Crown's Wrong Kiss

The amber glow of the candle did little to warm Isabelle Ellwood's bedchamber. Like herself, it was modest in proportion to the ostentatious grandeur that defined the rest of Ellwood Estate-a space that had been decorated with the desperate zeal of new money seeking to disguise its novelty. Gilt mirrors reflected gilt mirrors, crystal chandeliers hung perilously low, and brocade fabrics in clashing colors assaulted the senses from every angle. It was a house that screamed of its own importance, as if volume could compensate for pedigree.

But here, in her sanctuary, Isabelle had created a different world. Bookshelves lined the walls-not the leatherbound collections her father purchased by the yard to impress visitors, but well-worn volumes of poetry, philosophy, and history that had been read so often their spines had softened like butter left in summer sun. A simple writing desk stood beneath the window, where moonlight now spilled across the pages of her journal.

She set down her pen and pressed her palm against the leather cover, as if to seal her thoughts within. At nineteen, Isabelle had long accepted that her reflections were safer confined to paper than spoken aloud. Her father had made that abundantly clear.

"Isabelle! Where have you hidden yourself this time?"

Her mother's voice carried up the stairs, a note of perpetual anxiety threading through it. Isabelle closed her eyes briefly, gathering her composure before answering.

"In my room, Mother. I shall be down directly."

She rose and surveyed herself in the modest looking glass above her dresser. There was no point in prolonged study; the reflection had not changed significantly in years, and never would transform into the image her parents wished to see. Plain was the kindest word used to describe her. Her hazel eyes, rather than sparkling with coquettish light, watched the world with quiet intelligence. Her chestnut hair, pulled back in a simple style, lacked the golden

luster of her sister's. And her figure-well, her mother had devoted countless hours to camouflaging what she delicately termed Isabelle's "fuller proportions" with strategic draping and somber colors.

Isabelle smoothed her hands down the front of her dovegray dress and lifted her chin. She had long ago learned that dignity was a choice, even when beauty was not.

The drawing room buzzed with her father's voice, that particular tone he used when expounding on business matters to captive audiences. Today's victims appeared to be Mr. Harding, their neighbor, and his eldest son Thomas, a bland young man of five-and-twenty whose sole distinction was the substantial inheritance awaiting him.

"Ah, here she is at last," Mr. Ellwood announced, breaking off his monologue on textile imports. "Hiding with your books again, Isabelle? Not very sociable of you." His smile didn't reach his eyes, which held the perpetual disappointment she had grown accustomed to seeing there.

"Forgive me, Father. I was finishing a letter." The lie came easily; she had learned that mentioning her writing or reading only invited ridicule.

Her mother beckoned her forward with fluttering hands. "Come, come, Mr. Harding was asking after you." This was unlikely, but Isabelle approached nonetheless, executing a perfect curtsy. Seven years of expensive deportment lessons had at least granted her graceful movement, if not the face to accompany it.

"Miss Ellwood," Thomas Harding acknowledged with a bow so slight it bordered on insulting. His eyes, already drifting toward the doorway, suddenly brightened. "Ah, Miss Priscilla!"

And there she was-the true jewel of the Ellwood household. At twenty-two, Priscilla embodied everything Isabelle was not: tall and willowy where Isabelle was of modest height and fuller figure, golden-haired and blueeyed where Isabelle was brown and unremarkable, vivacious and charming where Isabelle was reserved and thoughtful. She swept into the room like a summer breeze, immediately drawing all eyes to her.

"Mr. Harding, how delightful," Priscilla exclaimed, her voice musical. She extended her hand to Thomas, who clasped it with far more enthusiasm than he had shown Isabelle. "And Mr. Thomas, I did not know you had returned from London."

"Only yesterday," he replied, suddenly animated. "The

Season was quite extraordinary this year."

"You must tell me everything," Priscilla urged, leading him toward the sofa while their parents exchanged pleased glances.

Isabelle drifted to the window, settling onto the window seat where she might observe without being noticed-a skill she had perfected over the years. Her mother's voice dropped to a whisper as she leaned toward Mrs. Harding, but not low enough to escape Isabelle's ears.

"We have such hopes for Priscilla this year. With her beauty and accomplishments, she might catch the eye of a viscount at the very least."

Mrs. Harding nodded sagely. "Indeed, she is a credit to you. And your younger daughter... has she any prospects?"

Her mother's sigh was barely audible. "Isabelle is... well, she has a good heart and a fine mind. Perhaps a clergyman or a scholar might appreciate such qualities. We shall see."

Isabelle's fingers pressed against the cool glass of the window, her gaze fixed on the distant hills. The conversation was familiar-variations of it had been occurring since Priscilla's debut three years prior. Her sister's beauty had always been the family's greatest asset, their ticket to the society Mr. Ellwood so desperately wished to join. Isabelle was the afterthought, the obligation, the daughter they dutifully clothed and educated without expectation of return on investment.

"Are you sulking again by the window?" Her father's voice, closer now, startled her from her thoughts. "Come, be useful. Pour the tea."

"Yes, Father."

She moved to the tea service, arranging cups with steady hands despite her mother's critical eye. The china was new-Wedgwood, with gold trim, replacing the serviceable but unfashionable set they had used previously. Everything in the house was gradually being upgraded as her father's cotton mills prospered.

Everything, she sometimes thought, except herself.

As she served, the conversation turned to the upcoming local assembly, an event of modest significance that her mother nonetheless treated with the gravity of a royal coronation.

"Priscilla shall wear the blue silk," Mrs. Ellwood declared. "It brings out her eyes magnificently. And Isabelle..." Her gaze traveled over her younger daughter critically. "Perhaps the brown bombazine. It's most... suitable."

Translation: It would best conceal her figure and draw the least attention to her unremarkable features. Isabelle nodded, accepting the judgment without comment. The brown bombazine was a dull, serviceable garment that had seen three seasons already. It would indeed be suitable-for fading into the wallpaper while Priscilla shone.

"Actually," Mr. Ellwood interjected, "Isabelle might wear the green muslin. With the mills doing so well, we can afford to outfit both girls properly." He didn't look at Isabelle as he spoke, his attention fixed on Mr. Harding, whom he clearly wished to impress with this display of prosperity.

"How generous, Father," Isabelle murmured, knowing the green muslin would be only marginally less aging than the brown bombazine.

Priscilla caught her eye across the room and gave her a quick, sympathetic smile. For all her beauty and the favoritism she enjoyed, Priscilla had never been cruel to Isabelle. If anything, she seemed genuinely puzzled by their parents' treatment of her sister, unable to comprehend a world that did not respond to a pretty face with immediate adoration.

The afternoon dragged on, the Hardings eventually departing with effusive goodbyes to Priscilla and cursory nods to Isabelle. As the door closed behind them, Mrs. Ellwood collapsed onto the sofa with a sigh of satisfaction.

"Thomas Harding could not take his eyes from Priscilla. If she plays her cards right, we might have an announcement by Christmas."

Mr. Ellwood frowned. "Harding is well enough, but surely we can aim higher for Priscilla. The Blackwood heir was at Lady Pembrooke's dinner last month, and he seemed quite taken with her."

"An earl's son?" Mrs. Ellwood's eyes widened. "Oh, that would be beyond all expectations."

"Nothing is beyond expectation for a beauty like our

Priscilla," Mr. Ellwood declared proudly. His gaze fell on Isabelle, who was quietly collecting the tea things. "As for you, we must be more practical. Thomas Harding might have a younger brother or cousin who would do well enough."

"Do well enough for what, Father?" Isabelle asked, her voice soft but steady.

"For a girl with your..." he gestured vaguely at her figure, her face, "...limitations. You must be realistic, Isabelle. Not everyone can marry for advantage or passion. Some must simply marry for security."

The cup In Isabelle's hand trembled slightly before she steadied it. "And if I chose not to marry at all?"

Her father's laugh was sharp and dismissive. "And do what, pray tell? Become a governess? A companion to some elderly relation? Don't be absurd."

"I thought perhaps I might open a school," Isabelle said, the words escaping before she could reconsider. "For girls. To teach them mathematics and sciences, not just embroidery and music."

The silence that followed was thick enough to cut with a knife. Her father stared at her as if she had suggested flying to the moon.

"A school," he repeated flatly. "Have you taken leave of your senses? No respectable woman of your station would engage in trade." The way he said 'trade' made it sound like the gravest of insults, despite the fact that his own fortune came from precisely that source.

"It wouldn't be trade," Isabelle countered, knowing she should stop but unable to halt the words now that they had begun to flow. "It would be education. Enlightenment. A chance to open minds rather than simply teaching girls to be ornamental."

"Enough!" Her father's hand came down hard on the side table. "I will not hear such nonsense in my house. Your duty is to make a decent match and not embarrass this family further. You lack your sister's beauty; do not compound the misfortune by also lacking her sense."

Isabelle stood very still, breathing deeply to control the tremble that threatened to overtake her body. "Yes, Father."

"Now go and practice your pianoforte," her mother interjected, clearly desperate to defuse the tension. "Your playing was uneven at Lady Winslow's tea last week." "Yes, Mother."

Isabelle placed the tea tray precisely on the sideboard and left the room with measured steps, refusing to allow her shoulders to slump until she was safely in the corridor. Instead of turning toward the music room, however, she slipped out through the side entrance into the gardens. The afternoon air was cool against her heated cheeks as she made her way to the small stone bench partially concealed behind a stand of ornamental cherry trees.

Here, alone, she could breathe. Here, she need not measure her words or guard her expressions. Here, she could remember the dream that sustained her through days of disapproval and nights of quiet tears.

That dream had begun seven years ago, on an afternoon not unlike this one, when a sudden summer storm had caught her unawares. She had been twelve, wandering far beyond the boundaries her mother had set, lost in a book of poetry she had smuggled from her father's library. The rain had come so suddenly, transforming the sky from clear blue to violent gray in moments. Lightning split the heavens as she ran blindly for shelter, losing her way in the downpour.

Then, seemingly from nowhere, a figure on horseback had appeared. A man, tall and commanding, his face partially obscured by the brim of his hat. He had dismounted in one fluid motion and wrapped his cloak around her shivering form.

"Are you lost, little one?" His voice had been deep, kind but firm.

"I-I think so," she had stammered, oddly unafraid despite the circumstances.

"Then let me take you home."

He had lifted her onto his horse with strong hands and mounted behind her, his arm secure around her waist as they rode through the storm. She remembered the scar on his right hand, a jagged line across the knuckles, and the unusual ring he wore-a dark stone set in silver, carved with what looked like a bird in flight.

He had returned her to the edge of Ellwood Estate, declining her nervous invitation to meet her parents with a gentle laugh. "Another time, perhaps." And then he was gone, leaving her with a memory she treasured more dearly than any possession.

In her childish imagination, he had become her champion, her protector, the one person who had seen her-truly seen her-if only for a moment. Over the years, as she grew from child to woman, the memory had transformed into something deeper, more yearning. In her darkest moments, she allowed herself to wonder if he would still see her now, as a woman grown, plain and plump and serious. If he would look past the face that society deemed forgettable to the heart that beat beneath.

It was foolish, she knew. Romantic nonsense of the sort her practical mind usually rejected. Yet this one indulgence she permitted herself-this single, unspoken hope that somewhere in the world existed a man who might value her mind, her spirit, her soul.

"Miss Isabelle?"

A timid voice broke through her reverie. Isabelle turned to find Mary, one of the housemaids, standing a few paces away, her apron twisted nervously in her hands.

"Yes, Mary?"

"Begging your pardon, miss, but Mrs. Ellwood is asking for you. The pianoforte..." She trailed off, clearly uncomfortable being the bearer of demands.

Isabelle smiled gently. "Of course. I'll come directly." As she rose, she noticed the girl's reddened eyes and tearstained cheeks. "Mary, is something amiss?"

The maid hesitated, then shook her head. "It's nothing, miss. Just... Mr. Ellwood dismissed Sally this morning. Without a character. For breaking that new vase in the hall."

Isabelle's heart sank. Sally was the youngest of their maids, barely fifteen, supporting a widowed mother and two younger siblings on her meager wages. Without a character-a letter of recommendation-she would struggle to find new employment.

"I see," Isabelle said softly. "Was it truly her fault? The vase?"

Mary bit her lip. "It was Miss Priscilla's spaniel that knocked it over, miss. But Mr. Ellwood wouldn't hear of it."

Of course he wouldn't. The spaniel was Priscilla's treasured pet, a gift from an admirer. Isabelle nodded, mind already working. "Tell Sally not to leave just yet. I shall speak with her before she goes."

"Thank you, miss." Mary bobbed a curtsy and hurried away.

Isabelle took a moment to compose herself before returning to the house. Her father would not reverse his decision; of that she was certain. But perhaps she could help in other ways. The pin money she carefully hoarded, the connections she maintained with the vicar's wife and the doctor's sister-both of whom ran charity schools- might secure Sally a position elsewhere.

It was a small defiance, but it was hers. In a world that valued beauty above all, that dismissed intelligence in women as unfeminine and independence as unseemly,

Isabelle had learned to find strength in small rebellions. To carve out spaces of dignity and purpose in the margins of a life that others had scripted for her.

She stepped back into the house, the weight of expectation settling once more upon her shoulders. Her mother would be waiting, impatient and critical. Her father would find fresh fault with her performance at dinner. Priscilla would shine, as always, while Isabelle faded into the background, as always.

But within her, carefully guarded, burned a flame of quiet determination. They saw only her plain face, her fuller figure, her lack of vivacity. They did not see the mind that reasoned and questioned, the heart that felt deeply, the soul that yearned for more than the narrow future they envisioned.

Someday, perhaps, someone would see beyond the surface to the woman beneath. Until then, Isabelle Ellwood would continue to live her double life-the dutiful daughter in public, the dreamer in private-writing her thoughts in journals no one would read, nurturing hopes no one encouraged, and loving a shadowy memory that had no name.

The pianoforte awaited. With a deep breath, Isabelle squared her shoulders and went to meet her duty, the ghost of a forbidden dream still lingering in her mind.

Morning light streamed through the breakfast room windows, catching the dust motes that danced in the air above the polished mahogany table. Isabelle sat quietly, nibbling at a piece of toast while her mother fretted over the day's correspondence. Priscilla had not yet descended, a privilege afforded to her beauty-no one expected the family jewel to rise at an unfashionable hour.

"Bills, invitations, bills," Mrs. Ellwood muttered, sorting through the small pile with increasing agitation. "Mr. Ellwood will be most displeased at the milliner's account.

I told Priscilla that the feathers were an extravagance, but she insisted they were all the rage in London."

Isabelle made a noncommittal sound, knowing her mother expected no real response. The cost of maintaining Priscilla's wardrobe was a constant source of complaint, though never when Mr. Ellwood or Priscilla herself was present to hear it. Her father indulged his elder daughter's every whim, while her mother's protests were merely for show-both understood that Priscilla's beauty was an investment that required proper framing.

Mrs. Ellwood paused at an envelope of thick cream parchment, her fingers trembling slightly as she examined the wax seal. "Oh! This bears the royal insignia!"

Isabelle looked up, her interest genuinely piqued. Royal correspondence was unprecedented at Ellwood Estate. Her mother broke the seal with uncharacteristic haste, unfolding the document with reverent care. Her eyes widened as she read, her complexion alternating between pallor and flush.

"Merciful heavens," she whispered, pressing a hand to her breast. "Isabelle, ring for your father immediately!"

Setting aside her toast, Isabelle rose to pull the bell cord. "What is it, Mother? Has something happened?"

Mrs. Ellwood clutched the parchment to her chest as if it might take wing and fly away. "It is an official proclamation from Cresthaven Palace. His Royal Highness, Prince Sebastian Winthorne, is to select a bride!"

Isabelle paused, one hand still on the bell cord. "I see. And this concerns us because...?"

"Because, you impossible girl," her mother exclaimed, patience fracturing, "all eligible young ladies of quality are commanded to attend a month-long selection season at the palace! Priscilla among them!"

The door swung open before Isabelle could respond, admitting Mr. Ellwood in his morning coat, his expression one of mild irritation at being summoned from his study.

"This had better be important, Margaret. I was in the middle of reviewing the quarterly accounts."

Mrs. Ellwood thrust the parchment toward him, her hands shaking with excitement. "Read it, William! Read it and tell me if I am dreaming!"

Mr. Ellwood took the document with a skeptical frown that transformed into wide-eyed astonishment as he read. When he looked up, his face bore an expression Isabelle had never seen before-a strange mixture of triumph and disbelief.

"Is this authentic?" he asked, turning the paper to examine the seal once more.

"It bears the royal seal," Mrs. Ellwood insisted. "And it is addressed specifically to us-to the Ellwood family!"

Mr. Ellwood read aloud, his voice gaining strength with each word: "'By decree of His Majesty King Edward IV, it is hereby announced that His Royal Highness Prince Sebastian Winthorne, having reached the age of thirty years, is commanded to select a suitable bride from among the kingdom's noble families and those of particular merit.'" He paused, clearing his throat before continuing. "'The Ellwood family is invited to present their eligible daughters at Cresthaven Palace for a period of one month, beginning the fifteenth of May, during which time Prince Sebastian will become acquainted with potential brides before making his selection.'"

A hushed silence fell over the breakfast room. Isabelle found herself staring at her father, trying to reconcile the enormity of the invitation with the mundane surroundings of their morning meal. The gilt-edged cup in her hand suddenly seemed cheap, a poor imitation of the royal splendor they were being invited to witness.

"Our Priscilla," Mrs. Ellwood whispered, eyes shining with unshed tears, "could be queen."

Mr. Ellwood's laugh was sharp with exultation. "I told you the new silk mill would elevate our standing! 'Those of particular merit'-they speak of us! Of our contribution to the kingdom's prosperity!"

Isabelle sipped her tea, allowing her parents their moment of fantasy. The likelihood of Priscilla-beautiful though she was-catching the eye of a prince amidst what would surely be a gathering of the kingdom's most exquisite and well-connected young women was slim at best. Still, the invitation itself was a coup for the Ellwood family's social aspirations.

"What is all this commotion about?" Priscilla appeared in the doorway, resplendent in a morning dress of pale yellow muslin that set off her golden curls to perfection. She yawned delicately behind a white hand. "One can hardly sleep with all this excitement."

Mrs. Ellwood rushed to her eldest daughter, grasping her hands. "Oh, my darling girl! The most wonderful news! You are to be presented to Prince Sebastian as a potential bride!"

Priscilla's blue eyes widened. "Prince Sebastian? The Crown Prince?"

"The very same," Mr. Ellwood confirmed, puffing out his chest. "Our family has been specifically invited to

Cresthaven Palace for a month-long selection season."

"A month?" Priscilla sank into a chair, her expression dazed. "At the palace? With the prince?"

"Yes, yes! And you shall have new gowns-the finest that can be made on such short notice. Silk, satin, whatever you require," Mrs. Ellwood declared, already mentally calculating the expenditure. "We must send for Madame Beaumont from London immediately. No local seamstress will do."

As her parents and sister launched into feverish plans for Priscilla's wardrobe, Isabelle quietly poured herself another cup of tea. The invitation had stated "eligible daughters"-plural-but it was clear her parents envisioned only Priscilla attending this grand event. In truth, Isabelle felt more relief than disappointment. A month of royal scrutiny, of standing beside her radiant sister while courtiers and nobles assessed and dismissed her, held little appeal.

"The blue silk for the welcome ball, I think," Mrs. Ellwood was saying, "and perhaps the pink for less formal gatherings. And we must order dancing slippers, gloves, fans..."

"The emerald necklace will need to be reset," Mr. Ellwood added. "It's old-fashioned now, but the stones are fine. And perhaps a new tiara-something tasteful but impressive."

Isabelle stirred her tea slowly, watching the leaves swirl at the bottom of her cup. In the seven years since that stormy afternoon, she had often wondered about the identity of her rescuer. A nobleman, certainly, given his bearing and the quality of his mount and clothing. But a prince? The thought was absurd. Princes did not ride alone through summer storms, rescuing unremarkable girls who had wandered too far from home.

"And what of Isabelle?" Priscilla's voice cut through her thoughts.

Isabelle looked up to find three pairs of eyes trained upon her with varying degrees of concern.

"What of me?" she asked.

"Will she not accompany us to the palace?" Priscilla pressed, glancing between their parents. "The invitation mentioned 'daughters.' Surely that includes Isabelle." Mr. Ellwood frowned, as though the question had not occurred to him until this moment. "Well, I suppose she must, as a matter of form. Though I doubt the prince-"

"Of course she must come," Mrs. Ellwood interrupted, though her voice lacked conviction. "We can hardly leave her behind when the invitation specifies both girls."

"It would be unseemly," Priscilla agreed, with surprising firmness. For all her vanity, Priscilla had never been deliberately cruel to Isabelle, and occasionally displayed this sort of unexpected loyalty.

Mr. Ellwood sighed heavily, as though the expense of outfitting two daughters instead of one was a burden almost too great to bear. "Very well. Isabelle shall have new gowns as well. Nothing too elaborate, mind you-no sense in wasting money on fripperies that won't catch a prince's eye."

"Thank you, Father," Isabelle murmured, knowing this was the closest thing to generosity she could expect.

"I wonder," Priscilla mused, "if Lord Blackwood's son will be at court during the selection? Cassian, I believe his name is."

Mr. Ellwood seized on this tangent eagerly. "Ah, yes! The Earl of Northaven's heir. He would be an excellent match for you if the prince should look elsewhere."

"A contingency plan!" Mrs. Ellwood nodded approvingly.

"Very sensible, my dear."

Isabelle noted the faint flush that colored Priscilla's cheeks at the mention of Cassian Blackwood. Interesting. Perhaps her sister's heart was already engaged elsewhere, despite the allure of a crown.

"And what of Isabelle?" Priscilla asked again, surprising everyone with her persistence. "Surely there will be many eligible gentlemen at court. Perhaps she might make a match as well."

Mrs. Ellwood's laugh was thin and nervous. "Well, one never knows. There might be some widower or second son who would find Isabelle... suitable."

The familiar sting of her mother's assessment prickled beneath Isabelle's skin, but she kept her expression neutral. "Please don't concern yourself with my prospects, Mother. I am perfectly content to observe the proceedings as Priscilla's companion."

"Yes, that's sensible," Mr. Ellwood agreed, relieved. "You've always had a level head, Isabelle. Unlike some girls your age, you harbor no unrealistic expectations."

Whether this was meant as praise or criticism remained unclear, but Isabelle accepted it with a slight nod. Let them think her resigned to spinsterhood if it spared her the humiliation of being paraded before the court as an afterthought to Priscilla's brilliance.

The conversation turned to logistics-which servants would accompany them, how many trunks would be required, what social connections might be leveraged at court-leaving Isabelle free to retreat into her thoughts once more.

Prince Sebastian Winthorne. She knew little of him beyond the usual gossip that filtered down to their modest corner of society. Handsome, they said, with his father's commanding presence and his late mother's dark coloring. Well-educated, with a passion for literature and art that had earned him a reputation as a patron of culture. Unmarried, despite having passed his thirtieth year, fueling speculation about his reluctance to fulfill his royal duty.

And now, by royal decree, he was to choose a bride from among the kingdom's eligible young women. It was like something from a fairy tale-the kind Isabelle had long since ceased to believe in.

A sudden memory flashed through her mind: strong hands lifting her onto a horse, a scarred knuckle brushing against her arm, a deep voice asking if she was lost. She shook her head slightly, dismissing the fancy. Thousands of men in the kingdom might have scars on their hands. The notion that her childhood rescuer might be the Crown Prince was the sort of romantic nonsense she normally avoided.

"Isabelle, are you listening?" Her mother's sharp voice pulled her back to the present.

"I beg your pardon, Mother. My mind wandered."

Mrs. Ellwood's lips thinned in disapproval. "As I was saying, you will need at least three evening gowns, two walking dresses, and appropriate morning attire. Nothing too bold in color-perhaps grays, browns, mauves. We must work with your... limitations."

"Yes, Mother."

"And for heaven's sake, try to improve your posture before we arrive at court. You have a tendency to hunch your shoulders, which only accentuates your..." Mrs. Ellwood gestured vaguely at Isabelle's bosom.

"I understand."

"Remember, your role is to support Priscilla. To help her shine. The prince will have ladies-in-waiting to attend him after marriage, and wouldn't it be wonderful if he chose you for such a position once Priscilla is queen? You could live at court, with a modest stipend and all the books you could wish for."

The scenario, presented as a tantalizing future, struck Isabelle as a particular kind of prison. A lifetime spent in her sister's shadow, watching her wear a crown, bearing witness to her happiness while subsisting on royal charity. She forced a smile. "How thoughtful of you, Mother." Mrs. Ellwood missed the irony, patting Isabelle's hand distractedly before returning her attention to Priscilla. "Now, my dear, about the question of jewels..."