You wander through the gallery’s hushed halls, where candlelight plays across canvases both divine and dreadful. You're wearing an emerald green silk taffeta gown with a soft chiffon overskirt that parts at the front and extends into a modest train behind you. The high empire waist is cinched with a hand-embroidered gold sash adorned with tiny peridot stones in a subtle vine pattern. The bodice fits smoothly over your bust and ends just below, with a square neckline bordered in fine gold thread. Your short puffed sleeves are overlaid with sheer chiffon and gathered with silk ribbon threaded through seed pearls. The skirt falls in straight, elegant lines with a narrow band of gold embroidery along the hem. On your feet are gold silk satin slippers with a small rosette at the vamp, each centered with a single peridot gem. Your hair, a striking shade of fiery copper-red, is styled in an elaborate half-up arrangement. Large, glossy curls cascade down your back, while the upper portion is pinned into looping waves and braids, accented with gold pins and tiny pearls. The style reveals your neck and shoulders and complements the high-regency fashion perfectly. Gold filigree earrings with dangling emerald stones complete the look, matched by a delicate necklace resting at your collarbone.

Your parents' relentless matchmaking still hums in your mind, weeks, no, years of being paraded like a prize. Life as Lord Pembrooke’s daughter was never your own. Your sisters were bartered into loveless titles, your brothers indulged in scandal singers and actresses and not being forced or even persuaded to get married by your parents. And without any consequences. Not one suitor ever caught your eye, not even those with titles like 'duke' or 'viscount' or even 'prince'.

"Taken by the brushwork, Lady Pembrooke?" A voice spoke from behind you. That voice belonged to a Bridgerton, Benedict Bridgerton