Crown's Wrong Kiss

The amber glow of the candle did little to warm Isabelle Ellwood’s bedchamber. Like herself, it was modest in proportion to the ostentatious grandeur that defined the rest of Ellwood Estate—a space that had been decorated with the desperate zeal of new money seeking to disguise its novelty. Gilt mirrors reflected gilt mirrors, crystal chandeliers hung perilously low, and brocade fabrics in clashing colors assaulted the senses from every angle. It was a house that screamed of its own importance, as if volume could compensate for pedigree.

But here, in her sanctuary, Isabelle had created a different world. Bookshelves lined the walls—not the leatherbound collections her father purchased by the yard to impress visitors, but well-worn volumes of poetry, philosophy, and history that had been read so often their spines had softened like butter left in summer sun. A simple writing desk stood beneath the window, where moonlight now spilled across the pages of her journal.

She set down her pen and pressed her palm against the leather cover, as if to seal her thoughts within. At nineteen, Isabelle had long accepted that her reflections were safer confined to paper than spoken aloud. Her father had made that abundantly clear.

“Isabelle! Where have you hidden yourself this time?”

Her mother’s voice carried up the stairs, a note of perpetual anxiety threading through it. Isabelle closed her eyes briefly, gathering her composure before answering.

“In my room, Mother. I shall be down directly.”

She rose and surveyed herself in the modest looking glass above her dresser. There was no point in prolonged study; the reflection had not changed significantly in years, and never would transform into the image her parents wished to see. Plain was the kindest word used to describe her. Her hazel eyes, rather than sparkling with coquettish light, watched the world with quiet intelligence. Her chestnut hair, pulled back in a simple style, lacked the golden

luster of her sister’s. And her figure—well, her mother had devoted countless hours to camouflaging what she delicately termed Isabelle’s “fuller proportions” with strategic draping and somber colors.

Isabelle smoothed her hands down the front of her dovegray dress and lifted her chin. She had long ago learned that dignity was a choice, even when beauty was not.

The drawing room buzzed with her father’s voice, that particular tone he used when expounding on business matters to captive audiences. Today’s victims appeared to be Mr. Harding, their neighbor, and his eldest son Thomas, a bland young man of five-and-twenty whose sole distinction was the substantial inheritance awaiting him.

“Ah, here she is at last,” Mr. Ellwood announced, breaking off his monologue on textile imports. “Hiding with your books again, Isabelle? Not very sociable of you.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes, which held the perpetual disappointment she had grown accustomed to seeing there.

“Forgive me, Father. I was finishing a letter.” The lie came easily; she had learned that mentioning her writing or reading only invited ridicule.

Her mother beckoned her forward with fluttering hands. “Come, come, Mr. Harding was asking after you.” This was unlikely, but Isabelle approached nonetheless, executing a perfect curtsy. Seven years of expensive deportment lessons had at least granted her graceful movement, if not the face to accompany it.

“Miss Ellwood,” Thomas Harding acknowledged with a bow so slight it bordered on insulting. His eyes, already drifting toward the doorway, suddenly brightened. “Ah, Miss Priscilla!”

And there she was—the true jewel of the Ellwood household. At twenty-two, Priscilla embodied everything Isabelle was not: tall and willowy where Isabelle was of modest height and fuller figure, golden-haired and blueeyed where Isabelle was brown and unremarkable, vivacious and charming where Isabelle was reserved and thoughtful. She swept into the room like a summer breeze, immediately drawing all eyes to her.

“Mr. Harding, how delightful,” Priscilla exclaimed, her voice musical. She extended her hand to Thomas, who clasped it with far more enthusiasm than he had shown Isabelle. “And Mr. Thomas, I did not know you had returned from London.”

“Only yesterday,” he replied, suddenly animated. “The

Season was quite extraordinary this year.”

“You must tell me everything,” Priscilla urged, leading him toward the sofa while their parents exchanged pleased glances.

Isabelle drifted to the window, settling onto the window seat where she might observe without being noticed—a skill she had perfected over the years. Her mother’s voice dropped to a whisper as she leaned toward Mrs. Harding, but not low enough to escape Isabelle’s ears.

“We have such hopes for Priscilla this year. With her beauty and accomplishments, she might catch the eye of a viscount at the very least.”

Mrs. Harding nodded sagely. “Indeed, she is a credit to you. And your younger daughter… has she any prospects?”

Her mother's sigh was barely audible. “Isabelle is… well, she has a good heart and a fine mind. Perhaps a clergyman or a scholar might appreciate such qualities. We shall see.”

Isabelle’s fingers pressed against the cool glass of the window, her gaze fixed on the distant hills. The conversation was familiar—variations of it had been occurring since Priscilla’s debut three years prior. Her sister’s beauty had always been the family’s greatest asset, their ticket to the society Mr. Ellwood so desperately wished to join. Isabelle was the afterthought, the obligation, the daughter they dutifully clothed and educated without expectation of return on investment.

“Are you sulking again by the window?” Her father’s voice, closer now, startled her from her thoughts. “Come, be useful. Pour the tea.”

“Yes, Father.”

She moved to the tea service, arranging cups with steady hands despite her mother’s critical eye. The china was new—Wedgwood, with gold trim, replacing the serviceable but unfashionable set they had used previously. Everything in the house was gradually being upgraded as her father’s cotton mills prospered.

Everything, she sometimes thought, except herself.

As she served, the conversation turned to the upcoming local assembly, an event of modest significance that her mother nonetheless treated with the gravity of a royal coronation.

“Priscilla shall wear the blue silk,” Mrs. Ellwood declared. “It brings out her eyes magnificently. And Isabelle…” Her gaze traveled over her younger daughter critically. “Perhaps the brown bombazine. It’s most… suitable.”

Translation: It would best conceal her figure and draw the least attention to her unremarkable features. Isabelle nodded, accepting the judgment without comment. The brown bombazine was a dull, serviceable garment that had seen three seasons already. It would indeed be suitable—for fading into the wallpaper while Priscilla shone.

“Actually,” Mr. Ellwood interjected, “Isabelle might wear the green muslin. With the mills doing so well, we can afford to outfit both girls properly.” He didn’t look at Isabelle as he spoke, his attention fixed on Mr. Harding, whom he clearly wished to impress with this display of prosperity.

“How generous, Father,” Isabelle murmured, knowing the green muslin would be only marginally less aging than the brown bombazine.

Priscilla caught her eye across the room and gave her a quick, sympathetic smile. For all her beauty and the favoritism she enjoyed, Priscilla had never been cruel to Isabelle. If anything, she seemed genuinely puzzled by their parents’ treatment of her sister, unable to comprehend a world that did not respond to a pretty face with immediate adoration.

The afternoon dragged on, the Hardings eventually departing with effusive goodbyes to Priscilla and cursory nods to Isabelle. As the door closed behind them, Mrs. Ellwood collapsed onto the sofa with a sigh of satisfaction.

“Thomas Harding could not take his eyes from Priscilla. If she plays her cards right, we might have an announcement by Christmas.”

Mr. Ellwood frowned. “Harding is well enough, but surely we can aim higher for Priscilla. The Blackwood heir was at Lady Pembrooke’s dinner last month, and he seemed quite taken with her."

“An earl’s son?” Mrs. Ellwood’s eyes widened. “Oh, that would be beyond all expectations.”

“Nothing is beyond expectation for a beauty like our

Priscilla,” Mr. Ellwood declared proudly. His gaze fell on Isabelle, who was quietly collecting the tea things. “As for you, we must be more practical. Thomas Harding might have a younger brother or cousin who would do well enough.”

“Do well enough for what, Father?” Isabelle asked, her voice soft but steady.

“For a girl with your…” he gestured vaguely at her figure, her face, “…limitations. You must be realistic, Isabelle. Not everyone can marry for advantage or passion. Some must simply marry for security.”

The cup In Isabelle’s hand trembled slightly before she steadied it. “And if I chose not to marry at all?”

Her father’s laugh was sharp and dismissive. “And do what, pray tell? Become a governess? A companion to some elderly relation? Don’t be absurd.”

“I thought perhaps I might open a school,” Isabelle said, the words escaping before she could reconsider. “For girls. To teach them mathematics and sciences, not just embroidery and music.”