In simple terms, Sophia Benoit's debut novel The Very Definition of Love (Slowburn; 448 pages) can be described as a Victorian-era romance between mismatched pair: Harriet and Lord Alexander. After a chance, potentially scandalous private meeting during a ball risks Harriet's reputation, she bribes Alexander to elope with her. Neither bride nor groom profess any intention of maintaining a proper marriage, but growing sexual tension and emotional attachment risk blurring their initial boundaries.

Benoit uses Harriet's developing vocabulary, as well as additional era-appropriate slang, within the prose as if the writer herself is developing such a dictionary along with Harriet. So, what's the novel really about? Harriet's a cynical wallflower (a shy or overlooked woman) who's given up finding a husband after five failed seasons. Though she reveres uncouthness in the context of language, she's never had a man swive (fuck) her, never self-polluted (masturbated), never even reached crisis (orgasm). Alexander's a rake (immoral man) with no intention of marrying who'd rather spend his time with ladybirds (sex workers or mistresses). However, he feels a near-immediate physical attraction to Harriet, taking particular notice of her impressive globes (breasts), especially the way her apples (also breasts) sit in the chemise (a female undergarment) lent to her by Alexander's favorite Cyprian (high-class sex worker) in a pinch. The two elope in Gretna Green (the first city across the Scottish border), but upon moving Harriet into his house, Alexander is nearly overwhelmed with his desire to swive her. Intense sexual tension builds as the two grow closer, and Alexander helps Harriet discover her own desires, including exploring her own quim (vagina). But the pair's failure of communication risks neither finding the happiness we feel they deserve.

The sexual tension, combined with strong prose and the wholly original use of language, helps carry the book's momentum even during periods in which little physical action occurs (physical action meaning traditional plot movement, not the actual physical actions in the bedroom of Alexander and Harriet). So much of the book's movement exists in the development of their internal desires that even in periods of relative inaction, the pace doesn't slow, never drags. The narrative also rapidly switches between Harriet and Alexander's point of view, heightening the dramatic irony as we know what each wants long before they understand it for themselves. Both characters possesses an inability to express their desires due to preconceived notions of what the other wants based on early conversations, so the 'will they or won't they' is more about the characters fulfilling the physical desires, because it's easy to assume that their satisfaction of those will lead to the type of relationship we desire for them.

It's an interesting story, a twist on traditional Victorian romance, and one filled with several intensely erotic scenes, but Benoit's prose is the star of the show. It's effortlessly humorous, and the writer often includes little flairs of exaggeration for overtly comic effect. Two such instances: When Alexander is conversing with one of Harriet's sisters, he notes, "Why hadn't they sent the Bancroft sisters after Napoleon? He would have been taken care of in weeks." And when Harriet tries kippers at breakfast, "Harriet took the smallest possible share of a kipper and raised it to her mouth so slowly Alexander worried the fish would go bad before it got there."

It's worth noting that the novel features explicit sex scenes and explorations of sexual pleasure, coupled with blunt and vulgar language. For some, these elements may be surprising or potentially off-putting, particularly if those unaccustomed to this level of frank eroticism in historical romance or are sensitive to graphic content. Other readers, perhaps armed with preconceived genre and time-period notions, might possess desires that don't fit with the narrative structure or impressive prose. (Admittedly, I'm simply surmising that can be the case as I'm not well-versed in the genre to know for sure.) But regardless of those expectations, the writing is strong enough to keep anyone entertained even if they encounter a story that differs from expectations.

Two more points need to be made about the overall strength of the writing. It's always satisfying to read prose by an author whose enjoyment of writing manifests on the page. Sure, some of that might feel inherent based on the comedic tone (it might be difficult to imagine anyone writing such a funny book without enjoying it). Still, there exists some intrinsic pleasure from simply gleaning from the pages that the writer enjoyed putting together certain passages. It's a feeling we get from, say, Joy Williams or Tom McGuane that we don’t necessarily feel when we read, for example, A Farewell to Arms—or to focus more on comedic fiction, P.G. Woodhouse.

That sense of enjoyment exists throughout the narrative, but it pops off the page in an included Glossary of era-specific terms both normal and vulgar, following the book's conclusion. Benoit notes that many of the terms should be understood from context clues (she's right), and for posterity's sake, she notes that she relied heavily on Francis Grose's The Dictionary of Vulgar Tongue (1811).

A few of the highlights, directly quoted:

And the following collection of words, used together in the narrative, are subsequently grouped in the Glossary; it provides a particularly laughable moment for those of us with a bit of a juvenile sense of humor (which frankly still exists in most people, except perhaps those that post about politics on Bluesky or Threads):

Some readers simply shy away from genre fiction regardless of a book's overall merit. I'm usually in that camp and have little experience reading erotic romance, but I also think such prejudices are unfair and close-minded. Here, the sharp and witty prose, as well as Benoit's attention to detail that brings both the time period and the characters to life, shows that The Very Definition of Love stands out as an immensely enjoyable read regardless of how it's classified. It's a great entry point into steamy romance for readers who tend to lean toward literary fiction. Take a chance on it, and you'll be pleasantly (and sexually) surprised.