From London With Love

01 | a groom of one's own

Ophelia Prescott had three major problems in life.

Firstly, she had severely misjudged the weather in London; her jean skirt was riding up her sweaty thighs. She shifted experimentally, almost sliding off her library seat. She had created a swimming pool. Lovely.

Secondly, she had invited her best friend over to her dorm room that afternoon, but she had yet to actually unpack — meaning that her floor currently looked like an episode of "Extreme Hoarders." Oops.

And thirdly, Ophelia was sitting five meters away from her future husband, and he hadn't even had the decency to propose yet.

Honestly.

The gall.

She peeked over her book. The man in question was leaning against a towering bookshelf, rubbing idly at his neck. He was wiry as an exclamation mark, with the dark, shaggy mane of Edward Rochester and the arrogant features of Mr. Darcy. If Darcy also read German philosophical treatises, that was.

She squinted at the book.

Yup. Definitely Kant, in the original translation.

She was officially in love.

She watched as the Darcy lookalike took a seat in the wooden pew in front of her, pulling out a spiral notebook and a pencil. No laptop. Interesting.

Her phone buzzed.

Several heads snapped towards her. Ophelia dived for it quickly, her cheeks flaming as she turned the volume down. Dear god. She had only been at the University of College London for three days, and she was already making an idiot of herself. She might as well have "study abroad student from Canada" tattooed across her forehead.

She scanned the library warily, but nobody seemed all that bothered; two students were murmuring near a vaulted archway, oblivious. Another student — collapsed in a cozy leather armchair — had headphones in. Crisis averted.

Her phone buzzed again.

Ophelia cursed softly under her breath, fumbling to turn it on silent. Screw it. She wasn't risking the wrath of the English. Not this early on, anyways.

Darcy twisted around in his seat. "Is that you?"

Ophelia froze. "Pardon?"

"Your phone," he said. "Is that what keeps going off?"

Ophelia could have died. She would have rather been chained to a rock, having eagles peck at her immortal liver. Screw Prometheus; he had it easy.

"I'm so sorry," she said quickly. "I thought I turned it down, but I—"

"Relax." Darcy grinned. "Don't apologize for being more popular than the rest of us." He nodded to her book. "Good choice, by the way."

Ophelia looked down at her battered copy of "A Tale of Two Cities." Worn brown leather, gold-rimmed pages smudged with fingerprints, cracked spine — it looked a total mess. But she loved it. Her grandmother had given it to her almost a decade ago now, just before she passed away.

"Have you read it?" she asked.

Darcy gave her an affronted look. Then he cleared his throat.

"I wish you to know that you have been the last dream of my soul... a dream, all a dream, that ends in nothing, and leaves the sleeper where he lay down, but I wish you to know that you inspired it."

Ophelia stared at him.

Good heavens. This man could quote Dickens.

She was marrying him. He didn't even have a say in it.