The start of the London social season was always an affair of grandeur—glistening chandeliers, sweeping ballrooms, and a sea of glittering gowns.

But this year, one lady in particular stood out among the debutantes, not for her sharp wit or scandalous reputation, but for something much rarer.

Lady Genevieve Sinclair was pure elegance.

From the moment she stepped into a ballroom, all eyes followed. Not because she was the most daring or the loudest, but because she was soft-spoken, graceful, and effortlessly charming. Her love for fashion was well known—every gown she wore was a masterpiece, every silk ribbon and embroidered detail chosen with unwavering care.

She was the kind of lady who remembered everyone’s favorite color, who smiled warmly at the nervous debutantes, and who never once forgot her impeccable manners.

Which was why it was such a scandalous surprise when the ever-serious Viscount Anthony Bridgerton was seen watching her.

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A Not-So-Subtle First Meeting

The first time Anthony properly noticed Lady Genevieve Sinclair, it was at Lady Danbury’s ball.

She was standing beneath the candlelight, dressed in the most delicate shade of lavender, the silk flowing like water with every graceful movement.

Unlike the other ladies, who shamelessly tried to catch his attention, she was not looking at him.

Instead, she was inspecting the embroidery on the curtains.

Anthony frowned, stepping closer. “Are you... examining the drapes?”

Genevieve turned her head, startled. And for the briefest moment, Anthony forgot how to breathe.

Her eyes were the color of soft honey, warm and kind, not a trace of mischief. There was no attempt to flirt or scheme, no calculated coyness.

Just pure, gentle sincerity.

“Oh,” she said, her voice as delicate as lace. “I did not mean to be rude. It is just… the stitching is remarkable.”

Anthony blinked. “The… stitching?”

She looked almost embarrassed, lowering her gaze. “Yes. The detailing is handwoven—see the floral patterns? It is French craftsmanship, no doubt. The silkwork is stunning.”

Anthony had never thought about the craftsmanship of a single piece of fabric in his entire life. But now, as he looked at the curtain, then back at her, he found himself… interested.

Not in the stitching.

In her.

“I must admit,” he said, watching her, “I have never met a lady quite so… passionate about embroidery.”

Genevieve blushed, but it was not from shame. It was from joy. “Fashion is an art, my lord. Every gown, every stitch—it tells a story.”

For the first time in years, Anthony felt something unexpected.

Not duty. Not responsibility.

Just curiosity.

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A Dance Under the Stars

It should not have mattered.

Anthony should not have noticed the way her gown shimmered under the chandeliers. He should not have cared about the way her gloved fingers barely touched his as he offered his hand.

And yet, he did.

“May I have this dance?” he asked, before he could stop himself.

Genevieve’s eyes widened, but she smiled, the kind of smile that could soften even the most unmovable heart.

“I would be honored, my lord.”

As they moved across the ballroom, Genevieve was weightless, a vision of poise and grace. Anthony, who had always seen dancing as nothing more than a societal formality, found himself reluctant for the music to end.

She did not try to flirt or entice him.

She simply existed, effortlessly enchanting, as if she had been made from the very essence of beauty itself.

And Anthony Bridgerton was doomed.

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A Realization Too Dangerous to Ignore

Later that evening, as Genevieve stepped onto the balcony for air, she was unaware that she was being watched.

Anthony stood just beyond the doorway, hidden in the shadows, watching as she lifted her face to the night sky.

She was utterly, devastatingly… innocent.

A woman untouched by scandal, too kind, too soft, too perfect for a man like him.

He could not allow himself to be drawn to her.

And yet, as she smoothed a hand over her gown—her fingers brushing over the delicate embroidery—he found himself wondering…

Would she ever allow his hands to touch her in such a reverent way?

Would she ever look at him with the same love she held for her gowns?

Anthony clenched his fists.

No.

She was too good. Too soft. Too perfect.

And he was a man who had already decided he would never marry for love.

So why, then, did the thought of Genevieve belonging to someone else make his stomach tighten with unbearable jealousy?

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To Be Continued...

Do u guys like it shall i make a second chapter? and do you have some cute ideas tips are always welcome!