Review: Knaves’ Wager, by Loretta Chase

Nov 26 2011 Published by under Reviews

I have read and enjoyed several Loretta Chase romances. The Carsington brothers series, The Last Hellion, Lord of Scoundrels, and Your Scandalous Ways. But I had never read her early Regencies, and had an interest in the reformed rake tale Knaves Wager, published by Avon in 1990, and reissued by Signet with The Sandalwood Princess in 2005. So when Miranda Neville offered to send me her copy, I was thrilled.

 

I had an absolute ball reading Knaves’ Wager. It opens in March 1814, as Mrs. Charles Davenant, a twenty-eight year old widow, is preparing to chaperone her niece, Cecily Davenant, through her first Season. Lilith Davenant is known for her perfect comportment and cool, imperturbable demeanor.  With classical features and a slim, straight, and strong physique, she “bore such a stunning resemblance to a marble statue that it was a wonder she had a pulse.”  Lilith has successfully paired off three older nieces already. Her husband, a charming but irresponsible gambler and drinker, died seven years ago, leaving her in debt to his partner in debauchery, the Marquess of Brandon. On the way to London, they come upon a carriage wreck, and rescue the gentleman pinioned by his curricle. Lilith orders her man to extricate him, and they all end up at a local inn for the night. She checks in on him (I know, I know) and he takes an immediate interest in her, and she just as immediate a dislike of him. They have this delightful exchange:

He smiled lazily. “And such eyes, Athena.”

“Indeed. One on either side of my nose. A matching set, quite common in the human countenance.”

“The Hellespont in a summer storm.”

“Blue. A common colour among the English.” She moved to the door.

“Really? They seem most uncommon to me. Perhaps you are right — but I cannot be certain until you come closer.”

“You are shortsighted…?” she asked as she opened the door. “Then it is no wonder you drive your curricle into a ditch. Perhaps in the future you will remember to don your spectacles.”

She heard a low crack of laughter as the door closed behind her.

When Lilith discovers who he is, of course, she hates him even more. Her accountant explains that the Marquess will not accept her attempts to repay him for her husband’s debts, and instead of being delighted, she redoubles her efforts. In the meantime, although Lilith has no wish to marry, she accepts the proposal of a baronet, Sir Thomas Bexley, a man with whom she shares “tastes and personalities”, in order to provide the funds to see her remaining nieces through their Seasons.

When the Marquess — Julian — arrives in London, he discovers that his nephew Robert is infatuated with his French mistress, Elise, and has promised to marry her. Of course, no such marriage can happen, but Robert cannot be talked out of it, so Brandon tries to reason with Elise. She offers him a wager: seduce Madame Davenport within eight weeks — “an absurdly generous amount of time” in Julian’s estimation–  and she will release Robert from his agreement. Fail, and his family leaves her and Robert alone. Since Julian had “fully intended” to seduce Lilith, this is a wager he cannot resist.

The lengths to which Julian goes to effect this seduction surprised and delighted me. He pays off her servants to keep track of her comings and goings. He gets her driver drunk so she has to get a ride home from an affair with him. He even bribes a clerk to block an aisle so she would be forced to interact with him.

But, of course, Lilith is one tough cookie, cool as a cucumber, and always ready with a witty comeback. Julian unsettles her, makes her aware of her body and its desires in a way she has never been. But after two kisses, about which she is mortified, she sets a firm boundary and they settle into a wonderful friendship, which grows at each social event, as her betrothed spends all of his time arguing politics in smoky rooms. I was thrilled that the focus in this book was on the relationship, and not the sexual tension, or the sex. As Lilith opens up bit by bit, Julian finds himself, paradoxically, more and more interested in her, and liking her more and more.

Julian sees in Lilith the woman she hides, the sensuous and funny and interesting person. Indeed, as their relationship grows, she begins taking more care with her appearance, forgoing severe hairstyles for those that showcase her luxuriant red curls and corset free figure (I know, I know). Julian cannot for the life of him figure out why Lilith would marry stuffy old Bexley. Here’s an example of the kind of discussion they have that reveals her character:

“You are a coxcomb,” she said.

“If I were, I should not have been surprised at your knowledge of my dance partners. Yet I’m altogether amazed… and flattered. This is a far cry from invisibility.”

She returned his gaze, her face expressionless. “When I cross the street,” she said, “I look up to make certain no vehicles are bearing recklessly down upon me. I also look down, to make sure no noisome object lies in my path. I have found it necessary in recent weeks to observe similar precautions at social events.”

He laughed. “A reckless vehicle is apt enough—but the other? I am put in my place, just goddess. Your hair curls naturally, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” she said, uncomfortable to find the talk redirected so speedily to her person.

“I thought so. You’ve never had to suffer the indignities of curl papers or scorching tongs.”

“Not those, no.”

“But others? What were they? Steel corsets when you were but a babe?”

“We will not speak of such garments, if you please,” she said in her best grande dame manner. “I meant applications of lemon juice, three times a day, day after day, week in and week out.”

“Ah, freckles” he said. “Ghastly things.”

“Well, they were.”

“Don’t be silly, I’m sure you were adorable with your freckles.”

“I was not remotely adorable. I was too tall and too skinny, and my hair was too red, and I had forty-seven freckles upon my nose alone.”

“Then I wonder they never stood you in a field to frighten away the birds. You might have made yourself useful,” he said in tones of reproof. “Still, it is a relief to know you, too, had a misspent youth.”

She bit her lip, but the vision of a gawky, adolescent Lilith standing haplessly in a field of newly seeded corn was too much for her, and what began as a titter swelled into laughter.

“Mrs. Davenant,” he said sternly, “a misspent youth is nothing to be giggling about.”

“A scarecrow,” she said, still smiling. “Isn’t it odd that I’m one now? Flapping my arms to frighten off any wicked gentlemen birds from my nieces.”

“Protecting the tender young crop.”

“Yes.”

“Someone must, I suppose.”

“Yes.” Her smile faded. The mischief was gone from his eyes, and compassion had taken its place.

“That is why,” he said almost inaudibly.

She pretended not to hear, though she knew what he meant and what she had, unwittingly, revealed to his too-keen perceptions.

Thomas will be wondering what’s become of me,” she said coolly enough, though her voice sounded shrill to her ears.

 

So often, I read that this or that book has “witty banter” or “intelligent dialogue” and cannot agree. If you like that sort of thing, this is a book chock full of it.

In the meantime, a secondary romance brews between Robert and Cecily which is so sweet and funny that it was possibly worth its own book. Cecily, who comes off as a silly chit, is actually much more discerning and mature than she appears.

Hanging over the book is the wager, and the question of when and whether Julian’s feelings become more than an attempt to win a bet. I’m now a pretty seasoned romance reader, and even to me, it was not easy to tell where the rake Julian ended and the real Julian began.  Things have to come to a head eventually — both sexually, and in terms of the wager — and boy do they ever.

If you don’t want to be spoiled, stop reading here. Suffice to say I found this a beautifully written, mature, funny and emotional read, that, admittedly, breaks no new ground on the reformed rake and repressed widow love story, but does it so well you don’t even care.

SPOILER AHEAD:

Lilith, after finding out about the wager, receives Julian at her home in order to cut him. I think her last line to him is one of my favorites in all of romance:

And at last he was shown into the drawing room. He was not surprised to find her alone. He was surprised to discover she was not dressed to go out. She wore a plain brown frock, and her hair was braided tight about her head. Deep shadows ringed her eyes. As he moved eagerly across the room to her, he saw as well that she’d been weeping. A chill of anxiety ran through him.

“My love,” he said, holding out his hands.

She retreated a step. Her white face set into taut lines and her posture stiffened.

“You will not touch me,” she said. “You will not say another word. I meet you this once only to tell you our acquaintance is at an end. Henceforth, I do not know you.”

The chill clawed at his heart now. “Lilith.”

She turned and pulled the bell-rope. “Cawble will show you out. Good day, my lord.”

“Lilith! What is this?” He reached for her hands, but she moved back another step and folded them tightly before her.

“This is how you lose a wager, my lord,” she said.

He felt the blood rushing to his face.

“Good God,” he breathed. “You must…”

The door opened, and Cawble appeared. “Madam?”

“His lordship is leaving, Cawble.”

END SPOILER

There are a few complaints I could offer: the mistress, Elise, for example, as well as Bexley, are pretty “conveniently” characterized. But I was so pleased with the restraint of this novel, not just in the sexuality, but the things that motivated the characters (no, she wasn’t abused to within an inch of her life to explain her lack of warmth; no death of a beloved sibling/lover/comrade in arms to explain his rakishness, etc.) that I tended to overlook them.

Julian does lose the wager, of course, for reasons that will be familiar to readers of Jennifer Crusie’s Bet Me. Their reconciliation is absolutely lovely and very much in keeping with the tone of their relationship (“We’ve descended into melodrama”, says Julian at one point during their betrothal scene). Now when people say, as they so often do, “I just love Loretta Chase’s early Regencies”, I can smile and nod along in total happy agreement.

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Review: The Last Hellion, by Loretta Chase

Aug 21 2011 Published by under Reviews

The Last Hellion (Avon, 1998) is the fourth book in Loretta Chase’s Scoundrels Series. It had the misfortune of being the novel immediately following Chase’s Lord of Scoundrels, considered by many to be one of the best romance novels ever written. The Last Hellion’s hero, Vere Mallory, the Duke of Ainswood, was introduced in all his dissolute obnoxiousness in LoS. He drinks, he whores (“the whores give me the only thing I want from a female”), he doesn’t care what anyone thinks. He speaks with a “mocking baritone”, acts with “rough obnoxiousness” and is “uncivilized” and “thickheaded”. Despite being a younger son of a younger son, deaths in the Mallory family have made Vere a Duke. Alas, he has no interest in taking seriously the dukedom’s responsibilities including two wards he has sent off to live with a relative. This exchange with his valet indicates his view of women:

“God save us from bluestockings. You know what their trouble is, don’t you, Jaynes? Due to not getting pumped regular, females take the oddest fancies, such as imagining they can think.”

Seasoned romance readers will identify that passage as communicating, “what Vere really needs is a ‘bluestocking.’” And who is our heroine but Lydia Grenville, a “cynically hardhearted reporter”  with a passion for social causes and no interest in marriage or men. I actually decided to read The Last Hellion because of Lydia’s sideline, writing (pseudonymously) The Rose of Thebes, a rollicking serialized adventure story on which all of London is hooked. Lydia is almost too outrageous, barreling through London in her cabriolet, wearing black bombazine, with her giant black mastiff by her side, but she’s funny and smart and determined and caring, so I was drawn to her anyway.

Vere and Lydia meet in an alley when Lydia is trying to save the life (and virtue) of a young runaway from a “procuress”, with her fists if necessary. Vere physically restrains her, kisses her impulsively, and she pretends to faint, only to make the Duke a laughingstock by flattening him with a punch to the jaw.  He pretty much falls in love on the spot. Of course, Vere is too thickheaded to realize it, but he is fascinated and attracted, and disapproving and disgusted, and he can’t keep away from her. For her part, Lydia is very attracted to Vere, but mostly sees him as a cretin, and an impediment to her various plans, both of which he is.

Their relationship is very amusing and over the top, reminding me a bit of classic Hollywood romances like Bringing Up Baby or His Girl Friday. Early on, for example, she performs a dead on parody of Vere in a smoky club where writers congregate, not realizing Vere is there. And, in my favorite scene, Vere accompanies Lydia (actually, he follows her, by hanging on to the back of her carriage) to an estate, where he helps her climb inside a second story window to retrieve her clothes without waking the occupants of the home. For an assignment, Lydia was costumed as a man, and Vere, in the pitch black darkness, has to help her undo the back buttons of her corset. It’s a very funny and sexy scene.

Overall, I enjoyed reading The Last Hellion, especially the zip and zing of Vere and Lydia’s encounters, but it really fell apart for me in the second half. Lydia’s character, despite being billed as sensible, turned out to be all impulse, no reason. Yes, she writes fiction, very popular fiction, but she refers to it as “sentimental claptrap” and it is never clear why she does it.* She saves a young woman, who becomes her companion, but instead of getting back to saving other young women from procuresses, she becomes inexplicably obsessed with finding the young woman’s missing jewelry. She turns out to be related to the hero of Lord of Scoundrels, Dain, which she knew, but what is never clear is why she never pursued the connection, especially when Dain and Jessica show up and embrace her as one of their own.** She doesn’t want marriage, and resists her attraction to Vere, but why?

The plot just kind of meandered after a great first third, and moved from finding the missing jewels, to resolving the will-she-won’t-she marriage issue with Vere (he tells Lydia she should marry him, not for her own happiness, but because she can use his wealth to save more young women.*** Instead of agreeing on the spot to marry a duke to whom she is deeply attracted and who clearly cares for her, she challenges him to a carriage race.), to discovering Lydia’s true ancestry, to … rather randomly … a manhunt for Vere’s missing nieces.

Vere, too, had some issues. Perhaps attempting to rehabilitate the character from his turn in LoS, Chase gives us a preface in which we see Vere lose one family member after another to various diseases and accidents, including, most poignantly, a beloved young cousin. In the genre, these kinds of early losses explain (and partially excuse) the development of rakish or dissolute heroes, so that was fine (and it was a really good prologue, actually). But Vere’s turnaround was a little too 180 for me. The woman-hater ends up declaring, “We’re of one mind, Grenville and I, and the mind is hers, on account of my being a man and not having one.”

There are other issues: Bertie, Jessica’s wayward brother from LoS, appears here as the love interest of the runaway whom Lydia saved. But somehow he has become a complete idiot between books. Is there an unpublished novella that explains his brain injury? And while the issue of historical accuracy is not one that interests me much, even I rolled my eyes when Jessica, after meeting Lydia exactly once, on the day of her wedding, presents her “enough lewd underwear to dress a dozen harlots.”

Still, Chase creates very likeable characters and this is a light, fun read. Vere’s bemused and reverential attitude towards Lydia — he calls her “Grenville” to the end — is one of its chief delights. My biggest problems with it really arose after I put it down and started to write this review, thinking about the plot as a whole and who these characters are.

But the main reason I read The Last Hellion was Lydia’s sideline of writing fiction. It’s really interesting how this is dealt with. It parallels very nicely the kinds of discussion had in Romanceland about the popularity of romance, its relationship to literature, and its critical reception.  Lydia refers to it disparagingly, but her editor says, “It isn’t the blasted critics, but your ‘dratted story’ that’s made our fortune”. I think Chase was trying to convey that the “wildly fanciful and convoluted” tale is really a part of Lydia which she would prefer to renounce, but shouldn’t, just as she shouldn’t renounce her messy and romantic feelings towards Vere. So it makes sense that Vere, once he learns who writes The Rose of Thebes, is delighted, and tries to convince her of its value.

On being told that an unfortunate plot turn has resulted in mobs of readers hanging a certain character in effigy, Lydia says “By gad, people do take their romantic fables seriously. Well. … Sentimental swill it may be, but it’s popular swill, it seems, and it’s mine.”

But Vere refers to Lydia as “a master storyteller”, and Dain concurs, “The gods must have given you the talent, cousin.” To which Vere replies:

“My wife holds that talent cheap,” Vere said. “She refers to The Rose of Thebes as ‘sentimental swill’ — and that’s the kindest epithet she bestows upon it. If Macgowan hadn’t let the cat out of the bag, she’d never have admitted she wrote it.”

“It serves no useful purpose,” Lydia said. “All it does it entertain. With simple morals. The good end happily, the bad unhappily. It has nothing to do with real life.”

“We have to live real life, like it or not,” Vere said. “And you know, better than most, the sort of lives the great mass of humanity lead. To give them a few hours’ respite is to bestow a great gift.”

“I think not,” Grenville said. “I begin to think it socially irresponsible. On account of that wretched story, girls take it into their heads to bolt in search of excitement they can’t find at home. They’ll imagine they can dispatch villains with sharpened spoons. They –”

“You’re telling me the members of your sex are imbeciles who can’t distinguish fact from fiction,” he said. “Anyone fool enough to try one of Miranda’s tricks is either restless by nature or doesn’t own a grain of sense. Such people will do something stupid with or without your suggestions. My wards offer a perfect example.”

[Vere continues] “You are a talented writer, with the knack of communcating with readers of both genders, of every age and background. I will not permit you to throw that gift away.”

[Vere continues] “I should be illiterate were it not for romantic clatrap and sentimental swill and improbably tales. I cut my teeth on The Arabian Nights and Tales of the Genii.

Here we have in a nutshell many of the common arguments for and against the genre. A reader could be forgiven for assuming that Chase had these things on her mind as a woman writer writing today. But in an interview at Word Wenches, Chase says:

Lydia is one of the many woman characters I’ve created in reaction to women in 19th C novels and to 19th C sexism and misogyny in general.  Specifically, what set me off was critics’ reaction to Lady Morgan’s two-volume ITALY.   You can read her response to some of the criticism here.
According to Paul Johnson’s THE BIRTH OF THE MODERN, “they hated Lady Morgan as a woman writer…and they were further incensed by the news that the publisher Colburn had paid her the immense sum of £2000 for the book.  Byron hailed the book as ‘fearless and excellent.’”  Everyone else went nuts.  Here’s a sampling from Johnson’s book:  “‘she spewed out of her filthy maw/A flood of poison, horrible and black.  “She was ‘an Irish she-wolf’ a ‘blustering virago,’ a ‘wholesale blunderer and reviler’; she wrote while ‘maudlin from an extra tumbler of negus in the forenoon.’”  This was typical “criticism” of the time–reviewers today are pussycats by comparison.  What fascinated me me was the how much they hated her simply because she was a successful woman writer.

I’ve just read about a half dozen Loretta Chase interviews, and although she talks a lot about how characters come to her, and what her inspirations are for characters, settings, and plots, I actually can’t find an interview where Chase talks about herself as a writer of popular books that are disparaged by critics and the moral majority. So one lesson is for me is to try not to be careful about assuming I can get inside an author’s brain that way.

Still, would it have lessened the quality of this book if Chase gave an interview where she said, “Well, I was being interviewed by a local journalist, and the guy was such a jerk about the romance genre, that when I was thinking of reasons for Lydia to be against her own muse, these came to me”? Unless it was just awkwardly thrust in as a kind of didactic moment, not for this reader.

*************

*True, she says she agreed to write it under two “conditions” (anonymity and editorial control), but conditions are not reasons.

**Or maybe I should say her reason — sparing her long dead mother from being the subject of gossip — is hardly convincing given the disdain this character feels for the nobility.

***In a spit in the face of journalists everywhere, he actually says “you could actually do something, instead of simply writing about what is wrong.”

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Attitudes Towards Women in Loretta Chase’s Don’t Tempt Me

Jul 31 2009 Published by under Feminist contentions, Genre musings

I read a romance recently that disappointed me in a particular way — it seemed to uphold views of women that are very negative, even misogynistic.

Before going further I want to preface this with a reflection on my career in philosophy (you’ll see why in a minute). As a new undergraduate I enrolled in a course called “Philosophy of Woman” with a textbook edited by Mary Mahowald of the same name. As a  philosophy major, I was excited to learn what the tradition said about my gender. The textbook took us from the Bible to the twentieth century, and — surprise! –  almost everything in it was derogatory. Then, as now, I was mostly interested in ethical theory, and from Aristotle’s claim that women cannot be virtuous due to their reason’s inability to control their emotions, to Kant’s claim that women know nothing of duty or obligation, to Hegel’s rejection of women’s access to the universal, except through males. Heck, even women in philosophy, like Simone de Beauvoir, seemed to claim that women can only achieve transcendence by essentially becoming men.

Overwhelmingly, the view of women in the western philosophical tradition is that they are lesser versions of men, with diminished mental capacities, and little self-control, who are vain, superficial, and shallow. As Nietzsche put it “One half of mankind is weak, chronically sick, changeable, shifty.”

This was a blow, but I did not give up my philosophy major. I did not give up reading and enjoying Aristotle, Hegel, or Kant. And I did not even give up reading and valuing the very texts from which the passages in Philosophy of Woman were excerpted. 20 years later, I am still studying and learning and teaching philosophy. The tradition is rife with misogyny — almost more so in what it leaves out than when it bothers to mention sex, which is rarely –  but sophisticated (feminist, deconstructing, heck, just careful) readings reveal nuances and tensions within even the most straightforward dismissal of women.

What does this have to do with romance?

Well, I’m going to talk about a recent read, and I want to compare my reaction to my relationship to the philosophical tradition. I have read and enjoyed books by this author, and will continue to do so. And even the book under discussion in this post gave me some moments of genuine enjoyment. In this post, I want to talk about something that really bothered me, but it doesn’t reflect my attitudes toward the book as a whole, other books by this author, or the author herself.

Loretta Chase’s Don’t Tempt Me was my 6th book of Ms. Chase’s after Lord of Scoundrels, the Carsington series, and Your Scandalous Ways. She’s an author I enjoy and will continue to read.

In Don’t Tempt Me, the heroine, Zoe, has just returned to London after being kidnapped and held captive in a harem for 12 years.

Her four sisters, or the “Four Harridans of the Apocalypse” as the hero, Lucien, refers to them, are the portrayed as shallow, narcissistic, stupid, vain, and selfish. Physically, they are ridiculed. They’re compared to dumb animals, a “quartet of crows”, and the two pregnant sisters’ large forms are frequently described in unflattering terms. And they act it, screaming, weeping, gesturing wildly. They don’t care about Zoe, but only their own reputations.

In an early scene, Zoe mentions that she escaped the harem with jewels. Her sisters freeze. Zoe thinks,

“When it came to jewelry, women the world over were the same. If her future and everything for which she’d risked her life had not been at stake, she’d have laughed, because her sisters behaved exactly like the harem women they scorned.”

When Zoe is presented at court, Lucien notes “some of the ladies compressing a little more tightly and edging away from Zoe, as though in fear of contamination”. He thinks of them as “stupid” and again they are described in unflattering animalistic terms — bobbing plumed headdresses — that Lucien fantasizes about knocking off. Zoe notices, too, and compares the women in attendance unflatteringly to the women in the harem. The harem women were “silly”, “like spiteful children”. To compare, Lucien is described by Zoe in animalistic terms as well, but flatteringly, “prowling” like a “tiger”.

Zoe later says, comparing her sisters to women in the harem, “In the harem, we had outbursts all the time, much worse than this. Women screaming, threatening, complaining, hysterical.”

Lucien has a mistress, Lady Tarling. In this scene, Lucien is explaining gently to her that he will need to take Zoe under his wing so she is accepted in the ton. He brings her jewels, and Lady Tarling, of course, “knows exactly what becomes her”.  Again, women are portrayed as superficial gossips, competitive cats, nasty beasts:

“Lord Tarling’s handsome young widow was not on the patronesses’ list. Lady Jersey had taken in her dislike.

‘I preferred you not learn about it from one of the cats who will be there,’ he said. ‘or from the newspapers. They were likely to give you the wrong impression altogether.’

‘It must be a curious impression, indeed, to result in such a gift.’ She gave a little laugh. Her silvery laugh was famous. It was gentler and prettier, many thought than Lady Jersey’s tinkling laughter. This was but one reason Lady Jersey loathed her.”

Lucien explains that he has taken Zoe under his wing, and then this…

“‘My goodness.’ She moved away from him to the nearest chair and sat down hard — but tightly clutching the box, he noted.”

Later, when Lucien calls upon his mistress to break it off with her, he gifts her with jewels again, and we are told, “For what small regret she might feel, the magnificent brooches were more than adequate consolation.”

Again, in these scenes, we are expected to understand that women are competitive, jealous, and more partial to jewelry than anything else.

Later, Zoe and Lucien have an argument, and we get this, in the narrator’s voice:

“Zoe expressed her disgust with him in the time-honored fashion of women everywhere, by shopping exhaustively.”

When Zoe is mad, rather than having a rational disagreement, she flounces off, suggestively, “Zoe stormed out of the vestibule, hips swaying, skirts swishing.”

When Zoe and Lucien become engaged, Harrison, Lucien’s house steward, (who has already noted that Zoe “had her hooks in” his master) explains to his underlings that “Everyone knows there’s little in ladies’ heads but fashion and scandal.”

Lucien’s friend Adderwood notes, “women change their minds. They’re famous for it.”

Besides Zoe, the only female character who is deemed to have any value is Lucien’s aunt, probably because she is crazy. She says things like, “My ankles, as you know, have inspired odes.”. She’s “colorful” — but not really anyone to take seriously.

Am I saying that there are no women who are vain, stupid, shallow, and selfish? Of course not! Meljean Brook, Sherry Thomas, Nora Roberts, Jo Beverly, and many, many other authors have gifted us with very flawed heroines. But it’s one thing to portray flawed women, and another to use broad stereotypes as a shorthand to character. I object to the latter on both aesthetic and moral grounds.

Compare Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. Was there ever a more laughable crew than Elizabeth Bennet’s family, especially her mother and sisters? But I can describe each sister and her unique character in detail to you. Mary Bennet and Kitty Bennet are laughably funny, but in very different ways. They are ridiculous, but never ridiculed. And Mr. Bennet does not come away as merely the male victim of these crazy women. No, his role in the family dynamic — his lassitude, his shirking of responsibility, his blameworthiness for the situation in which the Bennet family finds itself — is carefully developed as well.

The negative attitude towards women that comes across in Don’t Tempt Me is not just a view held by one character. It permeates this book. Nearly every character, including the heroine, and even the narrator (with whom I do not confuse the flesh and blood author) has a low opinion of the mass of womenkind. Of all of the women in the text, Zoe alone is fully fleshed out and portrayed as an individual.

It reminded me of old school romances that never questioned the misogynistic hero’s attitude towards Women, merely it’s applicability to Our Heroine, aka, The Exception that Proves the Rule. Reading those old romances as a teen, of course I identified with the heroine, not those vain, shallow ninnies who were always trying to bring her down. But at what price?

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Meet Our Hero, In Bed with Another Woman

Dec 26 2008 Published by under Genre musings

Some great romances begin with the hero in bed with another woman.

Continue Reading »

14 responses so far