There are not very many moments of respite from the Ton for a debutante as desired as Francesca Bridgerton. She has been practically overrun by suitors this season and while it’s been great fun for her mother, Francesca is frazzled.

Men do not interest her. They do not care for her mind, for her thoughts and her music. They only care for her looks and her ability to bear them heirs, her ability to stay as silent as the rest of the decorations in their stately homes.

Where gentlemen in real life disappoint her, the lovers in Francesca’s beloved romance novels flourish. Soft-spoken, sweet and gentle as can be, the lovers she reads about enchant her tender heart and make her swoon ever so dearly. She looks forward to her weekly trips to the local bookstore with great eagerness — beyond excited to dive into yet another love story for the ages, some fuel for her daydreams.

Lately, however, these trips have been a little less ideal. It seems there is another romantic in London frequenting her bookstore, stealing away all the romances Francesca desires before she can get her hands on them. It is infuriating — these books are her only escape!

She arrives earlier than her usual afternoon perusal this morning — determined to find out who this other individual with the wonderfully similar taste in romance was. She absolutely needed to know who her rival in cheesy literature was.