The grand Ashcombe Carriage rolled to a stop before the family's sprawling estate, its lanterns casting light against the towering columns of the entrance. From within, laughter spilled out as two elegantly dressed young women stepped down, their silk gowns catching the dim glow of the moonlight. Their cheeks were still flushed from the warmth of the ballroom, their eyes alight with the thrill of admiration and whispered flirtations.
But inside the house sat the first daughter. The one who had not gone.
Isabelle Ashcombe was no beauty, and everyone knew it. Where her sisters had golden curls that fits the stylish trend of women her time, blushing cheeks, and delicate features that made suitors sigh, she had none of it. But she had never mourned the loss of a pretty face. She wanted something else. Something beyond the endless swirl of gowns and the dull drone of empty conversation.
The doors swung open, and Lady Ashcombe swept in, her daughters trailing behind her like slick-clad shadows. Her keen eyes landed on Isabelle, and her lips curled with displeasure.
"You sat here all night while your sisters did their duty?" she snapped, striding toward her. "Do you think yourself above it, Isabelle? Above our name, our family?"
Isabelle closed the book she had been reading, her fingers still marking the page. "I think," she said, meeting her mothers glare, "that I have better things to do than parade around like a painted doll.
Her mother stiffened, scandalized. "You are seventeen, Isabelle. Do you know how many eligible men were there tonight? And you sat here, alone like a governess with no prospects!"
"Perhaps I would rather be a governess, than some simpering fool battling her lashes for approval."
Her sisters gasped, exchanging scandalized glances. Lady Ashcombe expression hardened. "You will regret this Isabelle. A girl who refuses the world will find out that in time, the world will reject her in return."
She tightened her grip on the book on her hands. "Then perhaps," she said quietly, "I will find another world."
The family breakfast table was as grand as it was chaotic. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, making the plates gleamed and the buttered toast glisten. The scent of coffee and fresh-baked rolls filled the air, mingling pleasantly with the rustle of newspapers and the clinking of spoons against plates.
Anabel Ashcombe, lively as ever, chatted between mouthfuls of toast.
"Oh, but you should have seen him, mama! The most handsome man at the ball!" She declared dramatically, waving her buttered knife. "His coat was of the richest blue, I nearly wept at the sight of it."
"You nearly wept because you tripped over your own hem and knocked into the poor man," Charlotte pointed out, buttering her bread with far more restraint.
"That is beside the point," Anabel huffed. "He caught me, and when I looked up, oh, Charlotte, his jawline! Like it had been carved by angels!" She turned suddenly to Isabelle.
"But of course, you wouldn't understand, would you? Seeing as you never go to these things! Honestly, dear sister, you shall never find a man If you keep hiding away like some tragic heroine in a gothic novel."
Lord Ashcombe interrupted before she could protest further. "In any case, you'll all have another opportunity to debate the quality of young men soon enough." He leaned back in his chair with a satisfy air. "We are to attend a special ball tomorrow evening."
Anabel nearly choked on her tea. "The ball?"
Lady Ashcombe clapped her hands together. "The king and queen will be there?"
"They will. " He confirmed and turned to Isabelle. "You will go. It's high time you emerge from your self-imposed exile." He studied her for a moment, then added in a lighter tone, "Unless, of course, you intend to spend the rest of your life in perpetual solitude, frightening away every suitors with your books and sharp wit."
"I do not frighten suitors." Isabelle muttered.
"No, but you certainly do not encourage them." Lady Ashcombe quipped. "If you glared at every gentleman the way you're looking at your father, It is a wonder they don't flee on sight."
Isabelle highly doubted that. But with no room left for argument, she simply picked up her tea and took a long, slow sip as if by some miracle it might contain a means to escape.
The ballroom was filled with laughter, flirtations, and the sound of dresses brushing against polished floors. She watched as her sisters twirled, their eyes gleaming as noblemen whispered compliments into their ears.
She slipped away, moving through the side corridors of the hall, seeking the one place where people would not be lost in each other's gazes- the library.
The moment she entered, silence welcomed her like an old friend. The scent of parchment and ink wrapped around her, soothing and familiar. But as she walked between the shelves, she realized she was not alone.
He stood near the bookshelves, fingers tracing the spine of a worn volume. He was tall, and broad-shouldered, his deep crimson coat fitted perfectly. But there was something about him that did not belong in a court. His features were too perfect, his presence electric. He looked like a warrior, someone who belonged to the wild more than a glided place. His cheekbones were high, his jaw strong. His hair was dark, falling past his ears in waves that refused the neat style of nobility. His storm-gray eyes added to his appearance, making him stand out as both mysterious and captivating.
He turned, his gaze locking into her. She stiffened, ready for the usual flicker of dismissal of polite disregard. But he did not look away.
"You prefer books over dancing?" His voice was smooth but held an edge of curiosity.
Isabelle hesitated, then nodded. "I find the conversation in books more exciting."
He chuckled. "And yet, here we are, conversing."
"Books don't lie to flatter."
"A fair point." He studied her, not in the way others did, but as truly seeing her. "You are not like them are you?"
She stiffened. "Not flocking around you with dresses and corsets? Apologies for being disappointed."
"You are more real." His answer was swift, as if her looks had never entered his thoughts.
She stared at him, men like him who were bold and handsome did not look twice at women like her. She knew this as surely as she knew her own reflection.
"I should go, my family might be looking for me."
"There you are, Isabelle!" Lady Ashcombe hissed.
She barely had time to look up as she was dragged toward what could only be described as social execution.
"Mother, I was quite content- "
"'You were brooding in a corner." And then she was thrust before him.
"Isabelle, dear, may I introduce Mr. Jack."
She curtsied weakly.
He was tall in a strange way. His limbs were too long, his nose sharp, and his eyes slightly mismatched in size.
"A pleasure."
Pleased with herself, Lady Ashcombe scurried off, leaving her to her fate.
"So," Jack said clearing his throat. "I was informed you enjoy...standing in corners."
"Pardon?"
"Because I do," he said earnestly. "I love corners. Less talking. Less people."
Isabelle hesitated. Was it possible she had found a kindred spirit?
And then, he ruined it.
"You see, I am quite passionate about beetle calls."
Before she could look away and laugh, a scream pierced the air.
The music screeched to a halt, the chandeliers trembled, and the doors to the ballroom burst open.
A rush of figures stormed inside. They were cloaked, masked, and armed. Swords glinted and within seconds, the ball had erupted into chaos. people shrieked as tables were overturned, men were cut down where they stood, and guards drew their weapons.
A raid.
She barely had time to react before one of the attackers, reeking of blood, seized her by the arm.
"This one's got noble blood." he growled to his companion. "Seize her!"
"No!" She struggled, kicking wildly, but the man's grip was unbreakable. She caught a glimpse of her sisters, both screaming as they were dragged alongside her, their dresses torn, jewels ripped from their necks. The last thing she heard before darkness took her was a voice, shouting her name.
When Isabelle awoke, the air was cold. Damp earth. Rustling leaves. The scent of pine and decay. She was in the forest.
Her hands were bound, her wrists raw from the ropes. Her sisters lay beside her, unconscious but breathing, their once-glorious gowns ruined with mud and blood.
Dark figures moved between the trees, sharpening blades and laughing in low voices. Their leader stood near a fire—a hulking man with a scarred face, turning something over in his hands.
It was gold.
Panic tightened in her throat.
"Wake the noble brats," he growled. "Let's see how much they can fetch."