eight

The voice, deep and resonant, startled her from her thoughts. She turned to find Prince Sebastian standing before her, his dark gaze assessing.

“Your Highness,” she curtseyed deeply, heartbeat quickening beneath her bodice. Up close, his presence was even more commanding, an aura of restrained power emanating from his tall frame.

“I noticed you have not danced for some time,” he said, his tone formal yet not unkind. “Are you unwell?”

“No, Your Highness, merely… observing. I find there is much to learn from watching rather than participating.”

A flicker of Interest crossed his features. “And what have you learned this evening, Miss Ellwood?”

Isabelle hesitated, uncertain whether honesty or flattery would be the wiser course. Something in his expression—a hint of weariness, perhaps—decided her.

“That even princes grow tired of pleasantries and performative adoration, Your Highness.”

For a moment, surprise registered in his dark eyes, followed by something that might have been amusement. “A perceptive observation, Miss Ellwood. Though perhaps not one I should confirm.”

“Of course not, Your Highness. I shall attribute my impression to an overactive imagination.”

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly—not quite a smile, but the closest approximation she had seen from him all evening. “Would your imagination also lead you to accept an invitation to dance? The next set is forming.”

Isabelle’s heart stuttered in her chest. “I… would be honored, Your Highness.”

He extended his hand, and she placed her gloved fingers upon his palm with a strange sense of familiarity, as if they had done this before. As he led her onto the dance floor, she became acutely aware of the stares that followed them, the whispers that bloomed in their wake.

The dance was a quadrille, formal and structured, allowing for little conversation beyond the prescribed figures. Yet in the brief moments when their hands met, Isabelle found herself studying the prince’s ring more closely. The crest depicted a falcon with outstretched wings, similar to the royal emblem but simpler in design. And there, across the knuckles of his hand, was the scar she had glimpsed earlier—a pale line that spoke of an old wound.

As the dance concluded, Sebastian bowed formally. “Thank you for the dance, Miss Ellwood.”

“The honor was mine, Your Highness,” she replied, curtseying once more.

Before he could turn away, she summoned her courage. “Your Highness, if I may… that ring you wear. It bears the falcon crest of your house, does it not?"

Sebastian glanced down at his hand, seemingly surprised by her question. “A variation of it, yes. This was my grandfather’s ring, given to me when I was a boy. The royal crest has since been modified, but I prefer this simpler design.” His gaze returned to her face, curious. “Why do you ask?”

Isabelle felt her cheeks warm under his scrutiny. “Mere curiosity, Your Highness. The craftsmanship is exceptional.”

He studied her for a moment longer, as if sensing there was more to her inquiry than she had revealed. “Indeed it is, Miss Ellwood. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

With another bow, he departed, moving through the crowd toward where Amelia stood conversing with a group of admirers. Isabelle watched as he approached her friend, noting how Amelia’s face brightened at his arrival, how Sebastian’s posture seemed to relax in her presence. They were well-matched, she thought—both beautiful, both refined, both born to shine in the glittering world of the ton.

“So, my quiet sister has caught the prince’s attention,” Priscilla’s voice broke into her thoughts as she appeared at Isabelle’s side. “How unexpected.”

“It was merely a courtesy dance, Priscilla. Nothing more.”

“Even so, it’s caused quite a stir. Lady Harrington is already speculating that you might have some hidden charm that has captured his interest.”

Isabelle smiled wryly. “Lady Harrington enjoys creating drama where none exists. The prince was simply being polite.”

Priscilla linked her arm through Isabelle’s, steering her toward a quieter corner of the ballroom. “Well, while you were dancing with royalty, I made some progress of my own.”

“With Lord Blackwood?” Isabelle asked, noting the heightened color in her sister’s cheeks.

Priscilla glanced around to ensure they were not overheard. “Yes. Cassian has asked permission to call upon me tomorrow. He wishes to show me his collection of rare botanical prints.”

“How… academic of him,” Isabelle teased.

“Don’t be arch, Belle. It’s a perfectly respectable excuse for a private conversation.” Priscilla squeezed her arm. “But you mustn’t breathe a word to Father. He still harbors hopes that I’ll attract royal attention.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Isabelle assured her, touched by her sister’s confidence. Despite the vast differences in their circumstances, there remained between them a bond of shared childhood and mutual understanding.

“Thank you.” Priscilla’s expression softened. “I do care for him, Belle. It’s not just his title or wealth. He makes me laugh, and he listens when I speak, as if my thoughts matter.”

“Then I am happy for you,” Isabelle said sincerely, pushing aside the small ache of envy that threatened to diminish her joy for her sister.

As the evening drew to a close, Isabelle found herself once more observing from the periphery. The final dance was a waltz, its sweeping melody filling the ballroom with bittersweet longing. Sebastian had claimed Amelia as his partner, and they moved together in perfect harmony, her blue gown swirling like water around his dark figure.

Watching them, Isabelle’s mind returned to the memory that had surfaced earlier—the storm, the rescuer, the ring and scar. Could it truly be that Prince Sebastian was the same man who had saved her that day, six years ago? The coincidence seemed too great, yet the evidence was compelling.

But even if he were her childhood savior, what would it matter? He clearly had no recollection of the incident, and even if he did, it would not change the trajectory of events now unfolding. Sebastian’s attention was fixed upon Amelia, as was only natural and proper. The prince and the beauty—a tale as old as time itself.

As for Isabelle, she would continue as she always had—watching from the shadows, finding contentment in small joys, building dreams that required no prince to fulfill them. She would establish her school, nurture young minds, create a legacy of knowledge rather than beauty. And if, in quiet moments, she permitted herself to remember the warmth of Sebastian’s hand upon hers as they danced, or the brief spark of interest in his dark eyes when she spoke plainly—well, such memories would harm no one but herself.

The waltz concluded with a flourish, and applause rippled through the ballroom. Sebastian bowed to Amelia, who curtseyed deeply, her golden head lowered in graceful deference. When she rose, their gazes held for a moment longer than propriety demanded, and Isabelle felt something tighten in her chest—not quite pain, not quite resignation, but a curious blend of both.

As the guests began to disperse, Isabelle gathered her shawl about her shoulders, preparing for the journey back to the wing where the unmarried ladies were housed. The evening had been a whirl of emotions—hope, disappointment, curiosity, and a strange sense of connection that she could not quite define.

She cast one final glance toward the center of the ballroom, where Sebastian stood in conversation with several courtiers. As if sensing her gaze, he looked up, his dark eyes finding hers across the crowd. For a heartbeat, something passed between them—a question, perhaps, or the shadow of recognition. Then a nobleman claimed his attention, and the moment dissolved like sugar in hot tea, sweet but ephemeral.

Isabelle turned away, her steps measured as she departed the glittering scene. The ball was ended, but the season had only just begun. And somewhere in the labyrinth of Cresthaven Palace lay answers to questions she had not yet fully formed—about a storm, a rescue, and a prince who might or might not remember a rain-soaked girl from long ago.