six

“They say he’s quite particular,” one matron informed another. “Turned down three princesses from the continent last year alone.”

“Well, after what happened with his brother, one can hardly blame him for being cautious,” her companion replied, lowering her voice. “Though thirty is rather old to remain unwed, especially for a crown prince.”

“I’ve heard he has his eye on someone already,” a third joined in. “Lady Amelia Everhart has caught his attention—mark my words.”

Isabelle’s steps slowed at the mention of her friend. So the prince’s interest in Amelia had not gone unnoticed by the sharp eyes of the ton. The thought brought a curious pang that Isabelle refused to examine too closely.

Finding a relatively quiet alcove near one of the towering windows, Isabelle paused to gather her thoughts. Through the glass, she could see the palace gardens stretching into the twilight, a labyrinth of hedges and fountains illuminated by strategically placed lanterns. It looked peaceful out there, far from the scrutiny and whispers of the ballroom.

“Not enjoying the festivities, Miss Ellwood?”

The voice—deep, slightly amused—startled her from her contemplation. Turning, Isabelle found herself face to face with Prince Sebastian himself. Up close, she could see that his eyes were not simply blue but contained flecks of darker sapphire near the pupils. He stood with one hand behind his back, the other—the scarred one—holding a half-empty champagne glass.

“Your Highness,” Isabelle curtsied hastily, her heart racing at being caught in a moment of retreat. “Forgive me, I was merely admiring the gardens.”

“No forgiveness necessary.” There was a trace of something in his voice—weariness, perhaps, or resignation—that made her look more closely at him. “The gardens are indeed worth admiring. More so than much of what occurs within these walls, I sometimes think.”

The candor of his statement surprised her. “That’s rather forthright for a host to admit, Your Highness.”

A flicker of genuine amusement crossed his face. “Is it? I suppose it is. Yet you seem like someone who values forthright speech, Miss Ellwood.”

“I value truth,” she replied carefully. “Though I’ve learned that society often prefers pretty falsehoods.”

His gaze sharpened, studying her with new interest. “A keen observation. And what truth do you see here tonight, if I may ask?”

Isabelle hesitated, aware of the danger in speaking too honestly to a prince. But something in his expression—an earnestness beneath the polished exterior—encouraged her.

“I see a performance, Your Highness. Everyone playing their assigned roles—the ambitious mothers, the hopeful daughters, the calculating fathers. Even Your Highness has a role to play.”

“And what role would that be?” he asked, his voice quiet but intent.

“The discerning prince,” she replied. “Searching for a love that may not exist within the confines of such… orchestrated circumstances.”

For a moment, he appeared taken aback by her candor. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed—a short, genuine sound that drew curious glances from nearby guests.

“Miss Ellwood, your perception is rather uncomfortable,” he said, but his eyes held appreciation rather than offense. “Few would dare speak so plainly.”

“Forgive me if I’ve overstepped,” Isabelle said, suddenly aware of the potential consequences of her frankness.

“On the contrary.” The prince took a sip of his champagne, his gaze moving beyond her to the crowded room. “It’s refreshing to hear something other than flattery.”

A comfortable ’Ilence fell between them, surprising in its ease. Isabelle found herself studying his profile—the straight nose, the slight furrow between his brows that suggested habitual thought, the controlled set of his shoulders that spoke of burdens unseen.

“Your friend, Miss Everhart,” he said finally. “You’ve known her long?”

“Since childhood,” Isabelle replied, noting the direction of his interest with a pang she refused to acknowledge. “She is as kind as she is beautiful.”

“High praise,” he observed. “And sincere, I think.”

“Always,” Isabelle confirmed. “Amelia deserves only truth.”

The prince nodded thoughtfully. “A rare quality, sincerity. One finds it less often than one might hope, especially in places such as this.” He gestured to the glittering assembly with his scarred hand.

Isabelle’s gaze was drawn again to that scar—a thin, silvery line across his knuckles, partially obscured by the heavy signet ring. The similarity to her memory was uncanny, yet surely it was mere coincidence. How many men might bear such a mark, after all?

“Your Highness,” a voice interrupted. A dignified older gentleman approached, bowing slightly. “The Duchess of Westmoreland awaits your attendance.”

Prince Sebastian’s expression settled back into its mask of polite duty. “Duty calls, Miss Ellwood.” He inclined his head to her. “I hope you’ll find some enjoyment in your stay at Cresthaven, despite the… performance.”

As he walked away, Isabelle remained in her alcove, watching his tall figure move through the crowd with practiced ease. Something about their brief exchange had left her unsettled—not because of any impropriety or awkwardness, but because of the strange sense of recognition that had passed between them. As though they had met before, in some other time or place.

“Ridiculous,” she murmured to herself. “You’re inventing connections where none exist.”

Yet as she rejoined the festivities, finding Amelia among a group of admiring gentlemen, Isabelle could not shake the feeling that something significant had begun this night—something beyond the obvious machinations of the royal selection. Like the first line of a story whose ending she could not yet imagine.

Across the room, she caught sight of Priscilla deep in conversation with Lord Cassian Blackwood, her sister’s face animated in a way Isabelle rarely witnessed. Their father stood nearby, his expression darkening as he observed the pair. Another complication in an evening already full of them.

As the hours wore on, Isabelle found herself increasingly aware of the prince’s movements through the crowd—his careful attention to each introduction, his measured smiles, and the way his gaze frequently found Amelia among the assembly. There was something in that gaze—something beyond mere appreciation of beauty—that spoke of long-held admiration.

The realization should not have hurt. Amelia was, after all, everything a prince might desire—beautiful, graceful, kind-hearted. And Isabelle had never harbored illusions about her own appeal, especially in such exalted company. Yet as she watched the prince’s attention return again and again to her friend, she felt a hollow ache beneath her ribs that she could not entirely explain away.

“Quite the impression you made on Prince Sebastian,” Priscilla commented, appearing suddenly at Isabelle’s side. “What on earth did you say to make him laugh?"

Isabelle shrugged, uncomfortable with her sister's scrutiny. "Merely an observation about the evening."

Priscilla’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Well, don’t get any ideas, little sister. Everyone knows the prince has been half in love with Amelia Everhart since he first saw her at the Harrington musicale last year. Your little conversation was merely his attempt at courtesy.”

The words stung, not because they were cruel—Priscilla was rarely deliberately cruel—but because they echoed Isabelle’s own thoughts too closely for comfort.

“I harbor no illusions, Priscilla,” she replied quietly. “The prince and I simply conversed as civilized people do. Nothing more.”

Priscilla’s expression softened slightly. “Good. I wouldn’t want you to be hurt.” She paused, then added in a lower voice, “I saw you noticed Lord Blackwood and me.”

“I did,” Isabelle confirmed. “Father didn’t appear pleased.”

“Father sees only the crown,” Priscilla said, a rare note of defiance in her voice. “But Cassian—Lord Blackwood—he sees me.”

The rawness in her sister's tone caught Isabelle by surprise. For all Priscilla’s beauty and confidence, she too longed to be truly seen rather than merely admired. It was a vulnerability Isabelle had not expected.

“Be careful,” she warned gently. “Father’s ambitions are not easily thwarted.”

“I know.” Priscilla squeezed her arm briefly. “But some things are worth the risk, aren’t they?”

Before Isabelle could answer, their mother appeared, her expression a mixture of anxiety and hope. “There you are! Quickly, girls, the king has arrived. We must present ourselves properly. Isabelle, for heaven’s sake, pinch your cheeks—you look positively ghostly.”

As they moved toward the throne dais where an elderly man now sat beside an ornate empty chair, Isabelle caught a final glimpse of Prince Sebastian. He stood near his father, back straight, face composed, every inch the dutiful heir. But for a moment—just a moment—his gaze shifted from Amelia to meet Isabelle’s across the crowded room. In that brief connection, she thought she saw a flicker of recognition, of shared understanding, as though they were both actors aware of the play but bound by its script nonetheless.

Then the moment passed, swallowed by the pomp and pageantry of royal protocol. Isabelle took her place beside her family, a sparrow among peacocks, her heart oddly unsettled by the evening’s unexpected currents. Whatever role she was meant to play in this grand production, she sensed it would not be the simple, silent one she had anticipated.

And as the king officially opened the selection season with words of welcome and tradition, Isabelle found herself wondering about the scar on the prince’s hand—and why the sight of it had stirred such persistent echoes of rain and darkness and a voice calling her brave.