Book review: Never Seduce a Scoundrel by Sabrina Jeffries
I found Sabrina Jeffries because my mother and I have an ongoing addiction to Regency Christmas anthologies. We can't be the only ones, as the things keep appearing. Mom is keeper of the library, and it fills a paper box. (We recommend against English Carols and Scottish Pipes, because ugh.* It was treacly, and not in the good way, and also it is a trade, and doesn't fit in the box well. ANYWAY, Ms. Jeffries appeared in a recent incarnation titled Snowy Night with a Stranger, and provided by far the strongest offering, with bonus wee!Charlie Dickens. And explosives. And the dedication was to Ursala. Now, there are a lot of Ursula's in the world, but I read ursulav, because her life is funny**. And she mentions hanging out with a romance author sometimes. So, you know, the dots connected. Which was pretty cool.
Right, where was I? Yes! Book review!
Never Seduce A Scoundrel is a strong offering in the Regency romance genre. It is not Georgette Heyer. It is not TRYING to be, which is an improvement, because bad imitations of very good stuff are just frustrating. Instead, there is the cheerful acceptance that this is a costume drama with essentially modern protaganists.*** The heroine wants to be Amelia Peabody when she grows up, and travel the world, probably including Samarkand. The hero is grumpy and flawed, but not an unmitigated ass, and he has a sense of humor.
The novel is precisely placed in history, with corroborating details and informative bits that I had to go look up. There is sex. I don't want you to be surprised here. And it's fascinating sex because it feels very much like sex written by someone who has an extensive modern understanding of the many flavors of consent and permission.
The devilish scoundrel smiled. "I know how much you like having control. So when you say stop, I'll stop. The adventure will end there."
Also, I should note that I read this while standing at a bus-stop for 50 minutes****, on the bus despite carsickness, and at home in bed until way past a reasonable hour. And finished it. And now I am bribing myself with the next book in the series.
Read this if: you like sassy corseted heroines, tall dark brooding heroes, touches of history, and third-person omniscient romances.
Avoid if: you are nitpicky about historical psychology, you don't like smut, or you are ashamed to be seen reading romance novels on the bus.
*What is the correct way, if there is any, but there's probably not, to say, "I wrote "lame" in there, and then caught a clue and decided not to, and I think the world might be nicer if more people had that moment of thought after typing "gay" "lame" or "retarded"? Yeah, probably there's not. Drive through.
***This seems to occur with the majority of my stories. I start by trying to explain where I learned to use a blowgun, and then I wind up having to explain getting stoned with my stepfather and taking pot shots at the tree trunk holding up the kitchen, and then I have to explain both my stepfather and why there was a tree trunk in the kitchen and then I usually end up at how there was a meth lab across the street from that house and my mother calling me up to narrate the SWAT team raiding the meth lab--"Oooh, they've got a battering ram!" and how the guy rolled out on his roof, naked, attempting to escape, and apparently the tip off was the smell because the plumbing hadn't worked for like six months, and they'd been using the first floor as a toilet, and seriously, WHO DOES THAT?! I mean, if my plumbing stops working, even if I had a meth lab and couldn't get a plumber in as a result, I'd put in a porta-potty or get frickin' buckets or something, I wouldn't just decide "Well, I don't need BOTH stories!" and anyway, my point is that I do kinda know how to use a blowgun, although only if the darts are made out of nails and shredded cigarette filters, and at this point, generally my companions are staring at me with much the same expression that Otter had. And, um, don't do meth, kids.
Also: http://ursulav.livejournal.com/836999.html
*** Wikipedia has a delightfully wonky explanation of the putative difference between Traditional Regency and Regency Historical.
**** This book was the consolation for an otherwise sucktastic evening.
Right, where was I? Yes! Book review!
Never Seduce A Scoundrel is a strong offering in the Regency romance genre. It is not Georgette Heyer. It is not TRYING to be, which is an improvement, because bad imitations of very good stuff are just frustrating. Instead, there is the cheerful acceptance that this is a costume drama with essentially modern protaganists.*** The heroine wants to be Amelia Peabody when she grows up, and travel the world, probably including Samarkand. The hero is grumpy and flawed, but not an unmitigated ass, and he has a sense of humor.
The novel is precisely placed in history, with corroborating details and informative bits that I had to go look up. There is sex. I don't want you to be surprised here. And it's fascinating sex because it feels very much like sex written by someone who has an extensive modern understanding of the many flavors of consent and permission.
The devilish scoundrel smiled. "I know how much you like having control. So when you say stop, I'll stop. The adventure will end there."
Also, I should note that I read this while standing at a bus-stop for 50 minutes****, on the bus despite carsickness, and at home in bed until way past a reasonable hour. And finished it. And now I am bribing myself with the next book in the series.
Read this if: you like sassy corseted heroines, tall dark brooding heroes, touches of history, and third-person omniscient romances.
Avoid if: you are nitpicky about historical psychology, you don't like smut, or you are ashamed to be seen reading romance novels on the bus.
*What is the correct way, if there is any, but there's probably not, to say, "I wrote "lame" in there, and then caught a clue and decided not to, and I think the world might be nicer if more people had that moment of thought after typing "gay" "lame" or "retarded"? Yeah, probably there's not. Drive through.
***This seems to occur with the majority of my stories. I start by trying to explain where I learned to use a blowgun, and then I wind up having to explain getting stoned with my stepfather and taking pot shots at the tree trunk holding up the kitchen, and then I have to explain both my stepfather and why there was a tree trunk in the kitchen and then I usually end up at how there was a meth lab across the street from that house and my mother calling me up to narrate the SWAT team raiding the meth lab--"Oooh, they've got a battering ram!" and how the guy rolled out on his roof, naked, attempting to escape, and apparently the tip off was the smell because the plumbing hadn't worked for like six months, and they'd been using the first floor as a toilet, and seriously, WHO DOES THAT?! I mean, if my plumbing stops working, even if I had a meth lab and couldn't get a plumber in as a result, I'd put in a porta-potty or get frickin' buckets or something, I wouldn't just decide "Well, I don't need BOTH stories!" and anyway, my point is that I do kinda know how to use a blowgun, although only if the darts are made out of nails and shredded cigarette filters, and at this point, generally my companions are staring at me with much the same expression that Otter had. And, um, don't do meth, kids.
Also: http://ursulav.livejournal.com/836999.html
*** Wikipedia has a delightfully wonky explanation of the putative difference between Traditional Regency and Regency Historical.
**** This book was the consolation for an otherwise sucktastic evening.