Founded in 2010, New York Journal of Books is the leading online-only book review publication. NYJB’s mission has always been to fill the void created by the closure or substantial downsizing of nearly all newspaper book reviews, serving readers, authors and their publishers.
Everything I Know About Love, I Learned from Romance Novels
Sarah Wendell
Sourcebooks, October 2011
Sarah Wendell is better known as Smart Bitch Sarah, one of the two cofounders and fearless leaders of the popular blog, Smart Bitches Who Love Trashy Books. This is her second foray into nonfiction about romance novels after the fantastic Beyond Heaving Bosoms, published in 2009.
Everything I Know is an anecdotal study of the positive benefit reading romance novels can have on relationships, self-esteem, self-awareness, and love. With pull quotes from readers and writers, wit, humor, and the Smart Bitch trademark snark, the book addresses a number of issues from how romance novels help their readers know their own worth to good sex to spotting real-life heroes and heroines.
What the book lacks, however, is a clear focus and intended audience. If this book is written for those who are already reading romance novels, then it’s preaching to the converted. And, as one of the converted, I sometimes felt manhandled (woman-handled?) with the heavy-handed pandering that goes on in the book. The book didn’t enlighten me on anything I didn’t know, though it was fun to read what authors and other readers had to say on the topics.
For those it could enlighten, or at least introduce to ideas—non-romance readers—it’s unlikely they will read this book. And detractors of the genre (those who continue to suggest that romance is dangerous for the poor, weak, feminine mind) will find plenty of holes to pick at. The ideas pushed through the novel are anecdotal, and while the reader and writer comments provide the color in the argument, they cannot be taken as representative. Romance has a readership of 73 million—Does every one of those 73 million people know their own worth? Are they all in healthy relationships? Or are they single but aware of what they want? Perhaps they are just all having great sex.
Herein lies the problem with this book. Ms. Wendell offers no statistics or scientific research. Her evidence is anecdotal and self-selected—and therefore won’t convince those unwilling to be convinced. Those willing to be convinced already are. This is a funny, witty little tome, but it’s going to have a hard place finding a home.
What is most troubling, however, for this convinced reader, is why this book was written at all. It’s no secret that romance is denigrated, the dirty little secret of the literary world that no one wants to admit to and most would prefer to forget. Is it necessary for those who are out and proud to play in to that?
While this book could represent a celebration of all that romance can represent, that topic was covered in Beyond Heaving Bosoms in a much more authentic way. Everything I Know About Love, I Learned from Romance Novels feels more defensive, more exaggerated, more effusive—and therefore less credible than the former. While readers will enjoy having their reading choices and decisions mirrored and validated, in the end it feels much like circular self-congratulations.
Until There Was You
Kristan Higgins
HQN, 2011
Kristan Higgins has danced along fine lines in her past novels finding success while pushing boundaries toward a number of romance novels pet peeves: first person narrators, no hero’s point-of-view, and close family ties (in one novel, the hero is the heroine’s sister’s ex-husband).
In Until There Was You, her latest novel, however, Higgins slides into a more traditional romance format. The story is told from the third person, includes the hero’s point-of-view, and though they’ve known each other for a long time the hero and heroine are not related in any way.
That’s not to suggest that Ms. Higgins still doesn’t play hard and fast with some of the genre’s “rules,” (the heroine has a relationship with another man during the course of the novel), nor does she stray from her signature small New England town setting, and her large cast of refreshingly developed secondary characters. But this novel is likely to appeal to a broader audience than her previous efforts.
Also, Until There Was You is very sweet and a lot of fun.
Poesy’s life is pretty good. She owns her own salvaging business that brings her money and satisfaction; she has good friends and a loving, if somewhat eccentric, family; she has a potential Romeo and Juliet style romance brewing.
Small towns, however, have a habit of bleeding the past into the present, and Poesy’s past comes back in a rush. Her noxious cousin returns to town after her cable show is cancelled, and Liam, Poesy’s first love—coincidentally also Poesy’s first heartbreak—moves back with his daughter. And while Poesy is all grown up, Liam can still give her that blushing schoolgirl feeling.
Liam left his hometown as a loser bad boy; his return as a successful business owner and single dad turns a few heads. But he’s not interested in slipping back into his old role; he has responsibilities and his daughter and a new life to build. He’s happy, nonetheless, to reunite with the Osterhagens, Poesy’s parents and the couple that gave him a chance and a job during his turbulent youth.
Getting a second chance to land the high-school dreamboat is a well-known plot for romance readers, and the relationship between Poesy and Liam is relatively standard—yet the story is not staid. The problems they face, their relationships with the other characters, their relationship with the past, and the choices they’ve made as adults all add color and shape to their story.
With Until There Was You readers won’t be disappointed; indeed, many may find this novel an accessible and engaging introduction to Ms. Higgins’s body of work.
How the Marquess was Won
Julie Anne Long
Avon, 2011
It’s often the game-changers that reap the accolades, but sometimes a novel comes along that follows the rules and conventions so beautifully, that readers are reminded why they love this genre in the first place. How the Marquess Was Won is such a novel.
Phoebe has an undeniable, but mostly secret—as keeping with her role as a respectable teacher at a school for girls—obsession with society columns in the broadsheets. So naturally she knows all about Julian, Marquess Dryden—or Lord Ice, as he’s more colloquially known. As the town trendsetter, Julian makes fashion everywhere he goes, and it is well known that he accepts only the best in everything: brandy, cravats, boots, horses, and, naturally, women.
As a respectable woman far removed from the glittering ballrooms of society, Phoebe never expects to have anything to do with any of the people in the ’sheets, barring, of course, her ravenous reading of their exploits. But fate steps in when an old student writes and requests a visit from Phoebe as a friend and paid companion. Lisbeth is beautiful, rich, and—unbeknownst to her—the final piece in a broken puzzle the Marquess has been rebuilding since his rise to the title.
But a chance encounter with the straightforward and too-inconsequential-to-worry-about-demure Phoebe changes his mind on what he really wants in a woman. Yet he’s worked too hard to rebuild his heritage to throw it away on a whim. And Phoebe has plans to go to Africa.
The romantic allure of the rags-to-riches, Cinderella story is undeniable, particularly if said Cinderella is a loveable, kind character (as Phoebe is) stacked up against the stronger, but mean-spirited rival (also as Phoebe is). This plot device immediately manipulates the reader to the main character’s side; keeping the reader on-side is easy enough as long as the author maintains a balance and doesn’t descend into caricature.
So it would be easy for a writer as talented as Julie Anne Long to set up her story and then cruise through to the inevitable happy-ever-after ending. What truly sends this novel in to best-of territory is the fact that she doesn’t. Ms. Long doesn’t rest on the Cinderella motif, but uses it rather as a background for a strong, character-driven novel wherein conversation, witticisms, and true mutual appreciation become the central focus—rather than a disparity of situation and rescue.
Phoebe’s place in society is uneasy—she is both above and below the Marquess’s notice. As a respectable woman, gainfully employed, she is not part of the deserving poor who might attract his attention in a charitable capacity, and thus remains above his notice. As a respectable woman, gainfully employed, she will never have entrée to the society that the Marquess occupies, and thus remains under his radar. In fact, the Marquess wouldn’t have noticed her apart from the extraordinary circumstances and coincidences that end up placing her right under his nose.
Phoebe is also well aware of her position, and rather than being cowed by it, she embraces the singular opportunity to practice her good manners, but not let societal dictates smooth away her personality. This is where Julian’s interest is captured—he’s known many women, but none have been open and honest with him. None have ever dared to tease or banter. The cost of displeasing him—or indeed being seen as unwomanly—are too high. Phoebe doesn’t have to worry about any of that, having secured a future of her own making that does not rely on Lord Ice’s approval.
On the other hand, Julian, with all the appearance of being free and easy, has been bound by the society he leads, and by his own quest for vengeance. Meeting Phoebe and interacting with another human who is genuinely interested in interacting with him with no thought of gain or social maneuevring opens his eyes to the narrow space he has been occupying, and the possibilities outside of that space.
Watching the Marquess fall in love—and his actions that betray that depth of feeling before he recognizes it—is among my favorite scenes in this novel, particularly society’s reaction (plus a bit with a cat). Naturally he fights his emotions with every weapon in his arsenal, including an indecent proposal, but the downhill slide starts early, and is a delight for the reader to follow.
In the interest of balance, I always try and include what may not work quite as well in a novel, but I admit to being stymied. I loved this novel from the first page to the last, and can offer nothing but unreserved recommendations for any reader who loves historical romance. Or romance. Or good stories. Or really, reading.
The Duke is Mine
Eloisa James
Avon 2011
Eloisa James continues her recent fairy-tale themed novels with The Duke Is Mine, a re-envisioning of The Princess and the Pea. Much like pizza, even a lesser Eloisa James novel is still worth devouring, and while this one struggles a little in resolution, Olivia is one of the strongest heroines of the year—and readers are sure to delight in her story.
Olivia and her sister Georgina have been raised from the cradle to be duchesses. No matter that their father is untitled (though, their mother will be quick to tell you, connected on both sides to members of the peerage), a boyhood friendship and promise has guaranteed the marriage of one of the twins to the heir of a dukedom.
Thankfully one of the town’s most powerful Dowager Duchesses has published a successful little tome: The Mirror of Compliments: A Complete Academy for the Attaining unto the Art of Being a Lady (though it is rarely referred to in a complimentary manner by either of the girls), and it becomes the cornerstone of their education.
Olivia’s intended, Rupert, is not all that a duke would want in an heir. An accident at birth has left Rupert still a child in many ways, without guile, subtlety, or the tools to successfully run his estates. Therefore, his father is thrilled with Olivia, who has intelligence and wit that, while not strictly lady-like, will nonetheless allow the interests of the title survive to the next generation.
Both families are most eager for the match (though neither of the affianced show any inclination). The only obstacle to their marriage is Rupert’s strong and unwavering desire to go to war and fight for his country. Once he returns, he and Olivia will be married.
Olivia is pleased with the reprieve and happy to accompany her sister to a small house party where, rumor has it, another duke is also feeling matrimonially inclined. The Duke also happens to be the son of the esteemed authoress of The Mirror of Compliments, and any potential wives are sure to be put through a number of tests. Luckily Georgina is as ladylike and refined as her sister is not, and both feel certain that a second ducal match is in the making.
There’s only one hitch in the plan: Tarquin, the Duke of Sconce, is well aware of what will make him a suitable duchess, and is pleased to be led by his mother in this manner. But from the instant he meets them, it is not Georgina he is drawn to, but loud, brash, outspoken Olivia. She is nothing like a duchess should be—she laughs too loud, and too often. She is fond of puns and limericks. She climbs trees. But Tarquin has his own struggles, and Olivia’s straightforward, open manner provides a respite from the confusion society can represent.
However, with Olivia’s betrothal, and Georgina’s growing feelings—not to mention his mother’s strong disapproval—there is more than a question of propriety standing in their way.
The most interesting character in this novel is Olivia, who is faced with an intricate and delicate situation: On the one hand, she has Rupert, who will never gain the mental facilities of an adult; on the other she has Tarquin, who from all descriptions seems to have some degree of Asperger’s Syndrome, as evidenced by his inability to understand, predict, or empathize with the emotions of other people.
Damaged heroes are a mainstay in romance, but it is highly unusual to have two with emotional or psychological issues, and it is a testament to Eloisa James that both are only ever shown in an heroic light, with their challenges represented as only a small portion of the whole that makes up each man. Olivia’s ability to see past the surface—particularly with Rupert, and unlike the majority of the other characters—only cements her as a heroine worthy of admiration.
The major conflict in the plot revolves around the commitments of characters that are inconsistent with their own desires. In order for Olivia and Tarquin to find their happy ending, Olivia’s betrothal to Rupert must be severed, as must Tarquin’s tentative agreement with Georgina. Each will come with its own betrayal, and for Olivia, doubly so, and it is James’s not inconsequential task to make these severings come about naturally, but also realistically in a way that allows the reader to rejoice in Olivia and Tarquin’s pairing without painful undertones.
Ms. James succeeds in an unexpected manner with Georgina, which also fleshes out her character in a surprising way (and perhaps leads toward a sequel), but Rupert’s resolution is less successful. Not only is it an easy way out, it also feels as if Ms. James knows she’s cheated somehow, and delves into excess as an apology to the character.
Finally, the Princess and the Pea aspect is lightly handled. Though an excess of mattresses is present in one scene, the underlying theme is in the defining of a true Duchess. Here’s a hint: It has very little to do with the rules laid out in The Mirror of Compliments.
Bad Boys Do
Victoria Dahl
HQN, 2011
Contemporary romances are an endangered species in this paranormal-saturated market, so it’s doubly gratifying when they are thoroughly delightful as well.
In her latest novel, the second in her Donovan Brothers Brewery trilogy, Victoria Dahl taps into one of the most common tropes in romance fiction—but commonality does not lessen its appeal nor its power.
Olivia is a mouse. She’s shy, she’s retiring, she’s boring. She’s not the kind of woman who has girlfriends. She wears neat clothes, and glasses, and her hair in a sensible bob. She’s not the kind of woman who attracts the hot bartender, let alone the hot younger bartender.
Except, after divorcing her cruel, cheating husband and starting to stand on her own two feet, Olivia is beginning to wonder if maybe her mouse persona doesn’t quite fit. A chance encounter with a colleague leads to a book club meeting, and, what do you know? Maybe Olivia is the type of woman who attracts a bartender after all.
Jamie loves women, and women have always loved Jamie. He doesn’t set out to cultivate a bad boy reputation, but after one one-night-stand too many, his credibility is ruined, and with it any chance he has of being taken seriously in the family business. He needs maturity, he needs serious, and he needs it in a tangible form.
There’s a lot to like about Ms. Dahl’s story, but what works in this second installment of the trilogy that was missing in the first is the developing depth of character. Jamie is a boy who thinks he’s a man, but his need for outside validation undermines him. His growth through the story from thinking he’s a man to actually becoming a man follows a tradition more often seen in literary bildüngsroman, but handled with a light, romantic comedy touch.
Olivia also grows meaningfully through the novel, recognizing the role she played in her own oppression—then making and implementing the plan to push through it, even when faced with a set-back or two. While her planning may come across as obsessive, it’s perfectly in character, and little details like post-its in her book club copy of The Last of the Mohicans are wonderful show-don’t-tell moments.
As an aside, followers of Victoria Dahl’s Twitter account will enjoy the sly in-joke of this book choice indicating the deep admiration Ms. Dahl has for the Daniel Day Lewis film adaptation.
Of course, the novel is not all growth and developing self-awareness. Ms. Dahl has a reputation for bold sexuality, and this novel delivers. Her characters rarely have sexual hang-ups—refreshing in a genre that still bears the scars of frightened virgins and forced seduction—and Jamie and Olivia’s bedroom (and kitchen and bathroom) antics are well-handled as further character exposition, from Jamie’s easy eroticism to Olivia’s neurotic justifications. Both characters embrace the sensual side of their relationship, though conflict comes in when Olivia mistakes sexual favors for sexual favors.
The laced-up spinster and fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants bad boy is often seen in romance, but rarely with the depth of character and growth displayed here. The emotional complexity of the serious woman and the not-taken-seriously man provides a touching contrast, and an ultimately believable, sweet ending. Readers may not come away from this novel remembering all the details, but they won’t forget the satisfaction of a warm story well told.
Redwood Bend
Robyn Carr
Mira Books, 2012
Robyn Carr’s Virgin River series is intensely popular for its blend of small town and military romance, and this latest installment does not veer from its well-set course.
Family is deeply important to Katie Malone, so she packs up her twin boys and makes the move from the East Coast to join her brother and his new fiancée in Virgin River. She hopes a new start in a new community will finally allow her to put down some permanent roots and give her boys a true home.
On the drive up the mountain to Virgin River, Katie encounters adversity in the form of a flat tire, a violent rainstorm, and very narrow roads. Assistance comes in the form of a biker gang—and one leather-clad ex-child-child-star-with-his-own-issues in particular.
Dylan Childress had an unconventional childhood, and it nearly destroyed him. Only the intervention by his grandmother and a wind-swept farm in Montana saved him. Now he works hard to leave his Hollywood past behind and move his flying business forward. But his past has left scars—not least of which is the belief that he has no ability to lead a healthy, normal family life.
Ms. Carr may often revisit familiar romance themes, but one cannot deny the strength and ease of her writing. Though Dylan—the commitment phobic man who believes he doesn’t know how to love—and Katie—the Earth mother with healing powers—are so familiar among readers as to defy the need for description, Ms. Carr tugs out the unique aspects of their characters to create a story that feels both fresh and familiar, and wonderfully comfortable. It’s a mark of her skill that Redwood Bend works as well as it does while traveling along such well-trodden paths.
The characters aren’t the only aspect readers will find familiar—Ms. Carr’s setting is peopled with happy couples from previous installments of the series, and the landmarks haven’t changed much either.
For example, Katie and her boys settle into the same cottage that Melinda Monroe moves into in the very first Virgin River novel (Mel has long since moved out and is now living happily with Jack, her bartender husband). What was once an isolated community is becoming a bustling metropolis—though it must be added that Ms. Carr is planning for this eventuality: Katie and Dylan, having reached their happy ending, do not choose to live on the mountain.
There is one final familiar element to this story that raises a number of questions about romance fiction: what it purports to be versus what it actually is. Halfway through the novel (and therefore, not a spoiler concern), Katie discovers she is pregnant. At this point, Dylan has left the mountain permanently and Katie has no expectation of his return. She is widowed and alone with twin five-year-old boys and no job. She lives near her brother, but is new to the community. She has no other family or support networks.
Romance represents itself as a truly feminist literature: written for women by women, often edited and published by women, focused on women’s lives, and representing women as they are now: with family or without, in a career or not, tall, short, curvy, slender, big city, small town, shy, brave, outgoing, quiet. It is subversive and political, with the underlining motive of valuing emotions and connections in ways that other literature does not.
But it often (and this is a generalization) falls down in one very important respect: a woman’s options when facing an unexpected pregnancy.
Babies themselves occupy a familiar but uneasy space—the physical embodiment of love and commitment, they are used as a shortcut that can leave readers who have chosen to remain childfree out in the cold. Pregnancy is often a catalyst for emotional declaration or the kick a character needs to move from selfish youth to responsible maturity. Much goes on underneath the surface of a romance novel pregnancy.
But what goes on on the surface?
In this case, Katie doesn’t consider any option besides having the baby and keeping it, regardless of personal hardship, the toll on her family, the inability to get (or keep) gainful employment, or her lack of support network.
Which, given a woman’s right to choose, is her choice; however, what also doesn’t happen is any thought process that leads to this choice being Katie’s. Nowhere are her options considered, nowhere is her situation examined. It only comes up once, in a conversation later in the book between characters when Katie just says, “No.”
While the politics on this subject are rife with pitfalls and landmines, a genre that has shown itself to be courageous in so many other ways should not shy away from something so fundamental to feminism as a woman’s right to choose what she does with her body. Even if the character chooses to go ahead with the pregnancy, and with keeping the child after the birth, it should be depicted as a choice, not as a foregone conclusion.
Intelligent, educated, practical, strong women know they have a choice with their bodies and the right to make the choice that fits best for them within their situation, their faith, their family, and their own beliefs. And romance novels are full of intelligent, educated, practical strong women. They should be equally full of explorations of these women’s rights.
In Redwood Bend, the choice fits with the character: Katie is very maternal and loves children. It is in her character to dismiss the hardships for the joy of a new baby in her life. Further, the reader knows that Dylan will return, and that Katie will not have to bear the burden alone.
But real life is not fiction. The failure to explore the process of making an important decision such as a woman faces with an unexpected pregnancy—or indeed any indication that she can make any choice but the one she does in the book—makes relating to Katie difficult and diminishes the connection to the reader Ms. Carr creates in the first half of the novel.
Scandal Wears Satin
Loretta Chase
Avon, 2012
Taken on its own merits, Scandal Wears Satin has all the hallmarks of a winning historical romance: a hoydenish heroine, a hero who can barely keep up with her, a long journey, a race against time, and, of course, the sparkle that seems to infuse every Loretta Chase novel.
Yet in comparison to its predecessor, Silk Is for Seduction, this novel fails to find its own feet, losing some of its charm to derivation.
While Marcelline is the genius behind the creation of a gown, Sophy Noirot, the second of the Noirot sisters, is the genius behind the selling of it. With her quick mind, silver tongue, and eye for exploitation Sophie could sell ice to the Inuit and have them placing reorders.
But Marcelline’s recent society wedding has created a scandal even Sophie can’t seem to work to their advantage. By marrying a duke long associated with another young lady, Marcelline has angered a society matriarch—one with an excess of influence.
Maison Noirot may have been on the rise, but the tide has turned, and the Noirot sisters are facing the loss of all of their hopes, dreams, income, and independence.
Their hopes lie with one customer—and she’s about to make one big mistake. In order to save her—and, with no small amount of self-protection, their own business—Sophy packs up her wits, her ingenuity, and a few disguises and sets off on a rescue mission.
The only hitch in the plan is her companion: said girl’s protective brother and a thorn in Sophy’s side. The Earl of Longmore is worried about his sister, but he doesn’t see how a dressmaker—even one as beautiful as Sophy—can help save her.
Until he sees Sophy in action.
The more tales she weaves, the more people she deceives, the more he can’t help but want to see her, the real woman behind the schemes, the one he suspects is more alluring than any persona she can conjure.
Part of Sophy’s charm is also part of her failure as a character, namely the many roles she takes on, the many disguises she wears, and the many lies she tells. Much like readers speculate about the Earl of Longmore, they will be left wondering about the real Sophy; and with very little in the way of authentic characterization, it’s hard to connect to the her—or subsequently invest in her story.
Loretta Chase has created a character so clever, so devious, and so artful that she deceives herself right out of her own story. As the heroine of a suspense novel or even a series Sophy would shine. As a heroine in a romance novel, in which emotional truth and honesty are valued, Sophy struggles to convince.
Further, readers focused on historical accuracy will likely struggle with some of the liberties Chase takes in regard to the role of working women versus the role of noble women in 19th century London.
Yet it cannot be asserted that this novel fails. Much as with the adage about pizza, even a bad Loretta Chase novel is still pretty good.
The secondary characters in Scandal excel where the main character falls short, and Chase’s oft-visited family-centric themes add to the emotional depth.
Certainly, in a world currently obsessed with a naïve mal-a-droit, it’s refreshing to read about a strong, competent, savvy character and the man not intimidated by her prowess.
Still, when compared to some of her true successes, this Loretta Chase novel doesn’t rate.
Heron’s Cove
Carla Neggers
Mira, 2012
Emma Sharpe and Colin Donovan have what one might delicately describe as a “complicated” relationship.
FBI Agents working on the same special ops team, their relationship has been fraught with tension from the beginning. In Heron’s Cove, the action takes place a month after their last case (and the one in which they begin their relationship) and things aren’t settling down.
Colin has just come out of an unsuccessful undercover assignment, barely escaping with his life. Emma’s past as a member of the Sharpe family—a family with a very long history of dealing with art crimes and the people who perpetuate them—comes back to haunt her.
The host of secondary characters, mostly family members, don’t make anything easier as they, too, jostle for position in the new world our main characters now inhabit.
Heron’s Cove is not the book with which to begin this series. Indeed, most of the action, relationship centered or otherwise, was lost on me as I struggled to remember who was who, and why they were there, and what happened previously possibly affecting their current situation.
Author Neggers attempts to catch up new readers but falls into the trap of not having enough backstory for new readers and too much backstory for her loyal fans.
This struggle affected most of the experience of reading the novel: not having a strong understanding of Emma and Colin’s relationship meant a lack of patience for their issues.
Not having much in the way of personal experience in regard to undercover operatives decompressing, I can’t say for sure if Colin’s experience is true to life, however his general peevishness—indeed, if you pardon the bluntness, he’s a bit of a prick—makes it hard to understand why Emma continues to not only put up with his behavior, but tacitly condone it, apologizing and blaming it all on a need to decompress.
Most of the secondary characters make this observation through the course of the novel, but as a further example of Colin’s general unlikability, he ignores everyone, and continues to do as he likes.
Furthermore, while refusing to be open about his life and work, he makes unreasonable demands on Emma, coming just short of accusing her of being involved in the crime that makes up the bulk of the suspense of the novel.
Emma, on the other hand, is a very likeable character, multilayered and nuanced, if a bit misguided in her choice of men. An ex-nun, an ex-art detective, now an FBI agent, she is calm, cool, thoughtful, and methodical. This characterization is handled particularly well in the way secondary characters respond to her—organically and openly.
The crime itself is fascinating, delving into Russian folklore, Art Nouveau jewelery, and design.
Indeed, less time on Colin’s neuroses and more on the background to the main suspense plot would have improved the reading experience. This also felt glossed over, and it’s difficult to determine if this is a result of a lack of experience with the series or an imbalance between the romance and the crime plot.
With all the problems, however, Heron’s Cove is an enjoyable read, and if you are already familiar with the series, you will no doubt be pleased with the progressions made in terms of character growth and relationship development.
Even though I found myself swimming in deep waters through most of it, I was still invested in the story, particularly as it related to Emma.
Readers new to Carla Neggers might consider starting with Saint’s Gate, the first in the Sharpe & Donovan series.
Liar’s Guide to True Love
Wendy Chen
Carina Press, 2012
Upon starting this novel, I thought it was a parody of the chick lit formula:
• single woman, told in first person—check
• designer and brand names dropped incessantly—check
• immediate mention of career, apartment location, and big city setting—check
• quirky family dramas – check
• group of loyal girlfriends, with at least two of the following:
◦ romantic
◦ cynical maneater
◦ smug married/attached
◦ gay boyfriend
Check, check, and check. (No gay boyfriend, but this novel is leading to sequels, so there’s room for expansion as the stories unfold.)
After about three chapters, it became clear that the author is not in fact being ironic about her chosen genre, but embracing it and all its tropes with an all-encompassing enthusiasm that is a force in itself.
Cassandra is a wedding planner in New York City. She loves her job, she has a great apartment (parentally sponsored), and she can boast of a great circle of friends. She’s single, but she’s okay with that because everything else is great.
Because she has a little problem with relationships—stemming from and echoing her tendency to tell nervous, perfectionist brides exactly what they want to hear—she’s let her agreeable nature bleed into her personal life. Her little (and sometimes not so little) white lies have never mattered much before because she’s only told them to guys that never last beyond a date or two. And she can kick the habit any time. Really.
But when it rains it pours, and Cassandra is suddenly swamped with romantic potential. Now she needs to choose between the man who broke her heart and is back on the scene and all grown up, or the new guy who seems perfect, but may not forgive the dishonesties Cassandra has perpetuated.
If you haven’t already pinpointed it, the “tells men what they want to hear, instead of the truth” portion of the story is also the “mounting desire to hit heroine repeatedly over the head with something heavy and pointy” portion of the story.
Cassandra starts off her relationship with Nick by lying about her job, and though given ample opportunity to fix up the miscommunication, fails to do so. Instead she chooses to construct even larger lies to cover up the initial untruth, all while sporting designer shoes, applying designer lipstick, carrying designer bags, and dressing brides in designer gowns.
There are also subplots involving Cassandra’s ex-boyfriend, her sister, her mother, and, of course, her requisite girlfriends all privy in varying levels to the main plot and Cassandra’s relationship-limiting problem.
In the end, it is the Wendy Chen’s enthusiasm that will carry readers through to the end of Liar’s Guide to True Love, and putting it down (or, indeed, offering a negative review) would only induce guilt on par with that of kicking a (female) puppy dog. Lightweight and somewhat predictable, Liar’s Guide to True Love is a book for the beach, perhaps, or a waiting room, or anywhere mindless bubblegum is not only desired but required.
Unveiled
Courtney Milan
HQN, 2011
Courtney Milan’s latest novel Unveiled demonstrates why she is the author to watch in historical romance.
Ash Turner has a connection to one of the most respected and powerful titles in Britain, yet he and his brothers grew up poor and hungry on the streets of Bristol. His sister didn’t get the opportunity to grow up at all. So when Ash returns to England after a stint in India, rich, powerful, with connections of his own, armed with information that will ruin the current Duke and his family of entitled bullies, he wastes no time in doing so, ensuring that his future, along with that of his brothers is nothing like his past.
Margaret lost everything when her father was revealed as a bigamist, and her siblings and herself labeled bastards. Now the man who destroyed her family and her life is coming to stay at her family home, arrogantly looking over the books to make sure that the estate—his estate—is not being squandered. Though her brothers flee in shame to avoid the censure of society and the pain of dealing with Ash, she stays behind to nurse her increasingly ornery father and spy on Ash, ready to use any fault she find against him in the case to have her family declared legitimate and reinstated to their position in society.
This entire story is based on a clear historical inaccuracy*—regardless of parliament’s decision, the children of an illegitimate relationship cannot inherit a title. They can be recognized, but not heirs. So the heart-wrenching conflict of the novel is, in fact, false. Well, welcome to fiction.
If possible, readers should try to see past that. Consider it an alternate history. Or in a place that seems like Britain in the 1800s, but is really taking place on Jupiter. Whatever is necessary to move beyond the glaring error and get into the story, because this is a story worth reading.
Milan has woven a beautiful novel, with depth and breadth and real conflict. Margaret and Ash are not kept apart by a silly misunderstanding, or a contrived fallacy—their problems are life-altering, their decision to be together at best bittersweet.
The characters too have their depths: virtues and flaws. Ash tends to run roughshod over everyone to get what he wants, certain of his own infallibility. It doesn’t matter that he most often is infallible, the practice is still annoying. Margaret is so hung up on family honor that she allows herself to be reduced to nothing, retreating behind a victim’s wall without a fight. They complement each other, each giving the other a priceless, intangible gift, and the “grand gesture” at the end will have more sentimental readers reaching for tissues.
The baring of past grievances and experiences works really well through the course of the story, as more is revealed, and more explained. Ash’s brothers play their part, but it seems to be mostly sequel-bait. Margaret’s family provides a good foil of duty over affection, the casual selfishness of entitlement. But the main story, and the strength of the novel, always lies in the developing relationship between Ash and Margaret.
In short, Milan has infused her novel with those things most missing from a subgenre gone “lite:” character richness, plot development, and true conflict.
*After this review went live, the author contacted me to let me know that, though improbable, the Dalrymple’s case is not impossible—and even has legal precedent. For more information, please visit the author’s blog here: http://www.courtneymilan.com/ramblings/2010/12/13/things-i-shouldnt-say/ where she goes into the legalities more deeply.
Trust
Janet Dailey
Kensington, 2011
Janet Dailey’s new romantic suspense has a suspended cop, a dirty cop, a prison-hardened ex-cop, a reclusive artist, a social giant on the verge of collapse, a money-hungry socialite, a 30-year-old mystery, a kidnapping, and any number of secrets about to pop out of the various closets they’ve been stuffed into.
Yet, the uneven pacing, major plot holes, and missing depth of character renders this an ultimately bland read without the building suspense generally expected from this author.
Trust begins as RJ Bannon, the oldest of the Bannon brothers, drives away after opening up the family cabin deep in the mountains. While a remote cabin that very few people know about may have been useful in many ways during the course of the novel, it is never mentioned again. During the drive back to civilization, he ponders his career-pausing injuries at the hands of a drug dealer.
Bannon is an undercover cop, and he’s itching to get back to work; however, between his pain and the antagonism between him and the chief, laying low for the moment seems the best thing to do.
But that doesn’t stop him from snooping around with a colleague and coming across a child abduction case that’s about to be declared cold. It’s over 20 years old and there have been no leads for more than a decade, but (and here is the first leap over logic for the reader) Bannon is not only immediately intrigued, but also assumes that all other investigating officers were somehow inadequate at best, dirty at worst. It turns out eventually that he’s right—there is some questionable behavior around this case – but that doesn’t come to light until after Bannon picks up the case.
Coincidentally, after learning of the case, Bannon wanders off to a local art exhibit and just happens to meets Erin, an out-of-town artist who just happens to be in her mid-twenties, and who just happened to grow up in very isolated circumstances with parents who have no baby pictures of her.
This is right around the time when all hopes of suspense building are dashed.
The plot is well-detailed, and the many different strands are complicated enough to hold interest, but the holes only get more evident as pages are turned, and the end leaves a number of very important questions unanswered. For example, readers never learn:
• why the Montgomery baby was kidnapped
• who did the kidnapping and how they managed it
• why Bannon was interested in the case in the first place
• why his boss hates him so much
• as well as myriad other, more minor considerations.
What is most disappointing however, is the lack of depth and anticipation in Erin and Bannon’s relationship. The two are apparently so passionate about each other that they can barely handle being in the same room, but readers will have to rely on being told that, as it is hardly evident in their actions or reactions to each other. Occasionally they share embraces, but Erin seems to be running away as fast as she can, and Bannon is more passionate about the case than her. The eventual declarations of love seem almost out-of-the-blue when the main characters have acted more like siblings than lovers.
Unfortunately romantic suspense fans will not get the chills or thrills they are searching for in this dull, colorless read.
Second Chances
Lauren Dane
Carina Press, 2010
Lauren Dane first published Second Chances as a new author in 2005 with e-publisher Loose Id. In the foreword to this edition, revised for publication with Harlequin’s new e-line Carina Press, she states that she’s tried to fix up as many rookie writer mistakes as possible, but that some may have slipped through—or are so intertwined with the story as to be unchangeable.
Readers familiar with Dane through her much more polished later works will find many elements of this story clumsy (and clumsily handled), and those familiar with BDSM flavored erotic romance will no doubt struggle with the shallow portrayal of the lifestyle, but it is clear that the flair, emotions, and risk-taking in her later works have always been evident in her writing.
Second Chances is a very tricky book to review—for one thing, a plot summary is going to be superficial at best in order to avoid spoiling the emotional climax. For another, it brings up a philosophical question that every reviewer must face from time to time: Do we review the book we read or the book we can tell the author was trying to write?
The story starts out with Rori’s return to her hometown after living abroad for a number of years. An overweight, picked-on teenager, Rori had left her small town as soon as she could, escaping her mother’s relentless criticism, her sister’s perfection, and the disinterest of her high-school crush. A few years overseas, weight loss, a strong influx of confidence, and a career as a writer, and Rori is ready to face her ghosts and return home.
In no time at all, the guys who ignored her in high school are flocking around, and Rori has more dates than she knows what to do with—including Jude, the bad boy cop who played a starring role in Rori’s teenage dreams. But Jude’s not a one-woman man, and Rori holds herself in too high esteem to be one of a harem. And then there’s the matter of her best friend’s little brother, Zach, who isn’t quite so little anymore.
Three quarters of the way through this book, Dane takes an enormous risk—one almost unheard of in the romance genre. It’s ballsy, unexpected, and downright shocking.
Does it work?
Kind of.
Those rookie giveaways that I spoke of above let Dane down. If she were to write the story now, it’s likely the plot twist would have huge payouts. As it is, she brazens through, but the effort is clear, and the story slips away from her a little bit. The emotional payout isn’t as strong as it should be, as it really needs to be, but the potential is there, and readers will respond to that more than the actual text on the page. It can hardly be classified as a failure, but nor does the story really succeed.
So the result of the philosophical dilemma comes to this: Second Chances by Lauren Dane as it is written has flaws, but Second Chances by Lauren Dane as an indication of where Dane, the writer, can go, is surprising, exciting, and brimming with possibilities.
The Girl in the Steel Corset
Kady Cross
Harlequin Teen, 2012
In her acknowledgements, Ms. Cross refers to this story as The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen meets Young X-Men—a perfect descriptor for this YA venture into steampunk. Readers of historical romance may feel a sense of familiarity about the style and cadence of the story—Kady Cross is a pseudonym for historical romance writer Kathryn Smith.
The main focus of the story (and wearer of the steel corset) is an unusual girl named Finley Jayne. Finley is verging on being unemployable: She has a bad habit of defending herself against those who would take advantage of her lower station— and besting them, thanks to a dark shadow that lies deep within her.
Unfortunately, being a servant in Victorian times means an inequality among the classes in the justice system, and Finley is either sacked immediately, or must run to avoid prosecution. This leaves her without references—and the upper echelons of society do talk among themselves.
She is fast running out of options, and she has no one she can turn to. So it’s a blessing (albeit one fraught with its own kind of danger) when after fighting off yet another rich son come to play with the housemaid, she runs straight into the bicycle of Griffin King. Griffin understands about her shadow-self; after all, he has some hidden talents of his own. His is one of the oldest, most powerful titles in the country, and he uses it to create a safe house for those like him, those with powers or gifts that would otherwise see them used or jailed. For the first time in her life Finley feels like she belongs.
Of course, nothing is ever as easy as it could be, and Finley faces distrust from the others in Griffin’s household, danger from the madman they are trying to bring down, and fear of her own shadow-self as it seems to grow stronger and stronger.
The strength in this book lies in the characters. Finley Jayne is wonderful for a young adult readership, strong and vulnerable, with her own insecurities, aspirations, goals, and fears. The Finley/Dark Finley character is textbook Jung, as is the reconciliation between her two parts, and her struggle could easily be related to any part of themselves readers may wish didn’t exist. The secondary characters are also engaging, though readers should be warned: There is an unresolved love triangle. As with the Twilight series, you may find yourself on Team Griffin or Team Jack (this reviewer puts herself firmly in the latter).
The science tends toward deus ex machina as the organites (the main source of power in Ms. Cross’s steampunk universe) display previously unknown benefits at opportune times, though the variety and versatility of the mechs or robots is enjoyable.
There is a mystery plot that engages our characters for most of this novel, but readers will be able to see right through it. Steel Corset is a character and world-building exercise for Ms. Cross, an introduction to the steampunk Scooby gang who will carry through the rest of her series. As such, though there is resolution to a subplot, the remainder of the novel feels unfinished, and readers may be disappointed by the non-ending that clearly leads into book two.
Shortly, this new series shows promise and provided an enjoyable reading experience; however, while the characters and world-building are engaging, readers will have to wait until at least the next book for an equally engaging plot.
My Soul to Steal
Rachel Vincent
Harlequin Teen, 2010
With the plethora of young adult paranormal series available in a post-Twilight world, it can be very difficult to separate the wheat from the chaff—especially as every series proclaims itself The New Twilight! in cover copy and marketing text. At the risk of sounding unprofessionally gushy, allow me to direct you to this series. Rachel Vincent’s Soul Screamers series is the wheat out there, and the fourth installment, My Soul to Steal, is sure to keep this series at the top of any reader’s must-buy list.
Book three, My Soul to Keep, ends on a dramatic (and traumatic) emotional note, and book four, My Soul to Steal, is left to pick up the pieces, which makes Soul to Steal the first “series” book in that there’s no point in reading it if you haven’t read the first three. But, then again, the main point of this review is that you should run, not walk, to the nearest store to get all four, curl up on the couch, tell everyone to leave you alone, and gorge yourself on these books.
The basic premise of the series is that bean sidhe (banshees to the rest of us) exist among us, and Kaylee Cavanagh is one. Only she doesn’t know about it because her family has decided to keep it from her. Instead, she believes she’s insane, unable to stop from screaming uncontrollably, until she meets Nash, who is a male bean sidhe, recognizes her for what she is, and begins the process of teaching her about her abilities, her heritage, and the netherworld that runs parallel to our own. The two have many adventures, involving demons, reapers, and the odd high-school drama.
Without giving away plot points that will spoil the first three books, My Soul to Steal, sees the focus of the series diversify. Nash and Kaylee and their relationship still take center stage, but there is growth and development of secondary characters as they step up to take on major roles and plot points of their own. Readers are also introduced to Sabine, Nash’s ex, newly arrived in town and determined to make trouble. Sabine is an excellent character, one to love to hate, and a great foil for Kaylee—the latter being often too caught up in the thinking, the former almost all about the doing. We are also treated to a stronger portrayal of Tod, Nash’s brother, who up to this point hasn’t been much more than a nuisance. Unlike Kaylee and Nash, who remain mired in the dregs of the past, Tod sees significant growth in My Soul to Steal, and becomes the emotional center of this title in the series.
The paranormal is well balanced by the young adult—Kaylee and Nash deal with parents, school, curfews, and after-school jobs like normal teenagers. One of the strongest aspects of this series is the mature way that Vincent deals with teenage sex. Unlike other YA series that either ignore or preach, Vincent faces teenage desire face on, recognizing that it is a factor in the relationship, handling it in a way that reads true for both her characters and her setting, without ever falling into didacticism or clumsy morality.
My Soul to Steal is not a complete novel, but a bridge between the first three stories and whatever comes next. However, it opens up myriad possibilities and continues building on the intricate, elaborate, and fascinating world Vincent has created. My only criticism is that it will definitely be too long a wait for book five.
Baby, Drive South
Stephanie Bond
Mira, 2011
With the focus in romance so heavily on the clawed and fanged, it’s lovely to be reminded just how enjoyable a straight contemporary romance is.
The town of Sweetness, Georgia, was swept off the landscape when a tornado came storming through. With an already struggling economy and insufficient funds from State Disaster Relief, it’s looking likely that it’ll be swept off the map as well.
Enter the Armstrong brothers, back from their tours of duty and eager to rebuild their home. Along with an army of local men and friends from the forces plus a grant for the government, they’re on track to meet their deadlines—until the men rebel. Four hours from the nearest city, Sweetness may be a dream in progress, but it’s not a whole lot of fun. They want women.
So an ad is judiciously placed in a northern town suffering the same poor economy that Sweetness once faced, asking for 100 women with a pioneering spirit to join the efforts. Duly, 100 women answer and arrive in Sweetness. Included in their number is Nikki, a doctor escaping a town where everyone knows about her ex-fiancé, his cheating ways, and her humiliation.
Having been cuckolded by a stripper, Nikki has decided to just accept the fact that she’s not a woman men fall for, and to throw herself into her career; however, that doesn’t mean the wound isn’t still open and gaping, so when Porter implies within minutes of her arrival what Nikki has only just accepted, she decides enough is enough. She may not go back to her hometown, but she doesn’t have to stay here, where the men may be attractive, but they are also clearly jerks. If only her van would start.
It must be noted that Baby Drive South has a lot of recycled plot lines, but Stephanie Bond’s mature style and strong writing ensures she has constant control, and one of those plot lines in particular works very well.
The attractive-but-doesn’t-know-it heroine is practically a schtick in romance, so often does she appear; yet when handled correctly, she can also be very powerful. Nikki has always thought of herself as smart-not-sexy, and her ex-fiance’s choice of extracurricular activities has only cemented her low self-worth. Her background adds depth to the conflict set-up between her and Porter in a very real way: His throwaway comment hits her exactly where it will cause the most damage, but leaves him confused as to what has actually happened between them. Watching Nikki rediscover her emotional self (just a warning—there is the seemingly obligatory makeover) is almost as enjoyable as watching Porter move beyond his womanizing ways.
Readers will also be familiar with some of the other plotlines, including a gentle feminist push, when Nikki faces resistance to her clinic from men who would prefer being treated by one of the boys (regardless of a lack of medical training).
But for all that seems revisited, there is enough to keep the story fresh. The modern pioneer plot adds an enjoyable duck-out-of-water layer, as do the complications in mixing northern women and southern men. The underlying message about green energy and recycling is also a lovely, contemporary angle that does not stray into preaching.
What works best, however, in Baby Drive South is the humor. Ms. Bond has a subtle touch, and the humor is pervasive, rather than stemming from over-the-top situations or contrived circumstances. Readers will find themselves smiling, without being able to pinpoint exactly why, and this delight colors the entire reading experience.
Also to be celebrated are the remaining two brothers, each of whom will have a story of their own (observant readers should be able to pick out the pairings already).
A comfortable blend of the familiar and the fresh, Baby Drive South won’t win points for originality, but it’s a perfectly lovely way to spend an afternoon.
The Countess
Lynsay Sands
Avon, 2011
Lynsay Sands’s latest historical romance, The Countess, begins with a flawed premise and then proceeds downhill. Readers of humorous historical novels have come to expect more from this author.
Christiana marries out of desperation. Her father has gambled far beyond what the estate can afford, and the creditors are closing in. Though Dickie seems kind prior to the wedding—and agrees to pay off her father’s markers—he soon descends into cruelty and emotional abuse.
For 12 months, Christiana is isolated from her friends and family, from any kindness or compassion. She becomes a shadow of her former self, miserable and lonely.
Then three things happen: her father gambles again, her sisters show up on her doorstep in need of funds, and Dickie dies in his study. In lieu of letting the world know of Dickie’s death, the sisters instead decide to hide it, allowing them to avoid going into mourning so that Suzette, Christiana’s younger sister, can find a husband willing to make a financial deal and thereby resolve her father’s gambling debts.
Herein lies the flawed premise: As a widow, Christiana would no longer live under her husband’s thumb; and though she may not inherit the entailed portions of the estate, surely it would make sense to call in a lawyer and examine her new financial situation in lieu of haring off on a madcap Weekend at Bernie’s-style scheme? In particular, her dowry may revert back to her keeping, and the book makes a point of mentioning a severe lack of family, so it’s possible her financial situation is very solid indeed.
However, legal machinations are not explored, and the sisters pack ice around the body to keep it from decomposing too badly before heading off to a ball to document likely bachelors.
That’s when Dickie’s twin shows up.
It turns out Dickie was not who he says he was; nor have events transpired quite as he had explained them. Cases of mistaken identities, fratricide, illegitimate marriages, and untimely losses of virginity ensue, as Christiana tries to figure out what is going on, who she really married, who her husband is now, and what the past year has meant. There’s also a small matter of a blackmailer and further murder attempts before the book finally stumbles to its clumsy conclusion.
Reading a Lynsay Sands novel has always been more about a romp than historical precision, but even common sense seems to have deserted The Countess. Not only does the book start with a glaring oversight, but the conclusion to the suspense sub-plot is amateurish, and at least one sex scene is jaw-droppingly unrealistic. I don’t care how caught up in the moment the characters are, no one starts a romantic interlude laying atop a dead body.
Even Sands’s trademark humor is absent, leaving The Countess with very few redeeming qualities. The cover is lovely. There’s some humor to be had in the clichéd resolution of the murder. But mostly, there is only the guilty pleasure of dissecting the many ways in which the story goes very, very wrong.
The Accidental Wedding
Anne Gracie
Berkley, 2010
One of the most accurate and inaccurate criticisms leveled at the romance genre is that they are all the same. It’s accurate because—let’s face it—the reader goes into the story knowing how it is going to end. In fact, it is this guarantee of a happy ending that keeps many (if not most) romance readers returning to the genre again and again. However, the criticism is also inaccurate because, as in many things, it’s the journey, not the destination that counts.
What the criticism has tapped into, however, is that romance novels are often a series of language tags and allusions that create what authors Jayne Ann Krentz and Linda Barlow describe as a “code clearly understood by readers but opaque to others.” In other words, what some readers see as formulaic, others recognize as signposts as to the type and style of novel they are about to enjoy.
But a cliché is still a cliché, signpost or not, and authors need to be very careful lest their reworked plots become less “code” and more “tired, overused, and trite.”
Somehow, Anne Gracie never missteps.
Take, for example, her latest novel The Accidental Wedding. The plot synopsis reads like a dream list for mockery: amnesia? Check. Impoverished, yet feisty heroine? Check. Hero looking for “suitable” wife? Check. Adorable, precocious children? Check that one five times, one for each of our heroine’s poor half-siblings, under her care since being orphaned by the death of their shared father.
It doesn’t seem to matter though. Anne Gracie’s writing dances that thin line between always familiar and always fresh. She is able to take a Cinderella story (which, at its most basic, is exactly what Accidental Wedding is) with all the inherent—and comfortable—tradition, mix in a few recognizable elements (the characters of the suitable-wife-seeking hero and strong-and-feisty heroine are well-known in romance), add a dash of the unexpected (beekeeping and a culpable father), and a sprinkling of the unpredictable (children in romance occupy an uneasy position between diabetes-inducingly cute and adults-in-smaller-bodies), and come up with a luscious indulgence of a novel.
There are some slight off-notes—the resolution of the hero’s issues, for example, happens very quickly. This can be explained—but not away—by the fact that the hero himself never really bought into the issues, but rather attempted to splice them onto his character as the logical thing to feel (forgetting, of course, that feelings have very little to do with logic). A house party toward the denouement also parades the requisite happy couples from previous novels across the page, but it must be said that the context set-up for this meeting does make sense, even if it hits upon a personal pet-peeve.
All quibbles aside, The Accidental Wedding is warm and sweet, tempered with bursts of piquancy and a dash or three of spice. Like chocolate and chilli, this novel is your favorite comfort food, with an unexpected—delicious—twist.
Midnight Kiss: Midnight Confessions\Midnight Surrender\Midnight Assignment
Robyn Carr, Jean Brashear, Victoria Dahl
Mira, 2010
Mistletoe, long evenings beside warm fires, even the inevitable eggnog-related indiscretion: It’s no wonder that romance jumps on the holiday bandwagon like no other genre. Publishers especially like holiday-themed anthologies, serving to both launch new authors and introduce readers to long running series they might not yet have tried (or not know where to start). Midnight Kiss does both, with a bit of a twist, focusing on New Year’s Eve instead of the traditional Christmas story.
Robyn Carr anchors the anthology, opening with “Midnight Confessions,” set in her long-running Virgin River world. Part military, part small town America, this series focuses on an isolated village, set high in the mountains, with more than its fair quota of happy couples. In fact, the major drawback of this story is those happy couples—Carr falls headlong into the post-happy-ever-after-ending trap often seen in continuing series, where all characters from all previous books must somehow pass through the narrative to display not only their continuing joy, but also their fecundity, and previous characters are named, as are their many (many) children. Lacking only a “as seen in Virgin River novel X” tag, these families add very little value to the series and enormous amounts of schmaltz.
Coupled with a slow build and too past-heavy focus, the parade of characters past leads to an overall anemic story, which is a shame, really, because Carr otherwise manages to create what is sorely lacking in many romances today—namely a sense of connection and understanding between her characters that goes deeper than physical attraction. The vast majority of interaction between Drew and Sunny is through dialogue, displaying a subtlety and grace of writing rarely seen in shorter pieces. The end result is an easy belief that these two characters have forged a lasting link beyond a chance meeting.
If there is such a thing as romance reader kryptonite, newcomer Jean Brashear taps into it with “Midnight Surrender” and a hero with an Irish accent. We readers aren’t supposed to play favorites, but there’s something about a hero with a lilt. Add into the mix that he’s handsome (naturally), handy, and willing to take on a very difficult heroine because he sees her inner pain, and we’ve got a blueprint for a tearjerker of a tale. While Brashear occasionally takes Jordan’s “man-eater” characterization to the extremes, with Will being just a bit too understanding, compassionate, and sympathetic for strict realism, watching their interaction and character growth is a lot of fun—and may necessitate a tissue or two.
The final story in Midnight Kiss is the strongest, providing a satisfying ending to the anthology. Victoria Dahl investigates the exciting world of bank takeovers (no, really) in “Midnight Assignment,” throwing together two characters with a past, who desperately want to get through the present so as to avoid each other in the future. Dahl is a relative newcomer, but definitely a name to watch in both contemporary and historical romance, and this novella demonstrates why: It’s sexy and engaging, with a solid emotional punch.
Short stories in romance anthologies require a different skill set than that for writing novels, and many authors fall short (if you’ll forgive the pun) of their goal—that is, they are unable to create a believable relationship with the truncated page count.
Midnight Kiss proves an exception, however, as each author is able to build a credible romance, and therefore contribute to what is, on the whole, an enjoyable, if not ultimately memorable, holiday read.
Wedding of the Season
Laura Lee Guhrke
Avon, 2010
Wedding of the Season is not a part of Laura Lee Guhrke’s Girl-Bachelor series, but the start of the new Abandoned at the Altar series. Some of the characters from Girl-Bachelor do appear, but only as the plot requires, and Guhrke thankfully does not fall into that most common of romance traps: parading around previous characters to display their ongoing happiness.
Like the characters in the Girl-Bachelor books, Wedding’s heroine Beatrix is unmarried, but as the daughter of an Earl, she occupies the upper echelon of society, and has not needed to seek employment to support herself. Further, she very much wants to be married, and begin the life she was raised to lead—one of land ownership, social responsibilities, good deeds, and the proliferation of aristocratic lines.
She had thought to lead this life with Will, the proverbial boy-next-door, heir to a Dukedom, and the boy she’s loved since they were children; however, Will thwarts those plans by leaving to pursue his archaeological dreams in Egypt two weeks before the wedding, leaving her devastated and subject to gossip and conjecture.
Six years later, she is finally over her childhood love, and engaged to a wonderful, kind, steady man who shares her values and has no interest in Egypt whatsoever. Her life is back on track, and she’s ready to face the future. Which only makes it that much more frustrating when she runs into Will—literally—back in England and very much the same.
Beatrix and Will may as well be labeled “status quo” and “new world order.” Trix represents all the social customs and mores of the British aristocracy. She is concerned with chaperones and etiquette, social responsibility and practices. She has the weight of Britain’s history behind her, and she sees no reason to stray.
Will, however, recognizes that the social hierarchy is failing. Estates no longer have the ability to sustain themselves, let alone townhouses, numerous servants, and a lavish, idle lifestyle. Though he is a duke, with all the power and status that the title conveys, he refuses to rest on the circumstances of his birth, and yearns to make a name (and a fortune) for himself by himself.
This dichotomy is where the romantic tension in the story lies. Beatrix wants to hold on to the idyllic past (which, admittedly, has held for centuries), whereas Will is determined to go boldly into the future. Trix thinks Will is neglecting his responsibilities and abandoning his life and history, whereas Will thinks Trix is holding on to traditions that are not only over, but keeping her caged.
There’s also the matter of Beatrix’s fiance, but really, he’s trivial to the greater story.
The historical romance genre is powered on the Regency period. Yes, some stray into Georgian (though the social mores are quite close), and there are the occasional forays into the medieval era and the American Old West, but for the most part, when historical romance readers read, they read Regency.
So when Guhrke introduced her new Girl-Bachelor series, set at the turn of the 20th century, it was a double-edged sword. On the one edge is the Regency burnout that a lot of historical readers experience, and the excitement of a new era, setting, and culture to explore. But dancing on the other edge is an unfamiliarity that will be, well, unfamiliar. After all, after reading hundreds—in some cases, er, thousands—of Regency romances, a reader will start to develop a certain intimacy with the period. Authors no longer have to explain the importance of an invitation to Almacks, or what a pelisse is, or why no self-respecting young woman would approach a gentleman without an introduction. But these shortcuts don’t exist in an unexplored time period, and most readers will find themselves in uncharted waters—both in terms of the setting, but also in terms of being in uncharted waters.
This can create enormous hurdles for the author, who has to educate the reader on the cultural nuances of her chosen time period, without compromising an emotionally engaging story for didacticism.
For the most part, Guhrke achieves this balance, but there are occasions when her setting gets away from her. Hard to say if it’s an author or an editor choice, but there is a lot of description in the novel, and a fair bit of repetition that can occasionally lead to the reader feeling as if they are being hit over the head with a “pay attention—this is a period-appropriate custom” stick.
The result is that the setting becomes the most important character in the novel, and overshadows the romantic plot. This isn’t helped by the fact that the main conflict doesn’t change from the prologue to the conclusion. Will wants the future; Beatrix wants the past. Wash, rinse, repeat.
Delight can be found, however, in the details of the new era: the fact that Beatrix drives a motorcar (complete with a driving coat and goggles) is a fun little clue that she’s not as mired in the past as might otherwise be suspected. The information about the excavations in Egypt and the thrill of the search goes a long way to explain Will’s actions. And the descriptions of women’s bathing costumes as the characters take a seaside vacation is enough to make me very happy I live in the 21st century.
Delight can also be found in the strength of Guhrke’s writing, to which her fans can attest. The secondary characters are particularly enjoyable, and it appears as if two in particular are going to show up as main characters in the next book in this series.
Innovative, nuanced, and just a little setting-heavy, Wedding of the Season is a book well worth reading—even if only to send the message to romance publishers that “historical” can (and should!) mean more than Regency romances.
If He’s Dangerous
Hannah Howell
Zebra, 2011
If He’s Dangerous is a pastoral love story cradled from beginning to end by a writer clearly in control of her craft.
Lorelei first meets Argus Wherlocke when he appears naked in her garden, modestly sheltered only by a conveniently (or inconveniently, if you are the curious Lorelei) rosebush. It turns out that the apparition is not, in fact, Argus, but Argus’s soul, which he’s sent to his family to let them know he’s in trouble. Through some sort of mystic mistake, he appears in Lorelei’s garden instead, and Lorelei is charged with taking his plea for help to his family.
Lorelei does as he bids, but, being a strong and caring person, also does her own bit of rescuing, locating Argus and rescuing him with the help of her cousins. Unfortunately their escape is not seamless, and the men who have been keeping Argus captive—and rendering him broken and bloody—catch a telling glimpse of her as she makes her escape.
Argus is in no shape to travel, so Lorelei takes him first to her cousins’ place, then the home of her father to nurse him back to health. Along the way she notices his fine musculature. He notices her fine eyes. They notice their fine rapport. And then every member of their respective families descends on Lorelei’s father’s ducal estate.
It’s hard to describe the plot of this story—or the feelings it engenders in its readers. There is a suspense plot, but it’s not suspenseful. There are dark acts, but it’s not dark. There are otherworldly gifts, but it’s not paranormal. There are sex scenes, but it’s not sex-driven. This is a story about the characters, and author Howell doesn’t try to make it more. Every action is used to further the character’s growth and their relationship. Love happens because—not in spite—of everything that goes on.
Further, the secondary characters are just as strong and their relationships just as enjoyable. Lorelei and her father share a special bond; they both have a lovely relationship with the Duke’s other children (all sixteen of them). The Duke is well-drawn, eccentric, prolific, warm. His friendship with the butler, Max (and Max himself) are among the best parts of this novel as they share discussions, mutually offer advice, and exchange bon mots. The Wherlockes are equally capitvating. And, as with our leads, these secondary characters are not props, happy previous characters revisited, or sequel-bait, but three-dimensional beings in their own right.
If He’s Dangerous is a quieter story than readers will be used to, gentler than what is mostly out on the market at the moment. But readers looking for a deeper connection with characters, rather than a breathless rollercoaster ride would do well to consider picking it up.
Confessions of an Improper Bride
Jennifer Haymore
Forever, 2010
With her high-concept plots and risk-taking writing, Jennifer Haymore is the antidote for the jaded historical romance reader’s ennui.
When Serena and her identical twin sister arrive in London from Antigua for their season, they make a splash. Beautiful, foreign, identical—they have the city at their feet. Gentle Meg finds her soulmate in Langley, naval captain, but wild, impetuous Serena ruins everything by falling for the wrong man.
When caught in a compromising situation, Jonathan does not offer for her, and Serena is utterly ruined. She and Meg are sent back to Antigua in disgrace. But aboard the ship, disaster strikes, and Meg is lost forever. As penance—and to save her family—Serena is forced to assume Meg’s identity and return to London and an advantageous marriage to Captain Langley. Devastated by grief, and in utter disgrace, Serena doesn’t know what else to do, and so she agrees to the scheme, agrees to living the rest of her life as a lie.
Upon arrival in London, however, Serena struggles to keep up the facade. Langley is a good man, but Serena doesn’t love him, and she’s miserable about lying to him. She’s also miserable in her role. Meg didn’t disclose many details of her relationship, and Serena has no idea how to act—like a lover? A maiden? A friend?
But the real struggle comes when she finds herself face-to-face with Jonathan, the man who ruined her chances and her life 6 years before. Jonathan has fashioned himself into a resolute rake since inheriting the title, cultivated a reputation so depraved that even his title can’t make him respectable. The only man to stand by him is Langley, and so Serena finds the man who ruined her life in her fiancé’s—and by extension, her own—inner circle.
Jonathan made a mistake with Serena, bowing to his family’s demands rather than listening to his heart, and he’s spent the ensuing time playing up to the role of a heartless rake. The game is getting old, though, and he finds himself lonely and isolated. Meg’s return to London only compounds his miserable situation, her cool hatred of him what he deserves, but he can barely stand it.
Except, there’s something . . . off about Meg. It’s true that six years is a long time, and that the death of her beloved is sister a life-altering experience, but he can’t quite shake the impression that Meg is not Meg at all. He was always able to tell the twins apart, and every instinct he has is telling him that Serena has returned to London. And to him.
Author Haymore takes a lot of risks in this novel, not least of which killing off a very likeable character in the very first chapter. The whole premise, particularly the honorable nature of Langley and the role the heroine Serena plays in deceiving him, creates an uncomfortable dichotomy for the reader: knowing Serena’s side, her pain and her guilt, but also the awareness that she’s complicit in the deception. Though it can be hard to respect Serena, it’s easy to like her, and Ms. Haymore’s delicate touch allows a surprising amount of empathy to build toward her character and the impossible situation she finds herself in.
Jonathan’s portrayal is less convincing. Ms. Haymore works very hard to rebuild Jonathan from a spoiled younger son to a strong man worthy of love, but I remain unconvinced that readers will accept this transformation. This lack of conviction is cemented by timing behind the decision he makes to reignite his and Serena’s physical relationship, and, for this reviewer at least, it ruined the goodwill that the character had built up through the course of the novel. Jonathan begins and ends the novel looking like a child—a slave to his own selfish desires.
Characterization aside, there’s a lot to like about this novel—and even more to admire. The risks in Confessions don’t quite pay the top end dividends they could have, but there’s no question: Jennifer Haymore’s stock is on the rise.
Kiss of Snow
Nalini Singh
Berkley, 2011
Nalini Singh’s Kiss of Snow, her most highly anticipated novel yet, will satisfy readers, but probably not in the way they expect.
Hawke is the leader of the SnowDancer clan, the beating heart of the pack, the glue that holds them all together. He took on the responsibility as a young teenager, and his drive, compassion, and power took what might have been fractured irrevocably and made it strong. So strong, in fact, that he and his wolves are challenging the status quo. But though he celebrates the matings of his lieutenants, recognises that bonded pairs make for a healthy pack, he takes no chances with his own heart. The wolf only recognises its mate once, and Hawke’s mate died when she was still a little girl. So Hawke finds solace in his leadership, and the comfort of his friends, but remains destined to be a lone wolf.
Sienna does not expect to live much longer. Her power is one of destruction, of those around her and, eventually, herself. When she dropped out of the Psy net, along with her remaining family, she was already aware of her use-by date. She worries only about the effect her death will have on her family—and the damage she can wrought on those around her when she goes. Though only 19, she has lived through enough pain and suffering to warrant three lifetimes. But it all seems to pale in comparison to the pain she feels now, knowing Hawke is attracted to her, but knowing they can never be together.
The romance between Sienna and Hawke has been building for a long time, over a period of most of the books in Ms. Singh’s Psy/Changeling series, and readers have been anticipating the book where they both find their happy ending. And it’s very satisfying. The love story itself is a pretty standard “we can’t be together for **** reasons,” that comes into play in many romance novels (after all, if all couples could be together immediately at the beginning of the novel, there wouldn’t be much point in reading it!), but Ms. Singh has a real talent for building depth and emotional turmoil without delving too much into angst. And the reasons for keeping Sienna and Hawke apart are legitimate. Sienna is very young. Hawke’s one mate did die. Add to that the fear of impending war and Sienna’s fear of her growing power and really, from the outside, it seems like a very good idea to avoid a happy ending in this case.
Of course, then it wouldn’t be a romance novel. The romance is well played, with Sienna showing her emotional age, even as she’s impressing with her maturity, and Hawke fighting a battle that everyone knows he’s losing, even if he won’t admit it to himself. And, of course, Singh knows her way around a sex scene, and the passionate nature of their romance reiterates the intensity of the characters themselves.
It’s not necessarily the romance that makes this book work. It hasn’t only been Sienna and Hawke’s romance that’s been building through recent books. One of the reasons Ms. Singh’s Psy/Changeling series has gone so long without falling into any of the regular traps is that Ms. Singh always writes two stories—one about a couple, and one about her world. In the early novels, it’s very easy for a new reader to pick up any novel and enjoy the story without needing to have read the previous novels. This has changed in the most recent novels as the world story has grown, revealing treacherous terrain. Rather than rest on the unique nature of her races, Ms. Singh has been teasing readers with a suspense subplot within her paranormal subplot, and Kiss of Snow is where it all starts coming to a head. Things that have been building behind the scenes come to fruition. What was hinted at in early novels suddenly becomes vital.
This is the part where readers might find themselves with unmet expectations: Kiss of Snow isn’t really about Hawke and Sienna. It’s about war. And the book feels like Ms. Singh alters her series, shifting the focus more firmly onto the world story, and away from the romance story. Hawke and Sienna’s happy ending is there, but it’s not the happy ending readers will be wanting when they read towards the climax of the novel. Ms. Singh has taken her paranormal romance series to the border of urban fantasyland. She has often said she knows exactly how the series is going to end, and this book feels like it’s been crafted with that end in mind, as if we’re reaching the top of a hill in a roller coaster, and we’re about to start the rush of that downhill slide. It all gets very exciting.
There are a few quibbles. Readers do not want to start with this novel—even longtime readers may want to brush up on the previous characters as they’re all named—often—with very little explanation. Alternately, don’t read it on an e-book device, as it’s very difficult to flip back and forth between the novel and the helpful cast of characters included at the beginning. The revelation of Sienna’s Psy designation also feels a little tacked on, with elements not mentioned before suddenly thrown in to make it work. These are minor, but they are there.
Nalini Singh’s Kiss of Snow was always going to be a tricky novel to execute. This far into a series, readers feel an ownership, as if they know the characters, and Hawke and Sienna have been beloved from almost the beginning. But by shifting the focus, playing their romance against the screen of a much larger story, Ms. Singh pulls off a masterpiece of misdirection. The characters get their happy ending, but readers get so much more.
A Song for my Mother
Kat Martin
Vanguard, 2011
Readers who enjoy excellent relationships with their mothers (and indeed, readers who have a challenging relationship with their mothers) would do well to take out stock in Kleenex™ before starting this heartfelt celebration of a novella from Kat Martin.
Although Ms. Martin touches on a number of different experiences within a mother’s life, the main story focuses on Marly Hanson, a teacher and single mother who is bringing her daughter, Katie, to Dreyerville to meet Winnie, Marly’s estranged mother and Katie’s grandmother. Katie has recently recovered from a bout of brain cancer, and her mother, desperate to see her little girl happy again, agrees to grant Katie’s dearest wish to meet her grandmother.
The circumstances of Marly’s escape from her childhood home are unpleasant and form the crux of her estrangement from her family. Her homecoming is painful, and Marly attempts to remain distant and detached, but a chance meeting with a new neighbor derails her plans for a short visit and a quick getaway. Reed is a widower, single father, and sheriff—and, if he has his way, Marly’s new love interest. Of course, Marly has no time for a new interest—and certainly not one so intricately tied to the community she’s so desperate to escape.
The book itself is over 200 pages, but the story is more novella length, only about 150. Included are chapters from some of Martin’s previous work, as well as a Q&A with the author, and some notes about Song.
Fans of Kat Martin will remember Dreyerville as the setting of The Christmas Clock, a fictional town set in the heartland of the United States based on Ionia, Michigan. The setting is an hommage to the best parts of small town living. Marly makes mention of the less desirable aspects: the gossip, nosiness, and long-term feuds that come with knowing everything about everyone else—but these are romanticized or glossed over in the face of the strong sense of community and togetherness that come into play especially during a crisis.
A Song for My Mother has a romantic subplot, but it is not strictly a romance story. The main relationships in this story are between mothers and daughters, grandmothers and granddaughters, mothers and sons—and mothers and their relationships with the world, their community, and themselves. Not so much an apology as an explanation, Song’s bottom line is that mothers have hard decisions to make—ones that their children may not understand at the time, but they are doing the best they can.
Ms. Martin’s polished writing style takes what could have, in a less-accomplished author’s hands, been overdone and saccharine and creates a feel-good, honest, earnest story that is sure to tug at the heart strings and have readers reaching for their telephones. If you’re looking for a Mother’s Day gift, you’d be hard-pressed to find one better.
Honor Bound
Brenda Novak
Montlake, 2011
In her introduction to this digital-first release, Brenda Novak recounts the story of her first sale—a historical novel—and its subsequent failure to be issued due to publishing politics. Ms. Novak then started a long-running and very successful career in contemporary romantic suspense. But she always wanted to write another historical novel. Honor Bound is the result of such ambitions.
Jeannette, the very young daughter of a displaced French aristocrat, marries to save her family from the discomfort of destitution. Her new husband is very rich, very powerful, very old, and very creepy. Just minutes before he joins her to consummate their marriage, Jeannette discovers that he is impotent, and in order to beget an heir is inviting a number of other men to share their marriage bed.
As a gently brought up lady, Jeannette is naturally horrified and flees, intending to make it to London and throw herself at the mercy of her uncle.
At the nearby seaside village, Jeannette takes shelter from the rain by the hearth at a pub. There she overhears a table full of sailors discuss their next sea voyage—to London—which happens to be leaving first thing in the morning. Knowing she will make it to London faster this way, and that no one would think of looking for her aboard a frigate, she decides to disguise herself as a young boy and go aboard as a new ship’s recruit.
Along the way, she meets Lieutenant Treynor, our eponymous bastard, who has had a hard life, but is working to pull himself up by his bootstraps through military ranks until he gets his own command. He is well respected among both his superiors and his men, but his shadowy past threatens to undermine his hard work. Protecting a runaway bride will only make things worse, but Treynor’s innate honor will not allow him to do anything but his utmost to save Jeannette from the matrimonial fate that clearly terrifies her.
It’s possible that Ms. Novak intended Honor Bound as an homage to the traditions of the 1980s bodice-rippers that propelled romantic fiction to the popularity it enjoys today; however, as the novel has been published in late 2011, reading Honor Bound is like falling out of the cliché tree and hitting every branch on the way down.
The novels written in the 1980s were done so from a completely different political and social background, one where women’s sexual freedom was still occupying an uneasy position between idealism and reality, and men were not only men, they were men with all the manliness that this implies. Gender equality came into the equation as the power a woman could bear by making a man love her, not by any power that she might actually wield herself. It wasn’t uncommon for the hero to use force on the heroine to submit her to his will physically—particularly if she began to affect his emotional side.
Her sexuality is also an issue, with the 1980s heroine being swept away by passion, not knowing what is happening, even with a man who has treated her poorly and shamed her. He rouses her sexual interest, then blames her for it, using her sexuality against her. It is common for the heroine to be mistaken for a whore—and for her to enjoy that interaction, without any understanding of her body, her desire, or her self.
But historical romance has come a long way, (baby), and these tropes are now not only rarely used, many are also uncomfortable for modern readers.
And herein lies the uneasiness permeating this novel. There have been successful homages to this period, and Ms. Novak certainly creates a big story with plenty of drama against a backdrop of war, revolution, class discrepancy, sea battles, military tradition, and, of course, inappropriate romance.
She also creates a heroine that, in many ways, bucks the trend. Jeannette is very young, but she is extremely resourceful. She makes plans and while they do not necessarily come in to fruition the way she intends, they are not ridiculous or, to put it bluntly, stupid. She displays inner strength and courage in a tangible way, and rescues herself on many occasions instead of waiting helplessly for the hero to come along.
Yet when creating an homage—particularly from an era where reader sensitivity to power dichotomies is high versus an era when severe power dichotomies were expected—it may be best to aim for a tone or theme rather than concrete traditions. In particular, the sexual brutality faced by the heroine (not necessarily on the part of the hero, though he certainly treats her body—and her—with less respect than is strictly heroic), and the inadequate balancing of the resolution (that is, the hero still holds much of the power over the heroine at the end, and his love for her does not convincingly level the playing field) may disturb some readers. Others will be put off by the over-the-top clichés—the heroine even has violet eyes.
In the end, whether a reader enjoys this novel or not may come down to whether Ms. Novak can tap into enough of the reader’s nostalgia to gloss over the well-trod path she follows. Otherwise, this novel will fall flat—and be dated before it even hits the shelves.
Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke’s Heart
Sarah MacLean
Avon, 2011
Sarah MacLean set the bar high for herself when she penned the hilarious Nine Rules to Break When Romancing a Rake, her romance debut, and could easily have written herself into a corner, trying to chase the jokes, but end up losing the heart. Luckily, she sidesteps this trap neatly in her latest novel and final installment of the “love by numbers” series, 11 Scandals to Start to Win a Duke’s Heart.
Julianna Fiori is a scandal even before she arrives in London, her past preceding her to the sitting rooms and ballrooms of London. Her subsequent entrance into society and inability to fit in with all the lackluster English debutantes has only compounded the problem.
Though protected by some of the most important families of the ton, Julianna keeps ending up on the wrong side of the gossips, and there are those who look down on her for it. They include Simon, Duke of Leighton, one of the highest ranking, most highly respected members of society. Julianna values passion and life; Simon values reputation and stability. They both want to teach the other a lesson—what remains to be seen is only who will come out the victor.
Readers do not have to read the two previous books in this series to enjoy 11 Scandals, but the story will be more satisfying (and make more sense) if they do. In particular, the enmity between the two families is poorly explained if one is not already familiar with the backstory. It’s not crucial to understand, but it seems tenuous otherwise that Leighton would be spending as much time near Julianna as he does, or that Julianna’s family would have as much power as it does. Further, the two previous novels are a delight, so should not be missed.
As mentioned above, Ms. MacLean cleverly eschews the trap of trying to out-funny herself. 11 Scandals—while still displaying the light and wit that is fast becoming this author’s trademark and earning favorable comparison to Julia Quinn—is, for all extents and purposes, a very serious novel. Too much levity and the character of Julianna risks becoming a caricature. Too little sense on her part and she becomes selfish and immature.
Instead, Ms. MacLean approaches her heroine as someone who unwittingly starts scandals merely by being herself, and is subsequently haunted by her inability to behave appropriately. The result is a very likable heroine who gets herself into very funny situations, but who shows depth, self-knowledge, and emotional maturity, thereby rendering the story a much richer experience than if it had relied on humor alone.
The premise also delves into some of the aspects of the Regency (and surrounding periods) that most historical romances gloss over—namely the suffocating nature of the 10,000. The endless balls, beautiful gowns, and exquisite manners lend a fairy tale aspect, but the truth is that the dresses were uncomfortable, the balls overcrowded, the manners a trap easily sprung, and the company repetitive and often dull. Those most respected were often the least liked, and one mistake could cost not only you, but also your entire family and many of your friends, a future.
This is the ton that Julianna encounters, and the one she must navigate through. It is the ton that Simon has dominated, but the one who has imprisoned him to a life of staid responsibility. It is also the context that adds poignancy to the love affair between Julianna and Simon, when it could have just been a story of opposites attract.
Fighting their attraction—and later fighting for their attraction—gives the story the strong grounding it needs to take it out of fluff territory and into a deeper, more meaningful, more memorable domain.
Cleverly orchestrated and genuinely touching, 11 Scandals to Start is a treat from start to finish.
The Amorous Education of Celia Seaton
Miranda Neville
Avon, 2011
Celia Seaton’s amorous education is a light hearted, spirited journey to a lovely happy-ever-after-ending.
The day that she was kidnapped, robbed, and left in a too-short shift was never going to be a great one for Celia. But insult is added to injury—quite literally—when the man who ruined her chances on the marriage mart with one mean spirited bon mot shows up. The villains who ruined Celia’s day have also left Tarquin shirtless, horseless, and memory-less. And though she hates Tarquin more than any other person in her life, Celia isn’t the kind of person to leave a man stranded—plus the kidnappers could come back at any time. And that’s how the two of them end up wandering the moors, half-dressed and alone, together.
Celia isn’t completely willing to let bygones be bygones, however, and rather than enlightening Tarquin to his high society identity, she invents a background, a new life story: one that includes an engagement. To her. Celia realizes she’s digging herself a hole, but with her life in ruins, she feels she deserves a little fantasy and a little protection.
And then there’s the matter of the informative little book in Tarquin’s sack.
Unfortunately fantasies don’t last, and it’s only a matter of time before Tarquin regains his memory, and Celia has to wake up to a reality in which she is not engaged, not protected, and has no hope of any more amorous lessons.
The best description for this new novel from Miranda Neville is wonderfully adorable. The spirit, the joie de vivre, and the wit make the dialogue sparkle and the characters pop. Celia, from whose point of view the majority of the story is told, is a great character: intelligent and snarky, with a strong sense of humor even when dealing with her devastating circumstances and uncertain future.
Tarquin’s transition from Terence to Tarquin (and then the recognition that there is, perhaps, more of Terence in Tarquin than he would have wanted or expected) adds to the poignancy of the resolution.
But what works best, and what readers will find most entertaining is that hidden book—the one Tarquin is carrying and that Celia finds. The one that jumpstarts Celia’s education. That one.
It’s delightful. Neville makes a note in an appendix that the book she uses in the narrative actually exists; a copy can be found in the rare book section of the British Library. This little detail just adds an extra dimension of fun to the story. The excerpts, the reactions from the characters, and the way that little book works to bring together the happy ending is what makes this novel that tiny bit different from other historical romances—and just that much more enjoyable.
Readers looking to be delighted won’t have to look any further than this novel.
Goddess of Legend
PC Cast
Berkley, 2010
Though readers might be more familiar with her New York Times bestselling House of Night novels, P. C. Cast has long been a romance reader favorite due in part to her Goddess Summoning series—one that ranks among the best in the romance genre. Her latest novel Goddess of Legend, however, though entertaining, is not one of the stronger examples, nor truly representative of the storytelling of which this author is capable.
The titular goddess is Vivane, the Lady of the Lake. Heartbroken that her lover Merlin has shut himself off from the world, she decides to alter the future and stop tragedy before it strikes, and ensure that all at Camelot—including herself—are given their happy ending.
Viviane devises a plan to distract Lancelot, seduce him away from Guinevere before their love truly blossoms. However, no ordinary woman will do. Viviane combs all of time to find the right woman with the right combination of qualities to complete the task. In present day, she finds Isabel, a photographer who is about to drown. Instead of dying, Isabel is whisked back to Camelot and the Lady’s mission. Things begin to go astray, however, when she arrives at the castle—sure, Lancelot is cute, but it is to Arthur that Isabel finds herself drawn.
Cast really excels when dealing with Greek myths and fairy tales, where the edges are not as clearly defined, and there is wiggle room—scope to imagine and re-imagine events, relationships, and motivations. When tackling a myth as well known and oft-described as the Arthur/Lancelot/Guinevere triangle, however, that scope is so narrow as to be nonexistent. While many writers have explored the Arthurian tales and characters, the core love story and its tragic ending has always remained the same. In making Isabel such a central character, and her actions have such far-reaching consequences, Cast has destabilized the myth, removed its emotional core, and created a story whose sum is very much less than its parts.
A big caveat is that the story remains enjoyable, light-hearted and humorous. Taking the weight of history out of the equation, it would probably succeed as a fluffy time-travel story that might rely too heavily on the language barrier for laughs and might be a little shallow when dealing with problem solving and equality issues, but is nonetheless a perfectly lovely way to spend an afternoon.
Fundamentally, Goddess of Legend isn’t a failed novel—if P. C. Cast couldn’t do it, I very much doubt anyone could—but perhaps proof that there are some stories that should remain untouched. No matter how many countless readers through the ages have wanted Arthur, Guinevere, and Lancelot to find their happiness, and for the golden age of Camelot to thrive, it is in the tragedy that the story lies—and the truth and insight that makes it resonate.
Wolf at the Door
MaryJanice Davidson
Berkley, 2011
This latest novel from MaryJanice Davidson features an accountant for a hero. If that’s not intriguing enough, the heroine is also an accountant.
Of course, she’s also a werewolf and cousin to the Pack Leader. His best friends are a vampire and a vampire slayer. A mundane occupation can be a plot point, but a paranormal romance needs to deliver a little more.
And, without giving too much away, the mundane occupation is a plot point. And also the source of the few funny one-liners throughout the course of the story.
Rachel adores her cousin Michael, but she’s not happy with him. Taking one for the team is a matter of course in pack life, but that “one” doesn’t normally involve leaving Cape Cod for St. Paul for an indefinite amount of time. But the Vampire Queen, her consort, and her court live in St Paul, and information is vital, especially among the supernatural community. So Rachel packs up her accounting business and heads west.
Edward Bately is in a rut. When an unsolved paranormal mystery pops up—regardless of how tenuous his claim on inclusion in the paranormal world is— he hops on a plane to St. Paul to solve it. Instead, he meets a hot girl in a coffee shop, catches the attention of the wrong people, and learns a whole lot more about the world he lives in.
If not well-versed in the MJD universes already, readers should avoid starting here as this book combines three—Queen Betsy, the Wyndham Werewolves, and an early short story from the Secrets anthology. While some background is covered, it is not enough to catch up new readers on the details—which is a boon for readers already familiar with the characters looking to avoid infodump, but no doubt confusing (Is Betsy insane? Irritating? Kind of brilliant? All three?) to those newly introduced.
Those able and willing to take on Wolf at the Door, however, are going to find MJD’s trademark features: pop-culture references, snark, sarcasm, slapstick humor, and quick, frequent dialogue. As with all of Ms. Davidson’s novels, this one is very light, which—to stray into truly terrible pun territory—offers little for readers to sink their teeth into.
Instead, one is left with the impression that Wolf at the Door was written very quickly to fill in some plot holes—and then edited even faster. What plot there is is brushed over, leaving readers confused as to what the intrigue is, and exactly what happens to see it resolved. The bad guys are second thoughts, their motives impossible to follow, let alone explain though Ms. Davidson does try with a chapter of exposition that makes little sense.
The relationship is clearly the focal point, and a little more detailed, but it too goes from zero to 60 in 50 pages or less. The whole romance takes part over a couple of weeks with little in the way of a story arc—both characters like each other at the start; they continue to like each other; she surprises him, but it’s a nonevent; they like each other in the end.
Characters from both previous novels and this one are paraded across the page with alarming frequency, leaving very little time to develop dimensionality beyond personal wardrobe choices. One subplot—the newsletter—is well handled, but it’s an afterthought, and the reader is left wishing that attention had been paid to the main story.
Einstein defined insanity as doing the same thing over and over again, but expecting different results. This may very well apply to reading MaryJanice Davidson novels as well. While formula is a four-letter word in the romance industry, it’s clear that Ms. Davidson has a preferred style, depth, and themes—and that they have worked very well for her. If they don’t work for you, then there’s really no point in pursuing a reader relationship with her. If they do, then chances are this book will, too. Unfortunately, they didn’t work for me.
The Duke and the Pirate Queen
Victoria Janssen
Harlequin Spice, 2010
The Duke and the Pirate Queen has all the makings of a classically entertaining romance romp. There’re pirates (naturally), royalty, characters with burning desires to prove themselves, court intrigues, a for-your-own-good kidnapping, nautical battles, social hierarchies to be overthrown, tribal traditions, precocious servants (who always know what’s best), surprise twists, and complications galore.
And, being an erotic romance, plenty of scope for some fingertip-singeing action.
The Duke and the Pirate Queen should be a curl-up-on-the-couch-with-a-mug-of-hot-tea-and-prepare-for-an-indulgent-pleasure kind of book. But it just never gets there.
The problem lies between expectations and delivery. From the very first of first impressions (the title), Victoria Janssen is promising her readers an over-the-top read, completely eschewing the reality-based romance that is the norm today. Today’s romance reader can be a bit cynical, and even the paranormal romances have to have some logical basis for the illogical, a certain down-to-Earthiness.
The Duke and the Pirate Queen whispers seductively of a throwback to the classic bodice rippers—big stories, big characters, big experiences, reality is overrated—all with an erotic twist.
But Janssen continually pulls her punches. Instead of taking advantage of her fantasy world, she scales back the details. What could be a colorful port becomes a flat backdrop. A duke whose backstory suggests obstinacy, pride, and utter commitment to getting what he wants becomes a placid, sensitive, new-agey guy. A pirate queen who turns her back on her family and convention to break new ground, refusing to accept the role society would dictate for her, becomes trapped in her own preconceptions, prolonging a shallow conflict. A potentially intriguing and involved conspiracy deflates to so much hot air.
Most damaging, however, are the punches that are pulled erotically as well. Janssen continually sets her characters up in erotic situations beyond the conventional, then in lieu of exploring them, fades to black. Readers are treated to prolonged, explicit scenes between the hero and heroine, but any situation that doesn’t comply with traditional expectations is glossed over. While sex is not the most important element in a romance (so far as it is used to forward the romance plot), when creating an erotic romance, it helps not to be bashful about non-vanilla sex.
As with the details of the plot, Janssen makes promises her novel doesn’t keep— forays into voyeurism, exhibitionism, m/m and f/f couplings, and even sexual competition, but then backpedals at high speed. That this is frustrating for the characters is no surprise—that it is equally frustrating for the reader further diminishes the novel.
There’s nothing overly wrong with The Duke and the Pirate Queen, but there’s very little explicitly successful. Though Victoria Janssen offers a promising premise, title, and cover, this Harlequin Spice novel is ultimately entirely bland.
Playing Dirty
Susan Andersen
Thorndike Press, 2011
Reuniting high school enemies as potential lovers is not an original storyline—in fact, it may borderline cliché. But those powerful high school feelings, particularly the angst, never really leave us—as adults or as readers. When tapped into, carefully, that angst, mixed with a bit of empathy and a dash of projection, has the makings of a very potent mix.
When Ava and Cade make love, Ava is over the moon. She’s in love for the first time with the best-looking guy at school, and it looks like he feels the same way. She can’t wait to share the news with her two best friends—and see Cade again. Dancing down the hallways, it’s like nothing could ever go wrong.
Of course, then there wouldn’t be a story. Ava’s friends are pleased, but skeptical, and their skepticism is well deserved. Cade isn’t dreaming the same dreams as Ava, and he and his in-crowd friends make sure that she knows it. Publicly. Humiliatingly. And Ava’s excitement fades to hate.
Now it’s more than a decade later. Ava took a long time to put herself back together, to learn to love herself as she is, to put the humiliation behind her. She’s successful, strong, and smokin’ hot—confident and in control. Then Cade comes back in to her life with an offer she can’t refuse. But it doesn’t matter. Things have changed. She’s confident and in control. She can handle a couple of weeks dealing with Cade, especially with the cash he’s going to pony up for her services.
Cade has tried to apologize for his behavior over and over again, but Ava’s never let him get close enough. Now he needs her, and he hopes that his behavior—and the offer of lucrative employment—will say what she’s never wanted to hear with words.
As mentioned, a high school romance gone bad is a relatively common background, particularly in contemporary romance. What makes Playing Dirty transcend the cliché is the characters. Though Ava is humiliated and hurt to the core by Cade’s betrayal, she brazens through, using the wit and intelligence that she will display through the course of the novel. Only after she’s held her own does she let herself break down.
The humiliation is what drives Ava to succeed, but she never gets over it. She can’t let go of what Cade did to her, because Ava still feels like the heavy high school girl who reached too high. Her relationship with her mother hasn’t helped things. And though there have been some very positive influences in her life—including a grandmotherly figure and her two very supportive best friends, Ava still continues to believe the bad, rather than the good.
Ms. Andersen handles this very well. Ava’s low self-esteem could be quite grating, but instead it’s handled deftly, so that Ava becomes every woman, her struggle with her weight a reflection of all our struggles to be “beautiful.” What also works really well is that Ava’s self-confidence only dips in one area: she has things she’s good at, and she knows she’s good at them. This building of a three-dimensional character (instead of focusing only on the “fat” aspect) gives the character a satisfying depth.
In turn, Cade’s growth is also well handled. Andersen never explains away Cade’s behavior (nor does Cade or Ava), but rather displays it as an error in judgement that has since colored his actions. Cade is well aware that he is in the wrong, and he attempts to rectify it in any way he can. But he doesn’t scrape or grovel. He refuses to let a long-ago mistake rob him of his own self-respect, nor let his remorse ruin his future.
Cade is a grown up that Ava wants to treat as a child, and Ava is still in many ways the child that Cade wants to treat as a grown up. Watching the two of them finally reach the same page—and the growth in them both to be able to get there—makes for immensely satisfying reading. Toss in the relationship between Ava and her best friends, and a host of fun secondary characters (including the intriguing Eduardo) and the result is a skilfully written contemporary romance with depth, breadth, and, most importantly of all: heart.
Scandal of the Year
Laura Lee Guhrke
Avon, 2011
Laura Lee Guhrke’s first book in this duet, Wedding of the Season, suffers from an excess of setting. Luckily, the second, Scandal of the Year, is able to move past the surfeit of information and focus on the characters and relationship to create a more satisfying story.
Our hero is Aiden, Duke of Trathen, whom readers will remember is jilted by his fiancée in the last book. Trathen is all that is honorable, stable, and proper, so it is not only a huge scandal, but an unexpected shock when he is named as co-adulterer in the divorce case of the infamous Julia, Lady Yardley and her husband. His status saves him the worst of the ignoble speculation, but he finds that his entree into the highest echelons of society has been revoked, and his access to potential brides from that sphere severely limited. As Trathen is in the market for a wife, the situation is a cause for concern.
Our heroine is Julia, Lady Yardley, cousin of Aiden’s former fiancée and very much the wild spirit. Her marriage, entered into to please her parents, is a disaster, the scandal leading to divorce very much planned. Though she regrets hurting Aiden, she has no remorse for doing what she needed to do to escape. Now she is free, but without means, and beginning to find poverty as much a cage as her marriage ever was. She needs money, she needs it quickly, but what skills does a lady of leisure, a social butterfly, have to offer?
You see where this is going, right? He wants a wife, but doesn’t know how to run the social gauntlet? She only has skills of a social nature and a need for employment? It’s all downhill from there.
What works best in this novel are the characters. Julia is a free spirit, and in financial trouble, and though she uses Aiden regardless of the consequences, she is not shallow or selfish, or self-indulgent. Aiden is dealt a rather harsh blow, but doesn’t angst about it for 300 pages. Rather, the barriers between the two and their happy ending are grown-up and legitimate, which adds depth to their relationship as they work to find solutions.
The setting still plays a strong role, as with Wedding of the Season, but is tied to drama, and is therefore more interesting. Reading about a public divorce hearing, for example, is much more exciting than the decay of pastoral living.
For all that is positive, however, this novel (like the first in the series) doesn’t seem to lift off the pages, to delight and enchant as Guhrke has shown herself capable of in previous novels. It is a solid novel, and enjoyable for the novelty, but not of the caliber of her backlist. Readers might want to pick up Guilty Pleasures or And Then He Kissed Her instead.
Kate Cuthbert 