on her shoulders now, she had little time to address the loneliness that constantly nipped at the edges of her thoughts. The evenings were the worst, once Marcus retired to his room and left Isabelle alone with the stacks of papers and letters she hadn't had time to address that day. She tried to distract herself with her work, but each night her mind refused to cooperate, instead drifting towards a city so many miles away.

Isabelle hadn't realized how accustomed she'd become to Graham's presence until her first night alone in her study. She discovered that she'd half-expected him to knock at her door, bearing desserts or a chessboard, much as he had at the palace. That realization alone had been enough to burst the floodgates, all the terrible thoughts of loss and loneliness that she'd buried into the deepest corners of her mind now boiling up to consume her. Try as she might, the resurfacing of her grief and pain slowly became a nightly ritual, one she dreaded very much. She told herself it would abate with time, but after nearly a week without any reprieve, she wondered if she would ever truly be whole again.

As if he'd predicted her struggles, Graham's first letter found her a week after his departure. The royal seal caught Isabelle by surprise, nestled in among the rest of her daily correspondence. The sight of her name in Graham's handwriting and the way the envelope smelled ever so faintly of his cologne nearly broke through her mental barriers, but by some miracle she retained her composure and put it aside for later. It served as a bright spot in her day, a treat to look forward to instead of the dread that usually consumed her at the thought of her evening alone.

When Marcus took his leave, Isabelle curled up in an armchair by the fire, breaking the seal with a smile.

My dearest prized cow,

I must first begin by congratulating you on your hidden talent. I hadn't the slightest inkling you were such a spectacular actress. Captain Horace painted a rather pitiful picture of you to my father, thanks mostly to your performance the morning of our departure. I doubt the king will give you much more trouble, now that he's convinced you've been sufficiently punished. Though it would still be wise to attend the council meeting at the Winter Solstice, for purely political purposes of course. Not at all because I miss the sight of you here in the palace.

I would say that you're also sorely missed here by the others, but that would be a lie. I was set upon by a pack of crazed debutantes the moment I set foot in the ballroom the night after my return. I thought it would be a kind nod to you to ask your friend Violet for my first dance, though I daresay Byron Fletcher thought differently. I think you would have quite enjoyed the look on his face. While it may not be my news to share, I think you'll appreciate a warning that Cora Neasmith is sporting a rare ruby ring on a very important finger. As a result, Henrietta Barclay now considers herself a shoo-in for the crown and it's taking all of my willpower not to let her know that my heart is many miles away, in Kentshire.

Not a morning has passed that I haven't wished to wake up in your castle and spend the day by your side, before settling in for a cozy dinner together. The only home I've ever known has been Highcastle Palace, but Inverloch has come closer to replicating that feeling than anywhere else.

Alas, I fear I've gone soft. Write back quickly, my love, with plenty of insults, or upon your return, you'll be faced with a lovesick, doe-eyed ninny rather than the dashing, arrogant prince you've fallen in love with.

I very much hope that will be soon.

Forever yours,

His Royal Highness the Turnip Farmer

Isabelle had to keep from crushing the letter to her chest, Graham's voice singing from the page as if he were there beside her, reading it aloud. A pang of longing engulfed her, drowning out the usual sorrow and grief that occupied her evenings. She missed him, terribly, but there was still so much to be done in Kentshire before she could even consider returning to Highcastle to accept Graham's proposal. At the thought of marrying him, however, a new worry crept into Isabelle's head.

Did she really want to become queen of Pretania?

She had been ready to assume the Germanian throne next to Leopold for the greater part of her adolescence, but she had fallen in love so hard and so quickly with Graham that she had never stopped to consider what being queen of her own country would entail. Germania was a great mystery, painted as a decidedly romantic, welcoming place thanks to Leopold's careful grooming of her young mind. Isabelle was now all-too familiar with Highcastle Palace and knew well enough that it was not a pleasant, kind, hospitable court that would welcome her with open arms.

She was also no stranger to King Charles' penchant for manipulation of his nobles, but as Graham's wife-to-be, the king's power over her would be hindered by his son. On the other hand, Queen Leonora was a cold, cruel witch of a woman and, if Isabelle were to accept Graham's proposal, she would be forced to live out her days at the older queen's elbow until Graham became king. It was a nauseating notion, but as Isabelle's eyes fell to the signature at the base of the letter, she knew that even Queen Leonora's vile queenscourt would not be enough to dissuade her.

The only thing that could change her mind was Kentshire.

She was the last surviving De Havilland and it was her duty to oversee and care for the duchy. What would become of her home if she ascended Pretania's throne was a question that required answering before she could ever agree to a marriage. If becoming queen meant abandoning her people to some jumped-up noble appointed by the king, she would bury her heart and force herself to give Graham up. Her father would have done the same, a notion that had guided her as she attempted to fill his shoes. Thankfully for Isabelle, however, the man that she loved was a plotter who had no doubt already formulated some sort of plan for such a circumstance.

There was only one way to find out, which was why she hastily crossed to her desk, smoothing out a fresh piece of paper and trimming her quill. The salutation of "My dearest turnip farmer" slid effortlessly across the page, a smile on Isabelle's face as she imagined Graham reading it.

**A/N: I was in such a rush to post this that I completely forgot to ask you all, once again, to take the time to vote and comment if you enjoyed it :) Also, because I was a maniac frantically typing this, please let me know if you spot any typos/errors! Thank you!!**