Anthony tilted his head. “I’ve never heard of it. What’s it about?”
The pink color in her cheeks deepened until she’d turned scarlet. “The meeting and subsequent courtship between a gentleman and a lady.”
“A romance?”
She cleared her throat. “Yes.”
“I don’t understand.” It sounded as dull as watching paint dry. “You’d rather be stuck with such a book than one that’s filled with adventure and intrigue?”
“Adventure comes in all shapes and forms. In Pride and Prejudice it’s emotional in nature, and the intrigue is not in short supply either.”
“Hmm…”
She raised her chin and for the first time since they’d met, he saw a determined gleam in her eyes. “You’re not convinced.”
“Not really. Was it popular?”
“The copies my uncle ordered sold out within the first month of publication. The articles I read in the paper a few years ago when the book was released confirmed it to be a massive success. So much so a second edition was printed later that very same year.”
Enthralled by the passion with which she spoke, he leaned toward her. “Why do you love it so much?”
The edge of her mouth lifted, producing the most enchanting dimple he’d ever seen. “It’s witty and clever, and although the characters have their flaws, they grow through their interactions with one another, becoming better versions of themselves in the process. Yes, the hero is arrogant to begin with and the heroine far too ready to judge him unfairly, but as the story unfolds, they acknowledge their mistakes, overcome their differences, and live happily ever after.”
“Unless you’re about to tell me there’s a battle somewhere in the middle, I think I’ll stick with Rob Roy and other works of that nature.”
“Of course there’s a battle, but it pertains to human nature, not to a military campaign or a brawl. But there is a scandal involving a dastardly rogue.”
Finally something that might compel him to give the novel a chance if he had nothing else to read. “Who’s the author?”
“Her name has only recently been revealed as Jane Austen. She’s also written Sense and Sensibility, Mansfield Park, Em—”
“Mansfield Park sounds familiar.” He tried to recall where he’d head that title before. “I believe one of my sisters may have read it.”
“You have sisters?”
He grinned. “You needn’t sound so surprised. Yes. I have two. Twins, actually, though not identical in the least. They’re sixteen years of age.”
“Ready for their debuts,” she murmured, a distant look in her eyes.
Provided he could afford the expense. He shook his head. There was no avoiding his duty. Somehow, he’d have to scrape the funds together. As regrettable as it was, he had no choice but to part with some of his assets. He’d already determined that his horses would help him pay the most immediate bills. And if he sold only one at a time, it was unlikely anyone would take much notice.
“These should be ready for you by three o’clock tomorrow afternoon,” Miss Quinn said. “I realize this is irregular but we don’t accept credit, so you’ll have to pay up front when you come to collect the books. One pound, four shillings will be your total.”
Anthony glanced at the note where she’d boldly written the sum he owed. He nodded and slipped it into his pocket. The time had come for him to leave. His friends would be arriving soon. “It’s been a pleasure, Miss Quinn. I look forward to seeing you again.”
A shy smile graced her lips, accentuating her beauty. “Don’t be too quick to dismiss Miss Austen’s books, Mr. Gibbs. They sold exceedingly well and probably earned her a small fortune.”
Anthony stilled. “Did it perchance outdo The Corsair?”
“Probably not. That book beat every record. But the appeal of Miss Austen’s novels and her unfortunate death last year does leave a gap in the market. As sad as it may be, it’s a wonderful opportunity for an aspiring romance author. Competing against the likes of Byron or Sir Walter Scott would be next to impossible.”
He blinked a few times while that piece of information sank in. “You don’t say.”
“It’s certainly something worth keeping in mind. Don’t you think?”
“Indeed I do.” He smiled at her, bid her a lovely evening, and departed with the thrill of possibility propelling him forward.
4
