five

The gilt-edged invitation had promised grandeur, but nothing had prepared Isabelle for the overwhelming presence of Cresthaven Palace. As their carriage approached through the immense iron gates, she felt herself shrink further into the shadows of the velvet-lined interior.

 

“Sit up straight, Isabelle,” her mother hissed, adjusting her own emerald necklace for the dozenth time. “And for heaven’s sake, try to smile. You look like you’re attending a funeral rather than the most prestigious event of the decade.”

 

Isabelle obediently straightened her spine but could not muster the smile her mother demanded. The lace collar of her dove-gray gown scratched against her neck, a constant reminder of the hasty alterations required to make her presentable. Unlike Priscilla’s cornflower blue silk creation, which had been ordered months ago in anticipation of some grand occasion, Isabelle’s gown was a reluctant afterthought—much like her presence at this selection.

 

“Look, Isabelle,” Priscilla leaned across, her golden curls bouncing with excitement as she gestured to the palace rising before them. “Isn’t it magnificent? Think of all the eligible gentlemen inside—earls, dukes, perhaps even foreign princes!”

 

“And one crown prince,” their father added pointedly, his stern gaze fixed on Priscilla. “Remember why we are here.”

 

Isabelle gazed up at the palace—an imposing monolith of white marble and vast windows that reflected the late afternoon sun like a thousand watching eyes. Towers ascended toward the heavens, and intricate stone carvings adorned every cornice and column. It was beautiful, yes, but beautiful in the way a bird of prey was beautiful— magnificent and terrifying in equal measure.

 

As the carriage halted at the bottom of the grand entrance staircase, footmen in royal livery appeared as if conjured from the air itself. The Ellwood family ascended the steps amid a sea of other hopeful families, their daughters like bright flowers in a carefully cultivated garden. Isabelle could not help noticing the whispers and furtive glances as they passed, the evaluating eyes that dismissed her almost instantly before lingering appreciatively on Priscilla.

 

“The Ellwood family,” announced the herald at the entrance to the grand reception hall, his voice echoing across the marble floor. “Mr. Richard Ellwood, Mrs.

Helena Ellwood, Miss Priscilla Ellwood, and Miss

Isabelle Ellwood.”

 

Isabelle stepped into Cresthaven’s heart and felt as though she might drown in its splendor. Crystal chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings like suspended stars, their light fractured and multiplied by mirrors taller than houses that lined the walls. Beneath her feet, a mosaic of white and gold depicted scenes from the kingdom’s illustrious history. The air was thick with perfume, the rustle of silk, and the delicate notes of a distant string quartet.

 

“Breathe, Isabelle,” she whispered to herself. “Just breathe.”

 

Her mother had already swept Priscilla away toward a cluster of elegantly attired matrons and their daughters, leaving Isabelle momentarily forgotten in their wake. She used this rare moment of freedom to gather herself, finding comfort in observation as she’d always done.

 

The room was a swirl of pastel silks and satins, the unmarried women easily identifiable by their lighter colors and elaborate coiffures. Their chaperones stood like sentinels in darker hues, eagle-eyed despite their seemingly casual conversations. And the men—some young and eager, others older and more measured— circulated through the crowd like bees among blossoms, their attention invariably drawn to the most beautiful flowers.

 

“Miss Ellwood! Is that you?”

 

A familiar voice cut through Isabelle’s contemplation, and she turned to find Amelia Everhart approaching, radiant in a gown of pale gold that caught the light with every graceful movement. Her friend’s face was alight with genuine pleasure, and Isabelle felt a corresponding warmth bloom in her chest.

 

“Amelia, how wonderful to see you.” Isabelle embraced her friend, noting the many eyes that followed Amelia’s progress across the room. It was impossible not to notice—Amelia possessed that rare quality of beauty that drew attention without effort, like a candle flame in darkness.

 

“I was hoping you would be here,” Amelia said, taking Isabelle’s hands in her own. “These events are so terribly intimidating, aren’t they? All those people watching, measuring, judging…”

 

Isabelle squeezed her friend’s hands reassuringly. “You have nothing to fear. You outshine every woman here.”

 

“Oh, hush.” Amelia’s cheeks bloomed with a becoming blush. “You’re too kind. But tell me, what do you think of all this?” She gestured to the grandeur surrounding them. “Is it not like something from a dream?”

 

Before Isabelle could respond, a subtle shift rippled through the assembly. Conversations hushed, heads turned, and the crowd parted like a sea before an invisible force. Isabelle felt Amelia’s grip tighten on her fingers.

 

“It’s him,” Amelia whispered, her voice barely audible.

“The prince.”

 

Isabelle followed her friend’s gaze to the far end of the hall, where a set of ornate double doors had opened to reveal a figure that commanded the room’s attention by his mere presence.

 

Prince Sebastian Winthorne stood framed by the gilded doorway, a study in regal composure. He was taller than Isabelle had imagined, with broad shoulders accentuated by the perfect cut of his midnight blue coat. His raven hair was swept back from a face that artists would have coveted as a subject—strong jawline, aquiline nose, and eyes so intensely blue they seemed to pierce through the crowd. But what struck Isabelle most was not his undeniable handsomeness, but rather the hint of weariness that shadowed his expression—a private fatigue visible only to those who knew how to look beyond polish and perfection.

 

As he descended into the hall, the crowd before him bent in waves of bows and curtsies. Isabelle and Amelia followed suit, Isabelle’s movements stiff with the unfamiliarity of court etiquette.

 

“His Royal Highness, Prince Sebastian Nathaniel Winthorne,” proclaimed the herald, his voice reverberating through the now-silent hall.

 

When Isabelle straightened, she found herself unable to look away from the prince. There was something about him—something beyond his title or appearance—that called to her memory like a half-forgotten song. She watched as he moved through the crowd, exchanging greetings with practiced ease, his smile diplomatic but never reaching his eyes.

 

“He’s even more handsome than they say,” Amelia murmured, her gaze following the prince’s progress.

 

“Yes,” Isabelle agreed absently, still trying to place that nagging sense of familiarity. “Though he seems… burdened.”

 

Amelia glanced at her curiously. “Burdened? What a strange observation, Isabelle. Most would notice his title, his fortune, his face—not his burdens.”

 

“Perhaps that’s why he bears them,” Isabelle replied softly. “Because no one notices.”

 

Their conversation was interrupted as the prince’s path brought him toward their vicinity. Isabelle felt Amelia tense beside her, saw her friend’s complexion brighten with anticipation. The crowd around them seemed to press closer, mothers nudging daughters forward, young ladies adjusting curls and postures.

 

Prince Sebastian paused before a young woman in pink silk, exchanging a few words that made her cheeks flush crimson. He moved on to the next, and the next, his path a careful navigation through the sea of hopeful faces. When he reached Amelia, Isabelle saw something change in his expression—a spark of genuine interest breaking through the polite façade.

 

“Miss Everhart, is it not?” His voice was deeper than Isabelle had expected, resonant with authority yet softened by what seemed almost like relief. “I believe we met briefly at the Harrington musicale last season.”

 

Amelia’s curtsy was the picture of grace. “Your Highness remembers correctly. I’m honored by your recollection.”

 

“Some faces are not easily forgotten,” he replied, the hint of a smile warming his features. His gaze lingered on Amelia for a moment longer than protocol dictated before shifting to Isabelle. “And your friend?”

 

“Miss Isabelle Ellwood, Your Highness,” Amelia provided when Isabelle’s voice momentarily failed her.

 

Isabelle curtsied, acutely aware of her plain appearance beside Amelia’s splendor. “Your Highness.”

 

The prince’s eyes met hers—ocean blue, searching, and for the briefest moment, surprised. He inclined his head slightly. “Miss Ellwood.”

 

His right hand, resting at his side, bore a signet ring that caught the light as he moved—a ring adorned with the royal crest, worn on the same hand that bore a scar across the knuckles.

 

A scar.

 

Isabelle’s heart stuttered. A memory stirred—rain, darkness, a strong hand pulling her from danger, a voice calling her brave. Could it be? No, surely not. The coincidence would be too great, the unlikelihood too vast. She blinked, and the moment was gone.

 

“I trust you ladies will enjoy your time at Cresthaven,” the prince said, his gaze returning to Amelia with an intensity that did not escape Isabelle’s notice. “The palace has many wonders to discover for those with curious minds.”

 

With that, he moved on, leaving behind a wake of whispers and speculation. Amelia turned to Isabelle, her eyes wide with wonder.

 

“Did you see how he looked at me? Oh, Isabelle, he remembered our meeting! Do you think—” She stopped herself, laughing softly. “No, I mustn’t get ahead of myself. There are dozens of beautiful women here, after all.”

 

“None like you,” Isabelle said truthfully, pushing away the odd feeling that had come over her at the sight of the prince’s scarred hand. It was merely coincidence, nothing more. The man who had saved her that stormy night seven years ago was a creation of her imagination now, a fragment of girlish fantasy that had no place in this grand hall of reality.

 

As the initial formalities concluded, the assembly dispersed into the adjacent ballroom where refreshments awaited. Isabelle followed Amelia, trying to ignore the dismissive glances cast her way by other young ladies who had clearly already assessed and dismissed her as competition.

 

“Plain as a sparrow among peacocks,” she heard one whisper behind a fan as she passed. “I wonder why she bothered to come at all.”

 

Isabelle kept her head high, her expression composed into what she hoped resembled quiet confidence rather than the hurt that pricked beneath her skin. Seven years of such whispers had hardened her somewhat, though they never ceased to sting.

 

“Isabelle!” Her mother’s voice cut through the crowd. “Come here at once. Lady Harrington has asked after you.”

 

Making her excuses to Amelia, Isabelle dutifully approached her mother, who stood with a severe-looking woman whose elaborate turban added at least a foot to her already imposing height.

 

“So this is your second daughter,” Lady Harrington said, examining Isabelle through a jeweled lorgnette. “Hmm. Yes, I see the family resemblance, though not quite as… fortunate… in her features as Miss Priscilla.”

 

Isabelle curtsied, swallowing the retort that rose to her lips. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Harrington.”

 

“Isabelle is accomplished in other ways,” her mother said hurriedly. “She reads excessively and has quite a talent for music, though she lacks Priscilla’s natural grace at the pianoforte.”

 

“Indeed.” Lady Harrington’s tone suggested this was hardly a compensation. “Well, Miss Ellwood, I wish you luck this season. Perhaps some gentleman of moderate expectations will find your… intellectual pursuits… appealing.”

 

As Lady Harrington moved away, Isabelle caught her mother’s warning glance—a silent command to behave, to be grateful for any attention, to remember her place. Across the room, she spotted her father deep in conversation with an elderly gentleman whose elaborate waistcoat and multiple rings suggested considerable wealth. Priscilla stood nearby, her attention seemingly focused on her father’s conversation, though Isabelle noticed her sister’s gaze continually drifting to a tall, sandy-haired gentleman standing some distance away.

 

Following her sister’s line of sight, Isabelle recognized Lord Cassian Blackwood, the Earl of Westmore. So that was the direction of Priscilla’s interest. Interesting, given their father’s ambitions for a royal match.

 

“Isabelle,” her mother said, reclaiming her attention. “Do try to mingle. Standing here like a statue will hardly attract notice.”

 

“Perhaps that would be a blessing,” Isabelle murmured, but obediently moved toward a less crowded corner of the room where she could observe without being the subject of observation.

 

As she skirted the edge of the dance floor, she caught fragments of conversation, most centered on the prince and the impending selection.