As the bell above her shop door heralded the arrival of a customer, she gave a guilty start. Based on the heat scalding her cheeks, she was blushing profusely at being caught dreaming the afternoon away. It didn’t help matters that the man crossing the threshold had smoothly removed his black beaver hat to reveal a handsome countenance, a face that no doubt set many ladies to swooning. Quickly, she folded the letter and slipped it into the pocket of her skirt, where she had handy access to it when she needed a reminder that love could be found among the aristocracy and that the path her family had set her on was one worth traveling.

The gent surveyed the various areas of her shop—the shelves lining the back wall, the parallel bookcases with the elaborate scrollwork standing perpendicular to it, the small tables with novels stacked on top of them, books gathered in corners. Books, books, books, everywhere he looked. She could never have enough of them, which was obvious to anyone entering her shop, whether for the first time or the hundredth.

In her youth, a lad had once told her she had a fetish when it came to books. Because of how much she read, she knew the word and that he was implying something untoward, and so she’d bloodied his nose. What she had for books was a healthy appreciation for all they offered, an admiration for those who penned them, and a gratitude to those who published them. She wasn’t ashamed of it; rather she reveled in it.

She couldn’t decide if her customer, who seemed absorbed by all surrounding him, was enthralled by her collection or appalled that so much space was taken up with literary works. Knowing she’d never before seen him within these walls—his mere mien indicated he was not one easily forgotten—she straightened her narrow shoulders to welcome the gorgeous stranger into her midst. “May I be of service, sir?”

He swerved his head toward her, and she became ensnared in the most striking green eyes she’d ever beheld. His black hair, a tad longer than was fashionable, every strand in place, made the green stand out all the more. Her wits seemed to have deserted her, and she knew staring into those emerald depths for the remainder of her life would be an insufficient amount of time to fully appreciate the various facets of them, of him. He seemed at once imposing, yet approachable—and she dearly wanted to approach him but remained where she was, unwilling to risk any action that might cost her a sale, or at the very least, placing a book into a hand.