She suppressed a groan for the umpteenth time since her aunt's less than welcome arrival in her room.

Her aunt, Marchioness Emily Beatrice Hastings, was every bit the imposing figure she had imagined her to be. Imagined, because her aunt had never quite interfered in her life until now, and even when father had bequeathed the responsibility of Eliza's marriage to her, she hadn't taken the pains to take her to new parties and introduce her to new social circles.

Not that she had minded in the least.

But this was beyond her. It had been four whole hours since her aunt had been draping her in new silk every minute, then discarding it, picking another, and repeating the process till her entire wardrobe had been laid out in the room.

At present, her aunt was roaming a critical eye on the heap of dresses before her, while Eliza herself was busy tucking in the delicious, mouth-watering lunch. She didn't dare offer it to her aunt, lest she should have to suffer another round of preaching on 'good and ladylike social conduct'. Her governesses all through these years had failed in instilling the one thing in her, obedience, and her aunt was trying her hands at it, which would, at the end meet the same fate as the earlier attempts had met-failure.

As for her ladies maid, well, all she did was stand in one corner and perform the tasks her aunt was throwing at her time and again. Verena hadn't been able to utter a word since aunt's arrival, quite overwhelmed by the authoritative figure her aunt posed as. Eliza felt a pang of pity for the poor girl, because she herself was having problems digesting all that her aunt was.

But she couldn't do anything. She had a hundred questions swirling in her head, but for the moment, she had eased her curiosity and focussed all her energies on how to deal with her aunt.

"Elizabeth, I had personally written to your father to provide you with a completely new wardrobe, with dresses of the latest fashion, and this is all the Duke of Yardwell could manage to get! How very disappointing," her aunt sighed. "But then he is the father, and certainly not the ideal one to expect to provide newest fashion from. I had told your father that I was coming over to help you with all this, but he wouldn't listen! Oh, what to do now, what to do?" 

Her aunt was now pacing about the room, murmuring to herself.

Well aunt, that's because he hadn't told his daughter of her impending journey till a day prior. She desired to say this to her aunt, but chose silence. After all, she didn't want to see her father dead, now, did she?

Marchioness Emily Beatrice Hastings had two daughters and a son, of whom two were married, and another daughter, who happened to be Eliza's favourite cousin, had chosen spinsterhood. Marquess John Hastings had a vast estate, up in the northernmost territory of Demonire, and very deep pockets. But they were that rare couple who, in the strict world of nobility hadn't married out of duty, but of love. Yes, someone had been mad enough to actually fall in love with her aunt and willingly agree to handle all that Emily Beatrice Hastings was.

Eliza let out a chuckle at the thought. She commiserated with her uncle completely, and with their children as well. At the mention of her aunt's children, a thought occurred to Eliza.

"Aunt, has Catherine accompanied you to Warnia?"

"Oh yes, she has. Spinsterhood doesn't necessarily mean that she must be barred from attending festivities, dear," her aunt answered, still rummaging through the lot of the dresses.

She smiled devilishly.

Well, she might not be quite alone in her adventures in this infernal kingdom, after all.

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Thomas was stalking the length of his room, with a deep frown etched on his forehead.

He couldn't believe his fate, and what his father had brought upon him. Even while living his last days, he hadn't relinquished his hold on the kingdom and it's politics. He had known of his father's ambitions, but had realized it's extent now. He abruptly stopped pacing and ran his hands through the hair.

"This! This is the advantageous bride the king has chosen for me. Christ, she is not even the duchess! She is the daughter of the Duke of Yardwell, just another member of the nobility. This is nonsense Theo, madness even. I can't marry her, not in this birth for sure."

Theodore Arnold Bernio, the young Conde of a vast estate in Warnia and the Crown Prince's best friend, shook his head dissuasively.

"She is from Demonire, Thomas. Think about it. She is the only daughter of the Duke, and the Demonirian law has a clear distinction for the Yardwell estate's inheritance wherein even the heiress can inherit and govern its lands. If you marry her, the rich lands would be Warnia's, Thomas!" he said.

But Thomas wasn't interested in politics. He didn't beg for a season from the king just to be played by the strings of politics. 'Focus more on Duchess Elizabeth' was nothing but a veiled order from the king to make her the future queen of Warnia. Make her his wife. During the breakfast, the King had subtly nodded in her direction for him to know his target.

But he wasn't going to do that. The woman wasn't what he desired in a wife. She wasn't obedient, neither demurely beautiful, and certainly not docile. She was fierce, too fierce for his liking. She didn't have any makings of an ideal woman. And his ego couldn't handle that.

The chance meeting in the corridor prior to the breakfast had made him aware of that.

Theodore, as if reading his thoughts sighed and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Thomas, she doesn't need to be as bad as you think. Don't be so quick as to judge her just now. At least make efforts to know her. You never know what the future holds, my friend."

Yes, the future was unknown. And for him, bleak even. The future king of Warnia couldn't even command his own life. He chuckled darkly at the thought.

Miserable, that's what his life was under the cloak of luxury and power.

Utterly, totally miserable.

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