ten

A silence fell between them, filled only by the soft crackle of the fire. Isabelle studied him covertly, trying to place him among the gentlemen she had glimpsed at the ball. There was something familiar about him, yet she could not quite place it.

“You mentioned a shared interest,” she prompted finally. “I assume you didn’t invite me here at this scandalous hour merely to compliment my reading habits.”

He leaned forward slightly, his expression growing more serious. “I understand you wish to open a school for girls one day.”

Isabelle stiffened. Few people knew of that dream—certainly none of the guests at Cresthaven. “How could you possibly know that?”

“As I said, palace walls have ears.” He reached into his coat and withdrew a folded document, offering it to her. “This is a letter of reference from the Royal Education Society. It would grant you consideration for their patronage program, which funds worthy educational endeavors.”

Her hand trembled slightly as she accepted the document, her mind reeling. “I don’t understand. Why would you do this for me? We are strangers.”

“Are we?” There was that tone again, as though they shared a secret she could not remember. “Perhaps I simply believe in your vision. A school where girls are taught to think, not merely to embroider and simper. Where they learn history and science alongside social graces. It’s revolutionary, in its quiet way.”

“Revolution is rarely welcomed by those in power,” Isabelle noted, her voice soft.

“Some revolutions occur in whispers rather than shouts,” he countered. “Those are often the most profound.”

Her fingers traced the seal on the letter—official, undeniably genuine. “And you have the influence to secure such a recommendation?”

“I have some small influence in certain circles,” he acknowledged with a hint of dry humor.

“And what do you expect in return?” Isabelle asked directly, her gaze steady. Years of watching her father’s business negotiations had taught her that favors always came with prices.

He seemed surprised by the question, then laughed—a genuine sound of amusement that transformed his shadowed face. “Nothing nefarious, I assure you. Merely conversation. Intelligence. Honesty. All rare commodities at court.”

“You find me honest?” Isabelle smiled slightly. “Most would call me tactless.”

“Tactless implies cruelty or carelessness. You are neither cruel nor careless, merely forthright.” He settled back in his chair. “Tell me, Miss Ellwood, what did you think of the ball last night? And please—no diplomatic half-truths.”

Isabelle hesitated only briefly. “I found it tedious beyond measure,” she admitted. “Beautiful, certainly. The music was exquisite, the decorations stunning. But the conversations were as substantial as spun sugar, and just as likely to dissolve under the slightest pressure.”

His laugh came again, deeper this time. “Precisely! Hours of elegant nothings exchanged while everyone maneuvers for advantage. It exhausts the spirit.”

“You sound as though you’ve endured many such evenings,” Isabelle observed.

“More than I care to remember,” he agreed with a sigh.

Their conversation flowed easily after that, moving from court gossip (which he seemed to know in surprising detail) to literature (they shared a fondness for Shakespeare’s problem plays) to education (he had strong opinions on the value of classics versus practical knowledge). Through it all, Isabelle found herself relaxing, laughing, engaging in a way she rarely did with strangers.

He had a quick mind and a quicker wit, challenging her thoughts without dismissing them. More remarkably, he listened when she spoke—truly listened, with the focused attention usually reserved for important statesmen, not overlooked daughters of minor gentry.

“You make a compelling argument for Portia as Shakespeare’s most competent heroine,” he conceded after a spirited debate. “Though I maintain Beatrice has the sharper tongue.”

“Beatrice is magnificent,” Isabelle agreed, “but her barbs are protective armor. Portia acts with both heart and head aligned—a rarer accomplishment.”

“Like yourself,” he commented, his voice softening.

Isabelle faltered, unused to such direct compliments. “You credit me with far too much wisdom, sir.”

“I think not.” He leaned forward, the firelight catching his eyes fully for the first time. They were a striking gray-blue, penetrating yet warm. “You see clearly where others are blinded by convention or self-interest. It’s a rare gift.”

Something about his gaze, the intensity of it, stirred a distant memory in Isabelle—a feeling more than an image, like a fragment of a forgotten dream. She opened her mouth to ask another question when the library door opened with a soft creak.

A liveried servant entered, stopping short when he saw them. “Your Highness! I beg your pardon—I did not realize—”

“It’s quite all right, Morris,” the man replied easily, though Isabelle noted a trace of frustration in his tone. “Miss Ellwood and I were just discussing literature.”

Isabelle felt the blood drain from her face as the servant’s words registered. Your Highness. She rose abruptly to her feet, nearly overturning her chair in her haste. “Prince Sebastian?”

The man—the prince—stood as well, his expression rueful. “I had hoped to maintain anonymity a bit longer,” he admitted. “The conversation flows more naturally when people forget the crown.”

Isabelle’s mind raced, reassessing every word of their hours-long conversation. Had she said anything inappropriate? Made some terrible social blunder? And why would the prince—the subject of the entire selection season—seek her out for a clandestine meeting?

“I should return to my chambers,” she managed, her composure fracturing. “It’s dreadfully late.”

“Miss Ellwood.” His voice halted her retreat. “The letter is genuine, as is my offer of assistance for your school. And I have greatly enjoyed our conversation—more than any I’ve had since arriving at Cresthaven.”

She turned back, studied his face—fully visible now as he stood in the direct light of a nearby candelabra. The carved planes of his cheeks, the slight crease between his brows, the subtle curve of his lips as he smiled at her—all of it both unfamiliar and oddly resonant, as though she should know him from somewhere beyond palace corridors.

“Thank you for your generosity, Your Highness,” she said formally, dropping into a deep curtsy. “Though I confess I still don’t understand why you would extend such kindness to me specifically.”

Something flickered in his eyes—a question, perhaps, or a memory. “Let’s call it instinct,” he said after a moment. “I believe you will use the opportunity well.”

Her gaze dropped to his hand, to the scar that crossed it like a pale thread, and the signet ring that gleamed in the candlelight. Something about those details nagged at her consciousness, like a word on the tip of her tongue.

“May I see you safely back to your chambers?” Sebastian asked, startling her from her thoughts.

“No!” The word emerged more forcefully than she intended. More composedly, she added, “That is, I thank you, but it would hardly be proper.”

“Of course.” He inclined his head, a curl of dark hair falling across his forehead. “Morris will escort you.”

As the servant led her toward the door, Sebastian called after her. “Miss Ellwood? Perhaps we might continue our discussion tomorrow night? There are several other matters I’d like to explore with you.”

Isabelle hesitated, torn between caution and an undeniable desire to accept. “That would be… acceptable, Your Highness.”

“Excellent.” His smile was warm, genuine in a way that seemed at odds with the formal splendor of his position. “Until tomorrow, then.”

As she followed Morris through the dark corridors back to her chambers, Isabelle’s mind whirled with questions. Why had the prince sought her out? What could he possibly want from plain, overlooked Isabelle Ellwood? And why did his scarred hand and signet ring stir such persistent echoes in her memory?

One thing was certain—tomorrow’s meeting would either illuminate these mysteries or deepen them beyond comprehension. Either way, sleep would prove elusive tonight, with Prince Sebastian’s intense gaze lingering in her thoughts like a half-remembered melody.