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

Kessler has a taut and somewhat tense writing style that makes for a fast and addictive read, and she employed a few devices that stuck with me even after I finished the book. For example, she made me think about use of popular music in contemporary romances. I used to think that the mention of a song or artist would immediately date the novel and render it stuck in a very specific range of time. But Kessler references a specific song, Marc Broussard’s “Home,” which I happen to love, and given the beat, the description of Jezebel’s dancing, and the scene itself, it worked and worked well. Referencing a song that isn’t chart-topping popular but interesting, clever and unique - the song itself is a kickass hybrid of Louisiana blues and funk - doesn’t date the book so much as add a layer to the story and the character. I understood more about Jezebel based on her association of the song: she is becoming something of a hybrid as much as the song already is.

My biggest problem, though, with the story rested on one aspect of Jezebel’s adjustment to human form. Does she have a memory? Does she have senses as a human that she didn’t have before? Is there some disconnect between senses, which she has, and a soul, which she does not? Every time she encountered something familiar - even if she’d only been in the human’s form for a day or two - that reminded her of something having to do with Hell, it would be right on the tip of her tongue, or tickling the edge of her brain, and I wanted to smack her with something heavy because OMG YOU WERE JUST THERE TWO DAYS AGO SURELY YOU REMEMBER. I was just there WITH YOU and I remember what it was. As far as a plot device to forward the suspense, it was frustrating, because I wasn’t sure if the protagonist/narrator was being a complete idiot, if she was unreliable, or if she wasn’t used to her human-limited senses. Ultimately it happened frequently enough that I wanted to bean her with her dancing pole.

Jezebel’s limitations as a human aren’t fully explained in terms of what it meant for the human whose body she copied. Clearly this is a series because there were some major pipe-sized loose ends left for the next book, but I find it frustrating when a large element isn’t revisited after for the beginning of the book, and while the character and storyline in question has to appear in subsequent books (I would hope!) I felt disappointed not to know even a little of what happened. Creating a first of a series that stands alone yet makes it clear there’s more story to be told is quite a balance, and it’s hard to accomplish. I’ve also heard from more than one author that publishers and editors want it OMG CLEAR that there is a sequel, hence big honking storylines left unresolved. Whatever the reason, it makes me a cranky panda. 

However, even picking up the book again a moment ago to get a fact or a detail straight for this review meant I lost a good ten minutes reading again, because the prose sucks you in and so much happens so fast that reading it is one what-happens-next after another. So I really, really want to find out what happens next - and I have to wait until November (*pout*).

Devil’s Cub is the sequel to These Old Shades and features the son of the protagonists from Shades. Dominic is the definition of wastrel, and Heyer doesn’t excuse away his debauchery in the least: he gambles, he drinks, he drinks while he gambles, all to the despair of his mother and the anger of his father. As Marquis of Vidal, Dominic is held in high social regard, a regard he tries to chip away with each evening’s activity.

Currently his sights for romantic interlude are set on Sophia Challoner, a beautiful young woman with aspirations of grandeur almost as high as those of her mother, though the family resides far, far from nobility or even gentility. Sophia is stunning, and she and her mother both expect that the attentions of the Marquis of Vidal will lead to a proposal, even if a forced one due to the man’s actions, and are counting on Sophia’s looks and charm (and complete lack of sense) to elevate them from their poor status.

Sophia’s older sister, Mary, the much more intelligent and sadly less attractive of the daughters, is horrified at Sophia’s lack of self-preservation. She tries to keep Sophia from throwing away her virginity, knowing full well that the Marquis only sees Sophia as a dalliance, and certainly not as a future wife.

When Mary intercepts an illicit invitation from the Marquis to Sophia, she decides to pose as Sophia to save Sophia’s reputation, even though the shallow little twat doesn’t deserve her sister’s loyalty, in my opinion.  And once Mary is trapped in an untenable situation with Dominic, the incredible parts of the book don’t stop until the end - and then, if you’re like me, you’re somewhat pissed off that the book is over.

Heyer does a wonderful job of setting up the depth of the hero and heroine before they meet and begin to interact, and it wasn’t until their deliciously snappy dialogue - snappy in the sense of sparks flying off the page - that I could appreciate the setup of Mary and Dominic’s meeting, slow and tedious though it was. Parts of Dominic’s character are revealed through gossip and through ancillary characters’ discussions of his own merits (or lack thereof). Parts of Mary’s are revealed through the narration, though her actions reveal what the narrator hints at. It’s a huge payoff- once the reader gets through the period of time introducing the reader to the protagonists, and the depth revealed about each one, the delight of watching Heyer place all the players in action is addictive. Thank God it’s not that huge a book or I’d have gotten exactly nothing done all weekend.

In addition, her prose is wonderful in that it doesn’t reveal too much by telling. The revelations as the protagonists come to care for one another are in tiny drops, but they’re contained in segments of narration that I had to go back and read over and over. For example:

Miss Challoner hunted for her handkerchief, and blew her little nose defiantly. It was a prosaic action. In her place, Sophia would have made play with wet eyelashes. Further, Sophia would never have permitted herself to sniff. Miss Challoner undoubtedly sniffed. Lord Vidal, whom feminine tears would have left unmoved, was touched. He dropped her hand on his shoulder, and said in a softer voice: “You’ve no need to cry, my dear. I told you, I don’t ruin ladies of your quality.”

Mary’s reasons for trying to avoid any ties to Dominic, though somewhat naive, demonstrate her intelligence and her innate nobility. She doesn’t want to be forced into anything, but moreover, she knows her station in life, and doesn’t want him to be forced into alliance with her or her family. Moreover, she doesn’t see that Dominic should sacrifice himself when she’s more than willing to work as a seamstress or a housemaid if she has to, given her ruined reputation.

But the interplay between them both is much deeper than mere plot progress. The questions of what is nobility, and who has it (and why) create the underpinnings of this novel. Nobility, to Heyer, is a quality not determined by birth status, but by character. In the beginning, Mary has more nobility than the Marquis, and while he is of much higher social status, he has to become worthy of her. Moreover, Mary’s nobility is a product of her own generosity and bravery as well as her intellect, and transcends her own status, as well as the negative influences of her very shallow sister and her ambitious, selfish mother.

The only part I didn’t like was the insincerity in the end of the book on the part of the Duchess, Leonie, who was her typical outspoken and somewhat adorable self, even as she pronounced loudly within Mary’s hearing that she didn’t want her son to marry someone as base as Mary. Clearly a Duchess wouldn’t come right out and apologize because, well, she wouldn’t have to, but I closed the book thinking that Mary would probably get on better with the Duke than with her mother-in-law, and that this was a bit of a shame, since I enjoyed Leonie’s character.

Aside from the utter novelty of reading a book first published in 1932, the story was set in a period a good bit before the much-written-about Regency. No mentions of Prinny here - but powders, patches, fans held by men, and the wonderfully-named Macaronis are everywhere. Since this isn’t a period of historical metrosexuality that I have often read about, it was particularly fascinating.

But by far the most fascinating part was reading a book held in regard so highly by so many different writers and readers. There’s no small amount of disagreement in tastes in romance novels, as we’ve amply demonstrated here a few times, but I’ve heard nothing but sighs and squee about this book, and others by Heyer. I’m happy to add my own sigh-age and squeeage to the crowd. Damn, this book was wonderful.

Sarah: HA! You crack me up. Seriously.

I liked her a lot when she was a male running around the desert, and I’ve been able to sympathize with some of her motivations, but what I don’t get is how Kinsale is writing one big mis after another. It’s camped out on the border of flawed characters right before moving into stubbornness for stubbornness’ sake.

So what made you want to smack a bitch?

Candy: Yes, I liked her when she was in pants as well. Once she was in England, she went beyond headstrong into DOWNRIGHT MENTALLY ILL. Seriously. She made me cringe so hard. And the misunderstandings do pile on, don’t they? The thing is, they’re character-driven. It’s not like, “Oh, she won’t talk to the hero because...because she just won’t!” Zenia is a headcase, and what she does is absolutely convincing--and really, really maddening.

I really like Arden, though. I wish he could’ve found himself somebody healthier and more appreciative of him.

But this is from reading the book 10, 11 years ago.

Sarah: You know, I agree. But I think the Character-Driven Big Mis is easier to take because I know why it’s happening. i.e. she’s a nutjob because she was forced into one life by her mother, then was forced into another life by Arden’s mother, and really never figured out who she was. But it’s all very subtle - and certainly she was horrifically abused as a child so that her actions toward lunacy make sense.

But when she’s screaming at Arden that she bundles her daughter up to her ears and then heats up the room because she’s afraid of losing her after she thought he was dead, you’d think he’d get a clue. And you’d think that he would understand how alien she felt, English in the desert, Arabic in England, and cut her a break. He’s a bit of a self-absorbed butthead, in the sense that he can’t understand that she feels just as he does, and he KNOWS that, but won’t remember it at crucial moments.

His knowledge, actually, bugs me. He knows Bedouin customs, and he knows the marriage laws are different. Why hasn’t it crossed his doofy mind that she would worry that he would put her aside? He’s more English than he thinks, because he can’t believe she’d even think of such a thing, and she’s more Arab than she thinks, because she can’t get over fearing that he’d reject her.

Candy: Oh, man, I totally forgot about that scene. Ooof.

The thing is, Arden has been abused, too. And he reminds me in a lot of ways of a lot of intensely shy, intelligent, self-conscious people I know who were raised by stern, overbearing parents: he’s inordinately sensitive to some cues, and completely oblivious to others.  Most of them seem more likely to pick up cues of disapproval than cues of approval/love. Honestly, it’s the same problem with Zenia, too. I’ve seen this over and over in real life with various friends of mine. And it’s a credit to Kinsale that she renders this so convincingly and instinctually.

Damn, I really need to re-read this book. Maybe not now, because I’m not feeling up to diving into the bowl of dysfunction that’s Zenia and Arden, but I’m really curious to see if my impressions have held true over the years.

Sarah: It’s certainly a bowl of fucked-uppedness. And I can’t figure out if my feelings of frustration with the characters are the point of the story, because I have to admire them for the multi-facetedness of their emotional misery, or if I’m frustrated because I think their actions disagree with their motivations as characters. Pardon my blasphemy, but did Kinsale get some of their actions wrong, or am I just frustrated along with the two of them?

A heaping spoonful of empathy on the part of either one might help, and I have to downgrade the book in my mind every time I see them come close to a resolution and then notice that I have a good half-inch or more of book to read so no, it’s not a real resolution. It’s temporary or at least a conduit to yet another conflict, and I feel like I’m reading a soap opera where the tension is beginning to seem sustained just for its own sake. No happiness for either of you! Ever! Neither character has any room for vulnerability, and I can understand that, but at the same time, there are moments of great kindness and empathy on each of their parts, but not at the times when it would be most useful. Since I know from previous scenes that it’s within their capabilities, seeing yet another inch to go with more bullheaded obstinancy on either part makes me nuts.

To quote a character from the tv show How I Met Your Mother: “You like him, he likes you, happiness doesn’t have to be so hard!”

But given that I just read her diatribe on conflict and wussiness in romance reader’s expectations, I have to wonder if I am prejudiced against the conflict. The piles of little things working against them create a complicated, tangled agony, and really, at some point, there has to be a break where she can just listen to him, for the love of God. As the agony continues, I’m with you on the smack-a-bitch lineup.

Candy: And regarding Kinsale’s diatribe about conflict, and whether or not TDH represents wussiness on your part because you find it uncomfortable: I don’t think it does. I certainly don’t think it does with me. I’m one of the most masochistic readers I know. Pain? Angst? Mistreatment? Misunderstanding? FULL-ON DYSFUNCTION? BRING IT, BEYOTCH. Two of my all-time favorite romances are Seize the Fire and The Windflower, and given what the heroes put the heroines through in those two books, I don’t see how anyone could accuse me of not enjoying conflict, or flinching away from a book because I’m a tender widdle flowah who wants nothing but hugs and puppies and kisses in my reading material.

But TDH is different. TDH feels GRINDING. TDH exhausted me. It’s like seeing a codependent relationship played before your eyes. And it’s so maddening because you feel like the characters should be smart enough to break out of those spirals of destructive, hurtful behavior, but they don’t.

I think the difference between this book and the others is that they had more external conflicts that helped break up the action and inject some levity, and also because there were more good times than bad times. I could get why Merry wanted to stay with Devon, or why Olympia stuck with Sheridan. But Zenia and Arden? They had a brief idyll in the beginning of the book, and the rest of it’s pain, pain, pain.

Sarah: If you were grading it, though, what grade would you give? I’d have to say at this point, C+. Big ups for amazing writing, and truly lyrical and evocative descriptions to the point where I’d linger over paragraphs of description and then want to skip the dialogue because someone was going to say something obstinately bullheaded and I’d get irritated with them. I even emailed Kinsale because I’m a dork like that - even though I am having all kinds of frustrations with the characters motivations vs. their actions, I am mollified by the quality of the writing that I want to keep reading it, even if just to roll around in the prose like a kid in the leaf pile.

But down I go when it comes for the unending conflict - you were so 100% right when you said, “The characters should be smart enough to break out of those spirals of destructive, hurtful behavior, but they don’t.” I keep returning to a point where I ask myself, “Should he/she know better than to choose this course of action when they demonstrated some ability to accurately interact with this character a moment ago? Is it consistent with their character or is this just throwing more angst in the big pot of woe for the sake of super-sized angsty flava?”

It’s like one of those arguments you have where both parties are nearing hysterical temper and start firing outrageously random verbal bullets because at this point it’s just habit replaying itself - only it’s the TWO-THIRDS OF THE DAMN BOOK.

However, it’s still a testament to the quality of the book that I think about it that much. It’s not like I circle back and forth about the characterization of other heroines or heroes all the time that I’m reading. Kinsale’s characters are usually written at 500 dpi while the rest are at 72 or maybe 150, so I feel almost insolent criticizing them.

Candy: In terms of grade, I’m inclined to give it a B-. The writing and characterization are brilliant, but when it comes down to it, I didn’t really like Zenia, though Arden was a good deal more sympathetic to me--perhaps because he wasn’t so shrill, and perhaps because Zenia reminds me of the very, very worst aspects of myself writ large. And mind you, I don’t really need to LIKE the characters in order to like a book, but when it comes to a romance novel, I have to be invested in their happiness, and the dynamic between Arden and Zenia frustrated me too much for me to do that unreservedly. I can’t give it anything less than a B, though, because I had such a strong reaction to the characters, and because when I rooted for them, I rooted for them HARD. And because the ending just killed me with its sweetness, and gave me just a little bit of hope for the two of them. It speaks well of an author, that I talk about characters in such a way, and that I feel so frustrated with them precisely because they’re so alive to me.

And as for whether the conflicts were for conflict’s sake: again, it’s been a while since I read the book, but I remember that not being a problem with me. It didn’t feel contrived. And that, in a nutshell, is probably why that book captured me and maddened me at the same time.

Sarah: I’m resting at my final grade of C+, because, as you said, the writing was good and I was so invested in the characters, but I had a few problems with the ending, though it was indelibly sweet.

For one thing, what was her growth? Did she heal? Admitting that she had a problem, a big huge psycho problem, and that she needed his help? I felt the ending wasn’t solidified by enough foundation, and as you said last night, can I believe that they’ll last into neverending permanence? Not really. And with all the suffering, I wanted that reassurance.

In the end, I have to say, harshness towards the angst and the heroine aside, this was a marvelously written novel about two very flawed people who, despite being frustrating to read about, I rooted for. I wanted their happiness, even if it seemed they couldn’t be bothered to want it for themselves. It’s moving, detailed, vivid, and possesses some of the best descriptions and scenes I’ve read in awhile. But like any Kinsale novel, it’s not a book you put aside lightly. It’s an experience.