Semi-mushy Valentine’s post. Consider yourselves warned.
I have earnestly begun reading romance novels again, thanks to Calibre. This nifty eBook manager has pretty much ruined my life because it has made reading on a computer a whole lot easier for my eyes. I got Calibre installed on Sherlock, my ruggedly gorgeous laptop, and Prudence, the office computer.
Oh, but I am a sucker for a good love story. Give me a goodhearted rake who will move heaven and earth for a woman who is a paragon of beauty, wit and grace, and watch me swoon and sigh like a lovestruck adolescent. According to my high school friends, this is precisely the reason why I am still, after 25 years, still suitor-less and boyfriend-less.
I read, or more aptly, skimmed through my first romance novel when I was 10 years old. My aunt had this book about a woman who got stranded in an island with a man and who played the cello at night. It must have been one of those explicit ones because I remembered my aunt stashing it in a cupboard when she went out; I also remembered encountering the phrase ‘creamy, white breasts’ in a couple of chapters. No damage done, though. I never really managed to get the whole picture. From then on, however, I did develop an affinity for romance novels and for reading the stories of pretty people falling and making passionate love.
Anyway, the singlemost important thing I learned with romance novels is that the exciting part is nearly always (95% of the time, tops) written midway in the story. This theory, formulated during the times in high school where there was never enough time to read, usually cuts down your reading time in half, should your interest lie more towards the flesh rather than the romantic spirit. Get a book, part it down the middle, give or take a few pages, and voila! Jackpot! Yes, in my own way, I was pretty juvenile as a teenager. Lelz.
I also learned that a duke is technically a prince and is the highest title in the British peerage; a marquis is someone who will inherit a dukedom. The term ton referred to the snobbish, upper class and society elite, men are not supposed to show favor in public for the women they fancy, and dancing with the same partner two times in a row is scandalous behavior.
At this moment, I’m working my way through an entire library of romance novels that I read when I feel the need to take a break from the seriousness, intrigues and plots of my current reading pursuits. There were a lot of lovely romance stories that caught my eye but I can only remember these two at the moment
1. England’s Perfect Hero by Suzanne Enoch
I just love the fact that Robert Carroway is far from perfect. He is damaged from war and suffers frequent panic attacks. Not the typical historical romance hero in terms of temperament and swag, which is why I like this story very much. Lucinda Barrett, the heroine, is kindness personified.
Gabriel, the Marquis of Ralston. ‘Nuff said. He is the stuff which my girly dreams are made of. I also like the fact that Calpurnia, the heroine, is curvaceous, bordering on pudgy. Gives me hope, this. It means not everything is about being skinny.
That wraps up this year’s Valentine rant. Happy heart’s day, you pretty people!