seven

The grand ballroom of Cresthaven Palace glowed beneath the light of a thousand candles, their flames dancing upon crystal chandeliers that hung like constellations from the gilded ceiling. Music swelled from the orchestra positioned at the far end of the hall, the melodious notes floating over the assembled nobility who stood in clusters of silk and jewels, their voices a delicate hum beneath the strains of the violins.

Isabelle stood at the periphery, her fingers curled tightly around the stem of her champagne glass. She had chosen a dress of sage green for the evening, a modest gown with little embellishment save for a cream-colored trim that edged the neckline and sleeves. The color had seemed sensible when her mother purchased it—“to hide your fullness, dear"—but now, amid the peacock display of the other debutantes, it seemed hopelessly dull. Like a houseplant among exotic blooms.

Her gaze drifted across the room to where Priscilla stood, resplendent in amber silk that caught the light with every turn of her head. Her sister’s golden curls had been arranged artfully atop her head, with several strands left to cascade down her elegant neck. She was surrounded by admirers, her laughter like wind chimes carried on a summer breeze.

“Your sister is certainly drawing attention,” commented a voice beside her.

Isabelle turned to find Lady Harrington, an elderly matron with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue, watching Priscilla through a jeweled lorgnette.

“Indeed, my lady. She has always been the crown jewel of our family,” Isabelle replied, her tone light despite the familiar ache that bloomed behind her ribs.

“And what of you, Miss Ellwood? Have any gentlemen caught your fancy this evening?”

Isabelle smiled, the practiced curve of her lips concealing years of disappointment. “I find I am content to observe tonight, Lady Harrington. The music is lovely, don’t you agree?”

The old woman's eyes narrowed, but before she could respond, a young man approached, his gaze skipping over Isabelle as if she were part of the wall décor.

“Forgive the interruption, Lady Harrington,” he said with a bow, “but I wondered if you might introduce me to Miss Ellwood. I’ve been watching her from across the room.”

For a moment, Isabelle’s heart stuttered with an unfamiliar hope, but it withered as quickly as it had bloomed when the gentleman’s eyes darted toward the amber-clad figure of her sister.

“Miss Priscilla Ellwood, you mean,” Lady Harrington clarified, and the young man nodded eagerly, his cheeks flushing with color.

“Yes, of course. She is exquisite.”

Isabelle took a deliberate sip of champagne, allowing the cool liquid to wash away the bitter taste of invisibility. “My sister is currently engaged in conversation, sir, but I would be happy to introduce you when she is available.”

The ge’tleman seemed to notice her properly for the first time, his expression shifting to one of mild embarrassment. “You are most kind, Miss…?”

“Isabelle Ellwood,” she supplied, offering a small curtsy. “Priscilla’s sister.”

“Ah, yes. Thank you, Miss Ellwood.” His gaze had already returned to Priscilla, his interest in Isabelle evaporating like morning dew beneath a relentless sun.

Lady Harrington made the introduction, and Isabelle watched as yet another suitor joined the constellation that orbited her sister. She had played this role countless times—the plain sister, the bridge to beauty, the stepping stone to desire. The pain had dulled over the years, like a bruise that never quite healed but no longer throbbed with each touch.

“It must be difficult,” Lady Harrington said quietly, her voice lacking its usual edge. “Being so constantly overlooked.”

Isabelle met the older woman’s gaze, surprised by the momentary kindness. “One grows accustomed to it, my lady. And there are advantages to invisibility. I see much that others miss.”

“Indeed.” The matron’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “And what have your observant eyes noticed tonight, Miss Ellwood?”

Isabelle glanced around the ballroom, her gaze settling on a young lady dressed in pale blue who stood nearby. “Miss Everhart seems to have captured considerable attention this evening.”

Amelia Everhart, her dearest friend, stood encircled by admirers, her delicate features illuminated by the candlelight. Her gown, a masterpiece of celestial blue silk and silver embroidery, emphasized her willowy figure and fair complexion. Unlike Priscilla, whose beauty was bold and demanded attention, Amelia’s was ethereal, as if she had descended from some heavenly realm to grace mere mortals with her presence.

“Ah, the incomparable Miss Everhart,” Lady Harrington observed. “A beauty to rival your sister, though of an entirely different sort. Have you known her long?”

“Since childhood,” Isabelle replied, warmth coloring her voice. “We attended the same academy for young ladies.”

“And yet you bear no malice toward her for her good fortune?”

Isabelle shook her head gently. “How could I? Amelia is as kind as she is beautiful. Her friendship has been a great blessing to me.”

Lady Harrington studied her for a moment, her gimlet eyes seeming to pierce through Isabelle’s carefully constructed mask. “You are an unusual young woman, Miss Ellwood.”

Before Isabelle could respond, a ripple of anticipation moved through the crowd, conversations dimming to whispers as heads turned toward the grand entrance. Prince Sebastian had arrived.

He entered the ballroom with the confidence of a man born to command attention, his tall figure clad in a midnight blue evening coat that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. His raven hair, slightly longer than fashion dictated, curled above the stark white of his cravat. But it was his eyes that captured Isabelle’s attention—dark and penetrating, they surveyed the room with an intelligence that belied his reputation as a mere royal figurehead.

“The prince certainly cuts a striking figure,” Lady Harrington commented, raising her lorgnette. “Though I understand he has little patience for the frivolities of court life.”

“Is that so?” Isabelle murmured, unable to tear her gaze from the royal personage who now moved through the crowd, accepting bows and curtsies with a grave nod.

“Indeed. My nephew, who serves as an equerry, says the prince would rather be negotiating trade agreements than dancing with debutantes. Though I suppose even duty-bound princes must eventually wed.”

Isabelle watched as Sebastian approached Amelia, who curtseyed deeply, her golden head bowed in perfect deference. When she rose, the prince’s expression softened almost imperceptibly, and he extended his hand in invitation. As Amelia placed her fingers upon his palm, a murmur of approval rippled through the assembled guests.

“It seems Miss Everhart has made quite an impression,” Lady Harrington observed. “Though I would not count your sister out of the competition just yet.”

Isabelle felt a curious hollow sensation in her chest as she watched Sebastian lead Amelia onto the dance floor. They moved together with a natural grace, as if they had been partnered for years rather than moments. The prince’s usually stern countenance had relaxed into something approaching warmth, and Amelia’s cheeks were tinged with a becoming flush.

“They make a handsome couple,” Isabelle said softly, forcing the words past the inexplicable tightness in her throat.

“Beauty and power often find their way to each other,” Lady Harrington replied. “Though not all matches are made on such superficial grounds, thank heaven.” With a pat on Isabelle’s arm, the elderly woman moved away, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

The evening progressed In a blur of music and polite conversation. Isabelle danced twice—once with an elderly baron who had been a friend of her grandfather, and once with a young viscount who spent the entire set inquiring about Amelia’s preferences in flowers and poetry. She answered his questions with patient grace, offering suggestions that she knew would please her friend, all while ignoring the persistent ache that had taken residence beneath her breastbone.

Between dances, she retreated to a small alcove partially hidden by a marble column, grateful for a moment of solitude. From this vantage point, she could observe the swirling pageantry of the ball without being drawn into its midst.

She watched as Sebastian danced with several young ladies, his expression returning to its customary gravity now that he was no longer partnered with Amelia. There was a weariness in his bearing that seemed at odds with the glittering celebration, as if each dance were a diplomatic negotiation rather than a pleasure.

As the orchestra struck up a lively country dance, Isabelle’s attention was drawn to a commotion near the refreshment table. A young lady had stumbled, her glass of punch tilting precariously. Before disaster could strike, a masculine hand steadied her elbow, preventing both her fall and the spilling of her drink.

It was Sebastian who had come to the young woman’s rescue, his reflexes quick despite his formal attire. Isabelle watched as he ensured the lady’s stability, his manner courteous but reserved. As he turned away, the light caught something on his right hand—a signet ring bearing a distinctive crest, worn on the same hand that bore a thin white scar across the knuckles.

Isabelle’s breath caught in her throat as a memory surfaced: rain pelting against her face, the crack of thunder overhead, and a strong hand pulling her from the path of a falling branch. The ring, the scar… could it be possible?

Her contemplation was interrupted by the approach of two women who positioned themselves on the other side of the column, unaware of her presence.

“Did you see her?” one voice whispered, high and brittle with disdain. “The younger Ellwood girl, in that dreadful sage gown.”

“How could one miss her?” replied a second, lower voice. “She stands out like a crow among doves.”

“Plain as a sparrow, poor thing. And those curves—her modiste must have despaired.”

“It’s a wonder she was invited at all. Perhaps as ballast for her sister’s beauty?”

Laughter, thinly disguised as coughing, followed this cruel observation.

Isabelle remained perfectly still, her knuckles white around her empty champagne glass. The words struck with the precision of arrows, finding their marks in the soft flesh of her insecurities. Yet she refused to bow beneath their weight. She had weathered similar storms before, endured countless variations of the same cutting assessment. She would not grant these whispers the power to diminish her.

Drawing a deep breath, Isabelle stepped from behind the column, coming face to face with the gossiping women. She offered them a serene smile, as if she had heard nothing of their conversation, and inclined her head in a minimal curtsy.

“Good evening, ladies. The orchestra is particularly fine tonight, don’t you agree? I find their rendition of Mozart quite captivating.”

The women stared at her, mouths slightly agape at having been discovered, before mumbling their agreement and hastily retreating toward the dance floor.

Isabelle exhaled slowly, her composure intact but her spirit weary. These small victories—maintaining dignity in the face of cruelty—were hollow achievements, leaving her more drained than triumphant.

“Miss Ellwood?”