Most Ardently Yours

Chapter One

If you’ve ever visited London’s West End, you might well have walked past Baskerville Books.

It’s situated in Cecil Court, a narrow thoroughfare between the bustling theaters and restaurants of Charing Cross Road and St. Martin’s Lane, just a stone’s throw from Trafalgar Square.

Venturing into Cecil Court is like stepping back into Victorian London.

Ornate hand-painted signs hang above the shops, advertising antiques dealers and art galleries, and every December, Londoners congregate there to sing Christmas carols and drink mulled wine, like something out of a Richard Curtis movie.

It was for this reason that I’d never set foot in there, even though I must have walked past it hundreds of times in the seven years I’d worked in nearby Covent Garden.

And I don’t think I’d have ever gone in if it weren’t for the sudden biblical downpour that opened up on me as I was walking to meet Bianca for our Wednesday-night drinks.

Given it was the first week of September and the weather app had promised temperatures of twenty-eight degrees and blue skies, I’d left the house that morning wearing a floaty white sundress and flip-flops, without so much as a thought for umbrellas or raincoats.

So the second the skies opened, I was drenched.

To make matters worse, the fabric of my dress immediately turned transparent, displaying to the world the black knickers I’d unadvisedly put on because they were the only clean pair I had.

In a blind panic, I ran to the nearest shop, tugged on the door, and fell inside in a heap of swear words, sodden hair, and see-through cotton.

I looked up, disoriented, and then I spotted a novel by Lee Child and my heart sank.

For a second, I considered reversing back outside and taking my chances with the elements, when a crack of thunder warned me otherwise.

Instead, I stared longingly out the window, cursing myself for ever having trusted the wretched British weather.

“Sorry, we’re about to close,” a voice said behind me.

I turned to see a man emerging from a door at the back of the shop, carrying an enormous pile of books that obscured his face.

“Please, can I hide in here for a minute? It’s chucking it down out there.”

There was a distinct tut from behind the books. “You can stay while I put out this new stock, but then I need to lock up.”

“Thanks.”

I glanced around the shop, taking it in properly for the first time.

From the boring, slightly dusty window display, I’d imagined it would be neglected and uninviting inside, but it was actually beautiful.

Tall oak bookcases lined every wall, each crammed with books in a slightly chaotic but charming way, and cozy-looking chairs were tucked into the nooks and crannies.

Tables were scattered around the main floor, and the whole place had that papery, faintly vanilla-y smell shared by all good bookshops.

I wandered over to the nearest shelf and scanned my eyes along until I saw Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Half of a Yellow Sun and The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood.

Maybe this place wasn’t as bad as I’d always thought?

“Do you have a romance section?” I called over my shoulder as I walked along the wall of bookcases.

“No,” came the bookseller’s brief-but-to-the-point reply.

Disappointing, but not a massive surprise, given the higgledy-piggledy nature of the shop. “Do you have the latest Emily Henry in?”

“Emily who?”

Seriously? I turned to look at the man. He had his back to me as he shelved books, but he was tall and dressed in jeans and a pale-blue shirt. I could make out the muscles in his broad shoulders as he reached up to the top shelf.

“Emily Henry,” I said. “You know, Beach Read, Book Lovers?”

“Sorry, not heard of her.”

“You must have! She’s one of the bestselling romance authors of the past ten years.”

There was an audible sigh as the man turned around, and I got my first look at his face.

He had messy, dark-blond hair—the kind that made it look like he’d just rolled out of bed even though it was 6:00 p.m.—and a sharp jawline dusted with stubble.

His eyes were a bright, icy blue, the same color as his shirt, and I saw his pupils dilate as they fell on me.

I would have felt flattered, only when I glanced down, I saw that the front of my dress was completely transparent, showing my nipples off in a way any dick lit author would be proud of.

I quickly put a hand up to cover my chest, hoping my face hadn’t turned as red as it felt.

He coughed to clear his throat. “I’m afraid I don’t have any of her books in stock. You can try Goldsboro Books, they’re just up the—”

“I know where Goldsboro is, thank you very much. I just can’t believe you work in a bookshop and you’ve never heard of Emily Henry. What about Julia Quinn?”

He shook his head.

“Beth O’Leary?”

“Nope.”

“Talia Hibbert? Come on! How about Ali Hazelwood or Casey McQuiston?”

“I feel like this could go on all evening,” he said.

“What about Jane Austen? If you tell me you haven’t heard of her, then I might have to walk over there and punch you.”

The man arched an eyebrow, and I saw the side of his mouth twitch. “I am aware of her. But if you’re asking me whether I sell books by any of these authors, the answer is no. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to close up.”

He stepped toward the front door and pulled it open, but I stayed where I was, my arms crossed resolutely over my chest.

“I’m not leaving until you tell me why you won’t sell any of these authors,” I said. “Is it because they’re women?”

“I stock plenty of female authors. I also sell books by trans and nonbinary authors, in case you were worrying about that too.”

“Then what, you only sell tomes that get reviewed in The Sunday Times? Action series with twenty-five books and still no end in sight? Nothing with pastel colors on the cover?”

“This is getting ridiculous,” he said. “Look, the rain has stopped now, so you can safely go on your way without exposing yourself to anyone else.”

I should probably have left at this point—thrown out an excellent, scathing one-liner and marched out of the shop with what was left of my dignity intact. But there was something about this man and his stubborn, sarcastic arrogance that made me open my mouth again.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

We stared at each other for way longer than was comfortable, our eyes locked in mutual irritation. He was the first to look away.

“Fine, if you really want to know…I hate romance novels.”

“What?” It was such a ridiculous statement that the word exploded out of me in a chicken-like squawk. “How can you hate an entire genre of books?”

“Quite easily. And given I own this shop, I get to choose what I sell and what I don’t.”

“That is the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard,” I said. “Like, I really hate cheese, but I work in a café and I know that lots of other people like cheese, so I still serve it to them. That’s how a business works.”

“You hate cheese?”

“It is literally sour, curdled milk and not fit for human consumption.”

There it was again, that hint of a stifled smile. Was he laughing at me? I felt a flash of anger.

“Do you hate women, is that it? Because it’s kind of a bad look to slag off a genre whose readership is 80 percent female.”

“I definitely don’t hate women.” His eyes were fixed on my face, and I saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed.

“OK, well, if this is some absurd misconception that romance novels are ‘badly written,’ then let me tell you that is total bullshit. And just because they usually have a happy ending doesn’t mean they’re any less valid than your boring, macho ‘men’s’ fiction.”

I realized that by this point, my voice was several decibels louder than it needed to be, and I was definitely overusing the fingers-as-inverted-commas hand sign, but I didn’t care. This guy was belligerent, misogynistic, and starting to really piss me off.

“I’m not saying they don’t have literary value,” he said. “All I’m saying is that I don’t have to stock them in my shop.”

“But why are you—”

“Oh my God!” he interrupted, running a hand roughly through his hair.

“OK, fine. I hate romance novels because they’re toxic.

They sell readers—predominantly women, as you say—completely unrealistic ideas of what love should be like.

In romance novels, the enemy becomes the lover, the baddie gets their comeuppance, and the girl always gets the guy—or the girl, if she’s that way inclined.

But that’s not how life works. Enemies usually stay enemies, baddies continue being dickheads, and people break your fucking heart.

So I’m sorry if I hate a genre of literature whose entire premise is to sell readers the lie of the happy-ever-after. There, is that clear enough for you?”

There was a moment of stunned silence, and all I could hear was our breathing and the distant rumble of buses on St. Martin’s Lane.

“I’m so sorry.”

The man’s eyes swung to me in surprise. “What for?”

“Did she cheat on you? Run off with your best friend? Oh my God, did she die? That’s awful, you must—”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Clearly someone seriously broke your heart to make you so bitter and twisted, because no ordinary person gets so worked up about fictional books.”

As I said that, I realized I was very much someone who got worked up about fictional books—I once refused to talk to Bianca for a whole week after she accidentally revealed the ending of One Day to me—but there was no way I was going to admit that to this jerk.

“I’m not getting worked up, and no one broke my heart,” he said, although his deepening scowl suggested otherwise. “You told me you wouldn’t leave until I explained why I hate romance novels. I have now told you, so could you please get the hell out of my shop?”

He turned away to carry on reshelving books, but I stayed where I was, unwilling to admit defeat.

And that’s when I saw it. On the top shelf of the nearest bookcase, misfiled between Paulo Coelho and J.

M. Coetzee, was the spine of a book I knew very well.

I stood on my tiptoes and pulled it out, waving it in the air like it was the World Cup trophy.

“You do sell romance novels!” I crowed.

“What ro—” The man swung back around and then stopped, his eyes narrowing. “Where did you get that?”

“Just here, on the top shelf. Ha!” I sauntered toward the till, sashaying my hips in a way I hoped made me look triumphant and powerful, as opposed to like a heavily pregnant cow. “I’d like to buy this book, please.”

The man stalked over to the counter. “It’s not for sale.”

“But you’re a bookseller. By definition, your sole purpose here is to sell books.”

“Not this one.” The man reached out, clearly waiting for me to hand it over. But some childish impulse kicked in, and I found myself hugging it tighter to my chest.

“But I want it.”

“I can ring Foyles and see if—”

“No, I want this one.”

“Please give it to me.”

There was a slight desperate tone in his voice—one which, in retrospect, I should probably have paid more heed to. But I was drunk on an intoxicating cocktail of anger and self-righteousness, and so I ignored him.

“If you hate romance books, then I’m doing you a favor by taking it off your hands.”

“Christ, just give me the damn book!”

I’m not proud of what I did next. It was silly, petty, and technically speaking, illegal. But in the heat of the moment, all I could think about was getting Elizabeth and Darcy away from this awful man and his cozy but despicable bookshop.

And so, dear reader, I thrust the copy of Pride and Prejudice into my bag, I turned, and I ran.