London, in the full flush of the Season, was a dazzling, deafening beast. To Elizabeth, who had grown accustomed to the profound peace of Pemberley, the sheer onslaught of noise, smell, and motion was a physical assault. The Darcy house in Grosvenor Square was a masterpiece of Georgian elegance, but its walls felt thin against the constant rumble of carriages and the cacophony of street vendors.
They were in town for Parliament, a duty Darcy could no longer avoid. It was also, he had insisted, time for London society to properly meet his son. And so, they had been plunged into a whirlwind of soirees, musicales, and balls. Elizabeth, gowned in silks and satins that felt like someone else’s skin, played her part flawlessly. She was Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy, a vision of grace and intelligence,
