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Dearest gentle reader,

The London season has begun, and with it, a fresh wave of hopeful debutantes, each vying for the attention of our most eligible bachelors. Some are bold, some are charming, and some are merely tolerable.

But one name, it seems, has already begun to outshine the rest.

Lady Genevieve Sinclair.

A vision of grace, beauty, and impeccable manners, one might assume she has spent her entire life among our most polished elite. And yet, dear reader, one would be mistaken. For while she carries herself like a true diamond of the first water, whispers suggest that she has not always called London her home.

Is it true that the fair Lady Sinclair spent her youth far from the glittering ballrooms of Mayfair? If so, one must wonder—does she long for the life she left behind? Or has she already set her sights on securing a future that will ensure she never has to look back?

And, perhaps the most curious question of all— why is it that Viscount Bridgerton, a man known for his unshakable resolve, seems unable to take his eyes off her?

Yours in scandal,
Lady Whistledown

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A City of Expectations

London was a city of rules. A place where every glance, every step, and every whispered word carried meaning.

For the young ladies of the ton, the social season was both a battlefield and a stage—where fortunes were made, reputations destroyed, and love… love was rarely part of the equation.

Lady Genevieve Sinclair knew this better than most.

She had not always belonged to this world of glittering chandeliers and carefully orchestrated dances. No, she had once lived in the quiet countryside, where life was slower, where the air smelled of lavender fields rather than candle wax and perfume. There, she had been free to stitch embroidery beneath the open sky, to wander through the gardens without fear of who might be watching.

But London demanded something else. London demanded perfection.

And so, perfection she had become.

She was the very model of a refined lady—soft-spoken, elegant, and effortlessly poised. She never stumbled in a waltz, never misspoke in polite conversation, never let a single thread of her carefully woven image unravel.

She had been taught well.

And yet—

From the moment her gaze met his, something in her wavered.

Viscount Anthony Bridgerton was everything she had been warned against. A man who carried duty like a shield, who had no patience for foolishness, who was far too serious to be drawn into the whims of romance.

And yet, for all his certainty, he stared at her as though she were a mystery he had never before encountered.

She had spent years mastering the art of being unnoticed, of existing in quiet elegance.

So why, then, did the most unreachable man in London seem to notice her at all?

Neither of them understood it.

Neither of them was ready.

But the season had begun.

And in a city ruled by expectations, where love was never supposed to be part of the bargain—fate had other plans.