"I'm so happy you're here," Isabelle muttered to Sam as she tucked her napkin into her lap. Cora had immediately pounced on the prince, batting her lashes at him as she conversed about whatever monotony she thought might interest him. Henrietta Barclay repeatedly attempted to interject, while Byron Fletcher swirled his wine glass moodily.

"Likewise," Sam said, the jovial mask dropped as he turned to her. "Do you have any idea what you're doing?"

Isabelle looked over at him in surprise.

"What do you mean? It's not as if I asked to be here," she said.

"Yes, I assumed as much when I received my own summons to court," Sam replied. "But I, unlike you, am not betrothed."

"Leopold knows, though he isn't pleased," Isabelle said, shooting a glare towards the head table where the king sat surrounded by his cronies, his hag of a queen beside him.

"I wouldn't be either, if my bride-to-be was off in my enemy's court, spending every waking hour with its prince," Sam said. When Isabelle whirled back around to gape at him, incredulous, he lifted an eyebrow.

"It's not like I'm trying, Sam!" Isabelle hissed, leaning towards him so Graham wouldn't overhear. "I didn't want to be his choice of dance partner, nor did I want him to escort me to dinner tonight!"

Sam opened his mouth to reply, only to draw himself back as the first course was deposited before them.

"My, this soup smells delectable. I've always enjoyed soup so very much. Do you enjoy soup, your Highness?" Cora asked. Isabelle stared flatly at her once-friend, wondering whether she really thought the prince would find such idiocy attractive.

"How does that saying go? Simple things amuse simple minds?" Graham asked no one in particular. Isabelle bit her lip to keep from laughing aloud as Cora nearly choked on her soup, horrified.

"I think the soup is wonderful," Sam replied evenly. Isabelle looked around at him with a frown, only to get a shrug in response as he eyed Cora.

"You would, wouldn't you?" Graham chuckled. "You know, Sam, you're quite the gentleman for a highland brute."

"That's how I was raised, your Highness," Sam replied, that easy smile on his face while something flinty sparked in his grey eyes. Isabelle swallowed a spoonful of her own soup, longing to stop on Graham's foot for insulting Sam so blatantly. Across the table, a smile had cracked Byron Fletcher's surly face.

"You mean they have manners all the way up there?" Byron put in, taunting Sam. "I heard that they'd only just discovered the flame in your backwoods of a lordship."

At that, Isabelle touched Sam's forearm, watching Byron warily as Sam's fingers edged towards his knife. The Winters men were known for their quick tempers and tendency to brawl away their arguments, something which wasn't unheard of up north in Sam's lands, but which would be highly frowned upon in Highcastle Palace's dining room.

"Tsk tsk, Byron," Graham said, his green eyes sliding away from Isabelle's hand, where Leopold's diamond still glittered. "Your family isn't much more than a passel of jumped-up sailors. If they hadn't crashed a ship into the New World, you'd be hauling cargo on the docks like your dear old great-granddad."

The tension at the table thickened into mud, Cora and Henrietta exchanging horrified glances as Byron bared his teeth in a grimace. Graham, however, was decidedly unperturbed, returning his focus to his soup. Beside Isabelle, irritation was rolling off Sam in waves, his hand sliding even closer to his knife.

"How fortunate, then, that we did crash said ship," Byron managed, naked hatred in his eyes as a dangerous smile lit his face. "Especially for you, your Highness. I daresay Highcastle has greatly benefitted from us jumped up sailors, as you call us."

Graham fixed Byron with a decidedly unimpressed look.

"Must I really stroke your fragile ego at dinner, Byron? Or are you sullen because none of these lovely ladies are remotely interested in you?"

Henrietta's soup spoon clattered into her bowl, her pretty mouth agape before she snapped it shut. Cora was staring down into her soup with raised eyebrows, tension in every line of her face.

"Graham, I would thank you to remember-" Byron started, slamming his spoon down.

"Oh hush, Byron. I'll remember what I please about you and your family, just as I'll remind you to remember whom you are addressing."

The table fell silent as Byron paled, Graham's steely green-eyed gaze holding his.

"Of course, your Highness," Byron amended, his terror and his temper openly warring on his face.

"That's better," Graham said, tearing his eyes from Byron to nod at a servant. The bowls were cleared almost instantaneously, Cora hastily dropping her spoon before she'd even swallowed her mouthful as her bowl was swept off the table. Her appetite gone thanks to the knot of tension coiled in her gut, Isabelle fixed a wary look on Graham, keenly aware that Sam's hand was still resting near his knife.

"As exhilarating as it is to publicly put Byron in his place, I think it's time we turned our conversation to something a bit more enjoyable for the rest of you," Graham said, patting his lips with his napkin before fishing something out of his jacket pocket.

"Miss de Haviland had asked me whether there were any other debutantes I could torment in her stead," Graham continued, the ghost of a smile flitting across his face as he repeated Isabelle's words, turning to her. "Perhaps you could assist me in deciding which of said debutantes deserves my invitation to the ballet tomorrow."

Across the table, Cora straightened.

Graham handed Isabelle the envelope, "By invitation of His Royal Highness, Prince Graham of Pretania" written in looping, gilded calligraphy on the front. Isabelle turned it over in her hands as she turned Graham's question over in her head. Acutely aware of the intensity of Cora's gaze, Isabelle couldn't help but glance over to where Violet was miserably staring down into her soup.

If she gave the invitation to Cora, it would be a step towards repairing their friendship, though her friend had hardly done anything to deserve it. Giving the invitation to Violet would surely earn her quiet friend more notice from the other men, but it would mean that she would be forced to endure Prince Graham for the entirety of a ballet. Given that a mere dinner with the prince had degenerated into a mess of slung insults and poisonous words before the main course had even been served, Isabelle doubted whether Violet would last an entire ballet before bursting into tears under Graham's prodding.

"Cora Neasmith would be a fine choice, your Highness," Isabelle said, handing back the invitation. One of Graham's eyebrows hopped up in surprise before his features schooled themselves back into his trademark arrogant half-grin.

"Very well. Miss Neasmith, would you accompany me tomorrow night?" Graham asked, turning to Cora.

"Yes, of course," Cora said breathlessly, so overeager that she nearly interrupted him. Beaming, she accepted the invitation with reverence. As the servants slid their main courses onto the table before them, Cora caught Isabelle's gaze from across the table. He friend nodded almost imperceptibly, something thawing in her blue eyes.

~*~

"I need you to do me a favour," Isabelle whispered, as Sam helped her from her chair at the end of dinner. The rest of the evening had passed far less turbulently than the beginning, Cora's desperation vanishing to reveal her usual, conversational self now that she'd secured Prince Graham's ballet invitation. She'd successfully steered their dinner talk away from touchy subjects, easily smoothing over Byron's injured pride by chatting with him over the newest perfumes his shipping company had imported from the East, while preempting any further outbursts by the crown prince. Henrietta was the only one whose panicked look hadn't eased as the evening progressed, her gaze constantly darting over to the invitation sitting casually beside Cora's wine glass.

"Yes, I'd love to escort you to the ballet," Sam said, grinning.

"Not me, Violet Harwood," Isabelle said, fixing her eyes on her brunette friend as an unknown man escorted her out of the dining room ahead of them.

"Who's Violet Harwood?" Sam asked, confused.

"A very close friend of mine that I was attempting to introduce you to earlier," Isabelle replied. "I think the two of you would get along quite well."

Sam made a noncommittal noise in his throat.

"You said it yourself, you're not betrothed, so what's the harm in spending an enjoyable evening at the ballet with one of my friends?" Isabelle asked.

"I was hoping to ask another friend of yours, but she accepted the prince's invitation instead," Sam said as they exited the dining room.

"Cora?" Isabelle blurted out. "Sam, please tell me you're joking."

He shrugged.

"You thought she deserved the prince's invitation," he said, "Doesn't that make her worthy of my attention as well?"

Isabelle sighed, fighting back her frustration.

"Cora is many things, Sam, but a sweet, kind woman who would make you happy is not one of them," Isabelle said. Sam grunted again, this time earning himself an elbow into his side.

"Easy, lass! I'll ask Violet," he grumbled. "But what of you? Don't you want to go to the ballet as well?"

"I could do with an evening away from the charms of our crown prince," Isabelle said, watching as Cora threw her head back with laughter, her arm entwined with Graham's just ahead of them.

"Understandable," Sam nodded. He paused, ready to kiss her hand in farewell as all the other men prepared to take their leave to the smoking room.

"Come, I'll introduce you," Isabelle said, dragging Sam towards where Violet was standing in the corner, looking around for a friendly face. Upon noticing Isabelle dragging the big redhead her way, Violet blushed.

"We were interrupted before," Isabelle said, throwing on a smile, "But Violet, this is Sam Winters. Sam, this is Violet Harwood."

As Sam released Isabelle so he could kiss her friend's hand in greeting, Violet fixed Isabelle with a smile so relieved it nearly broke her heart. As Sam struck up a polite conversation with Violet, asking her whether she'd enjoyed her dinner, someone touched Isabelle's elbow. Looking around, Isabelle couldn't keep the surprise from her face as Byron Fletcher stood beside her, his surly face unreadable.

"May I help you, Mr. Fletcher?" Isabelle asked. His jaw muscle twitched in his cheek before he bowed before her.

"I have been instructed to ask you to the ballet tomorrow night," Byron said flatly, "By order of the crown prince."

Isabelle felt her shoulders sag as she caught Prince Graham watching her from across the room, his arrogant grin spread wide across his face.