Smart Bitches Trashy Books | All of the romance, none of the bullshit.

In this scene, she is speaking with Grey, the hero and a fellow spy, after he’s captured her.

“I have known several men of your type. None of them was amenable to reason.” She sounded more and more resigned. “We come to an impasse, you and I. What will you do with me?”

“Damned if I know. Take you to England and decide there, probably. By then we’ll understand each other better.”

“I meant, what will you do with me tonight? I am eating life in very small bites these days, monsieur.”

Then, later, as they find a camp:

“This is what we need. You have Gypsy blood in you, Annique?”

“Not from my mother’s side, I am almost sure.” She could smell his shirt, the starch and the vetiver-scented water that was ironed into it, which was wholly a French custom and not a British scent at all. They had such meticulous technique, these agents. “I do not know enough about my father to say....”

He did not touch her, but something in her body reached out and greeted his body as if the two were old friends who had not seen one another for a long time. She did not like it that her body chatted to his in this fashion.

Annique and Grey are two of the most well-written protagonists in historical romance I’ve read in a long, long time. In fact, I told Candy about this book and said it left me complacently blissed out in such a fashion that I hadn’t experienced since she made me read The Windflower.

Plot summary? Oh, fine then. Annique Villiers is a French spy who is thrown into an enemy prison alongside Grey and Adrian, two British spies. The three all know of each other, and after Annique helps them to escape, Grey captures Annique with the intentions of bringing her to England. And really, I can’t say more than that without giving away some of the best hidden plot twists I’ve encountered.

Annique is a clever heroine, who at the start of the novel is learning to see a future when her life has never been more than the moment when she puts one foot in front of the other. She’d never looked further than her next step, her next minute. She’s funny, charming, brave, resourceful, and brilliant. She refuses to compromise herself, or her integrity, and she knows she’s good at being a spy.

Grey is a slightly tortured, lonely, but deep hero, who gives little away on the surface of his expression but has a lot going on in his active, brilliant mind. Fascinatingly, Bourne acknowledges in the narrative that while Annique is beautiful, Grey himself is plain, and not necessarily attractive (all the more reason the abtastic cover model should go pose elsewhere. This is a terrible cover that sells this marvelous book way, way short, dammit). But he’s brilliant - and since I find intelligence beyond sexy, I loved this hero.

The plot is both new and not new. As Jane from Dear Author pointed out when we emailed each other about the book, squeeing like dorks, the heroes are English; the villains are French. That’s nothing new in a war-set historical romance. But the depth of historical significance and the intrigue of spies from rival sides reveals another side to Napoleonic wars. Some historical novels take place at balls in England while the war is raging on in France, but it’s something happening elsewhere, to other people, not to the protagonists. This novel is about those “other people,” sneaking back and forth from England to France and back again, the people to whom the war is happening personally. There’s much drama, but thanks to Annique, there’s also a thick element of humor woven through the story.

The only flaw I found with the story was that while Annique and Grey are uniquely rendered characters of a familiar mold, the villain, he was stock and dull and scary only because he had no mercy and I had to therefore wonder how someone so stupid and so ignorant arose to such a position of power when surrounded by all these marvelously intelligent people. The villainy in both the antagonist and in the larger French spy community is based on sexual assault and predatory actions on the innocent, and the endless threats of rape and assault made me more than a little ill, not because they added up to a significantly dastardly villain, but because it was too simple a retread of rape-and-violence-and-thinking-with-cock = Bad Guy. The extra thick icing of bad guy is that he tends to rape people for a good bit of the story, and I didn’t need that extra spoon feeding of “here’s the bad guy!” If the villain had kicked puppies and been a raging closeted homosexual, I’d have had to weep for the injustice of pairing that villain with the marvelous creations that are Annique and Grey. He’s not the bad guy because he wants to sacrifice others for the sake of his own ambition and greed. That’s apparently not enough badness. But when a villain is that much evil, there’s rarely any resolution that can adequately revenge his evilness.

But truly, the hero and heroine are incredible enough to offset the over-done bad behavior of the villain. Bourne could have written Grey and Annique’s entire backstory out as part of the narrative. The book could have been three times as long and no less fascinating. This is easily one of the best historical romances I’ve ever read. Bourne’s use of language and her skill in slowly revealing the layered secrets of her protagonists are lessons in writing talent that many, many others could do well to follow.

Frances never goes to London. She’s either in Scotland, or at the Rothermere country estate, which is fifteen miles from York. Forgive my ever-dependable lack of UK geographical knowledge, but York is a mighty ways away from London, and I think the farthest Frances and Hawk travel during their marriage is to Newmarket, which is still some distance from London by carriage. Frances is never in London as a “leading lady” and while she is fashionable and ravishing, she hasn’t snuck into the ton to reveal herself. She’s still near York most of the time.

Moreover, while Frances does disguise herself as a dowdy mouse to avoid Hawk’s interest, when she returns to her normal, beautiful state, he knows exactly who she is, and is absolutely furious about the transformation and the deception.

The cover copy alone is ample evidence of what was wrong with romance covers back in the day - my copy was published in 1987, I believe - but then, consider the cover image itself:

We’ve snarked this cover hard, as it is one of the more fabulous examples of “Invisible Buttsecks” covers in romance history - not to mention the dubious decision to put a red-haired woman in an orange dress while wearing silver and turquoise eyeshadow. Also, did he just fart out a swan?!

But behind (hur hur) the cover, there lies one of my favorite old-school romances. And when I mentioned it last week as part of a larger discussion of alpha males, I realized that it’s been so long since I read this book that it might be time to revisit it, just in case my memory is faulty as usual, only this time instead of giving me a total blank, my doofy memory has added a patina of quality that the original book didn’t have.

Nope, my memory and I are in accord: the book is still marvelously good, despite the misleading cover copy, the cover image, and some of the worst typesetting errors sprinkled throughout the entire book. Typos, missing quotations, missing capital letters - Jesus Flapjack, who typeset this thing?! Even with all these distractions, I still love this book, and it’s not just the sentimental value talking.

Frances Kilbracken is one of three Scottish sisters whose father, Earl of Ruthven, made a pact with the Marquess of Chandos some years before. Seems Ruthven saved Chandos’ life, and Chandos promised to marry one of his sons to one of Ruthven’s daughters. When Chandos suddenly takes ill, he asks his heir, Phillip (more commonly known as Hawk - yes, of course he has to have a nickname of a predatory bird. This is old school romance after all!) to go on up to Scotland and marry one of the daughters, completing his oath to Ruthven.

Hawk is not at all pleased with this idea. He recently inherited the title at the sudden death of his brother, Nevil, and has been enjoying his new life. Instead of a soldier in Wellington’s army, he’s a Lord of the realm, complete with amorous mistress, neverending nightlife in London, and a healthy amount of wealth to his name.

Frances thinks the entire idea is barbaric, and when she hears of Hawk’s life in London, she figures he’d want a wife as festive, gay, entertaining, and social as the women he currently spends time with. So Frances turns herself into a dowdy, frumpy, socially inept sourpuss and tries to drive Hawk away.

Trouble is, Hawk figures that if he marries Frances, dumps her in the country and heads on back to London, his life can continue as it was, and he won’t have to change a thing.

Consider the multitude of plot elements that could go horribly wrong with this setup: the foundation of the relationship is essentially a Big Misunderstanding. Both parties are horribly blind to one another, plus there’s the aspect of sex between the unwilling protagonists to deal with. But Coulter balances out these tricky elements admirably, and this is still one of my very favorite old school romances.

First: the hero. Yes, the hero forces Frances to have sex with him. This is indeed the romance wherein he has to use cream to ease his way up her tender virgin passage because she wants nothing to do with him, but he has a responsibility to beget an heir, and she’s half the equation required for that result. She knows it, he knows it, and so she lies still, tries to hide from him at times, but submits to his passionless ministrations.

But Coulter’s master stroke (har har) in creating empathy for Hawk is in the first chapter: Hawk rushes from London because he is told his father is dying. The entire chapter reveals how much Hawk cares for his parent, how unwilling he is to live up to an oath he didn’t make, and how, despite that unwillingness, he is aware of the responsibilities of his new life as Earl of Rothermere. In 16 pages of writing, Coulter establishes a hero who is noble, caring, dedicated to his family and his role as heir to the title, and empathetic - because who hasn’t had to do something they really, really did not want to do?

Second: the heroine. Frances is headstrong, intelligent, clever, and utterly hoisted by her own petard. Hawk is gorgeous and she is undeniably attracted to him, but she doesn’t want to marry him, nor does she want to leave Scotland. She doesn’t want her life to change any more than Hawk wants to give up his social life in London.

Yes, there are parts that made me dog-ear a page and laugh out loud, such as Frances’ completely incongruous need for “something more” in her life:

“I want to marry a rich man. I want to be somebody. What else can a woman look forward to anyway?” Viola said.
That was perfectly true, of course, Frances thought, suddenly depressed, but it wasn’t fair. She repeated her thought aloud. “It’s not fair. We should be able to do anything we wish to do.”

I can hear the music from Mary Poppins now: No more the meek and mild subservients we! We’re fighting for our rights, militantly! Well done! Sister Suffragette! Frances at times is a blooming ludicrous example of contemporary mentality shoved into an historical heroine. Even with all that posturing, I like her anyway.

There are some other flaws to the writing, such as an incredible propensity toward head hopping, like the narrator is a Jack Russell terrier on amphetamines. And there is also some marvelously purple prose, plus one of my very, very favorite phrases in all of romance to describe female arousal: To her utter consternation, Frances felt a deep spurt of something very warm and urgent between her thighs.

Now, between you and me? If I feel that, it probably means my water broke. But for Frances? Her arousal “spurts” a few times here and there through the book. It’s enough to make you want to send a gyn back in time to help her out with that problem.

By far the largest topic to discuss regarding this novel: the sex scenes where Frances lies still, an unwilling partner, as Hawk does his best to cause conception as quickly and painlessly as possible. This is one of the few romances I’ve read that has multiple scenes that depict what sexual intercourse could have been like for a couple that wasn’t sexually interested in or even friends with one another. It’s a duty and an obligation, and it’s disturbing, but in this case, the process reveals a good deal about each character. Hawk will rise (har har) to his responsibilities, even if they make him lonely and sad, and Frances will acquiesce to her own duties, even if they also make her lonely and sad.

Hawk, of course, has friends and a very passionate mistress. Frances is in a new place with no one she knows, forced to make a new life for herself despite her best efforts. Frances was caught in her own trap, and in the end, only by revealing who she really is can she find happiness. The same, of course, is true for the hero. He doesn’t enjoy the passionless sex that is his marital duty, and only by admitting he too longs for “something more” between his wife and himself can he find happiness.

Pamela Regis, in her book A Natural History of the Romance Novel outlines the primary differences between what Candy and I call “Old School” and “New School” romance. One of them, and the one I find most interesting, is the requirement in “New School” romance that the hero make his own journey to become worthy of the happy ending. Despite Midsummer Magic bearing many of the hallmarks of “Old School” romance, Hawk evolves through the story into a hero worthy of Frances and worthy of their happy ending. He wasn’t a complete buttmonkey to start with, either - he started from a place of some established empathy: he thought his father was dying and had to honor his wishes - and evolves to a place of greater heroism: he finds a purpose in life, a suitable vocation he can indulge in with his spouse, and a path toward leaving a greater inheritance for his children. And on top of that, he finds a passionate and unique relationship with his wife. They were forced to marry, but as they reveal their true characters, they find that, as is proper in a romance novel, they are perfectly matched.

It’s so awful I can’t even finish it. I already need some kind of mental restoration for having introduced the story into my head. If only I could return my brain to ‘last known good’ configuration, because my memory at present contains the following details:

Wilbur and Homer are best friends. Wilbur drives a garbage truck in Humper County, Oklahoma, and dreams of driving a gold-plated garbage truck while wearing a white Stetson and a red bandanna and some clothing of some sort. He prefers to drive said truck while high or drunk or both, and shoot the reflectors off the road signs and pepper the anatomy of billboard models with bulletholes from his handgun. At the start of our story, he runs out of bullets and goes home to find Homer boinking Wilbur’s wife, Emily.

Emily, it should be noted, is referred to repeatedly and I assume ironically as innocent, sweet, delicate and pure by Wilbur, the narrator, despite the numerous times he comes home to find her naked with some dude sneaking out the trailer door.

Homer takes off running because he thinks Wilbur’s gun is loaded and aimed at his ass, leaving Emily naked on the floor to explain what was going on. It certainly was what it looked like so at least she didn’t attempt a lame defense.

Instead, she attacks Wilbur’s manhood, tells him he doesn’t sexually satisfy her, and furthermore, she’s right pissed at him for not shooting Homer when they were both caught bareassed on the floor: “I’ll tell you what the matter is. You come waltzing in here with your truck pistol in your hand and catch me bare ass naked with another man and you don’t shoot him? I mean, even if he is your best friend, you should of shot him, at least once, somewhere.”

You can read more of the first chapter here. Bring painkiller. Or vascodilators. Or both.

Mixed in with the decidedly un-erotic content is a plot that somehow details how Wilbur, Emily, and Homer become country music stars by playing in a bar, which upsets poor Wilbur because he’s neglecting his trash collection duties. Emily gives birth to a baby that looks like neither Homer nor Wilbur, and they start calling themselves co-husbands since both of them like to boink Emily. Connie, Homer’s ex, is in there somewhere, too. And there are other ancillary characters, like some religious nutjobs who want to shut their act down. And here I am, siding with the religious right - these characters should be stopped.

Now, I’m fully willing to take a good number of romance and erotica plots with a great heavy grain of salt, most notably those that mix camp and sex for really off-the-wall erotica. And when reading erotica, I am also fully willing to read through scenes that don’t do it for me personally, but may engage some fantasies of other readers, such as watching a spouse do the carpet burn-and-roll with someone else, or catching someone in the act of poopchute lovin’ in a cop car. Whatever. People get their jollies from all manner of sexual content, and most of the time, I’m not judgmental about varying sexual proclivities.

However, this story isn’t erotic. It’s not even sexy. It’s just bad. Despite being categorized as “erotica,” with warnings that the content of the eBook is meant for mature audiences there’s really no erotic content. It’s just… lame. Lame lame lame. There was plenty of room for mixed-partner sex scenes, but Allen describes the sexual interaction in one sentence. There’s no description. At one point, Wilbur decides that he likes what-what-in-the-butt with Homer’s ex-wife Connie, so he grabs some butter, slaps her on the butt with it, and engages in some back door lovin’ on the hood of a car. This is described in fifteen to twenty words, tops. My description here? Longer than the actual scene. Allen has the same problem Wilbur has: “crawl on, stick it in and shoot it off.” This is the first erotica novel I’ve read that has its own case of sexual dysfunction.

Another example of potential erotic content that suffered total melting of the man cannon: during a brawl, Connie gets hurt on her breast, which she shows to the two arresting officers who report to the scene. Medical attention is needed - from both officers! In the squad car! And Connie decides to engage the car’s radio so the boinka-boink in her badonkadonk is broadcast to every listening officer AND every person tuned into the police scanner. It’s like the cop-car-in-the-woods version of having the pool boy visit the cabana. Imagine the sexual comedic potential of writing a scene like that.

What happens?

Connie goes off to the squad car, comes back a few minutes later, and tells Wilbur she turned the CB radio on before they got busy. That’s it. That’s all the reader gets. There’s no show, no tell, and really, no damn point to the whole thing. How is this erotica? It’s not. It’s merely rot.

In the hands of a writer who could craft a sensual or even a raunchy sex scene, the rural ramblings of Wilbur (the story is told in first person, heavy on the rural vernacular) could have resulted in something spicy and sexy, if not at least entertaining. The story itself could have been an erotic romp between bizarre characters, or a journey toward ignominious stardom, or even a lot of backdoor buttered sex, but the plot deflated every time it got close to being something other than tawdry, lame, and altogether stupid.

In short: this book is instant, complete, and total bonerdeath. Stay far, far away.