Yes, I had every reason to be jealous of my cousin, this “Fair Rose,” as one of her previous suitors had dubbed her. But I could never be jealous of Isabelle. Because this rose came without thorns, without even one malicious thought in her head.

I watched as she gazed up at de Grave, her blue eyes soft with affection. How ironic, that what I most admired in her – her unflagging ability to see the best in everyone, and not rely on others’ judgment – was what was leading to her downfall.

“Why aren’t you two out dancing? Why are you seated like a pair of hens?” de Grave asked Lord Windham and me, his dark eyes scornful as he surveyed the row of matrons seated against the wall. They bristled as they met his stare. De Grave just laughed that strange, hollow laugh of his before turning back to us.

“Miss Delacourt and I were just figuring out how best to fix her fan,” Lord Windham said, smiling at me in a way that made my stomach hurt.

“Oh, Sam, you broke another fan!” Isabelle cried with dismay. I sighed.