Limecello’s review of Simply Unforgettable (The Simply Quartet, Book 1) by Mary Balogh
Historical romance published by Dell on 25 Jul 06

Simply Unforgettable is the first novel in a quartet of books about teachers at a girls’ school finding love, and a happy ending. I’ve been meaning to read this book ever since I read Simply Love which I enjoyed very much. It helps that I don’t mind reading series out of order. Mary Balogh is a wonderful author of a number of historical romances, and I’ve liked every book of hers (that I’ve read). Simply Unforgettable is an extremely well written novel- everything flows naturally and is very believable.

Frances Allard may be one of my most favorite romance heroines ever.She’s smart, and sensible. She goes after what she wants, has a life plan, and sticks to it. I loved that she turned the hero down three separate times. Not to be a jerk, or out of cruelty, simply because it was what she believed was the best course of action for all involved. And Frances was right.

I liked that she was honest with herself, especially in regards to her emotions, but let her mind take precedence over her heart throughout the majority of the novel. Frances is an incredibly well written, and well developed character. I not only felt that I understood her personality, but also that I admired it. She’s someone you’d like to have as a friend – if you could be so lucky. I also liked how human she was. Frances gets frustrated, has regrets, and strong emotions, but she doesn’t let that turn her into a fluff brain or a sniveling idiot. At the same time, she doesn’t ruthlessly quash all emotions just for the sake of plot. (After all, Frances agrees to marry Lucius, even though it’s not the most sensible thing to do.)

Lucius Marshall is an excellent hero. Lucius is a good man, and good-natured. However, he’s bratty, and Frances knows it. She also lets him know it. Lucius is someone that does not look before he leaps, and so acts as a wonderful foil for Frances. I liked how Ms. Balogh got into Lucius’s head. He gets mad at Frances, and is bewildered by her, but his reactions are fitting. He doesn’t fall into cliches or some excess of emotion just to create drama. I also felt that Lucius grew as a person throughout the novel, and that was nice to see. I found Lucius’ actions and feelings exactly how a man in love for the first time would be – especially one who up to this point, has been catered to his entire life. Although Lucius can be selfish at times, he’s so earnest that his flaws (and there truly aren’t that many) are easy to dismiss.

Oftentimes I read a book, and regardless of how I feel about it (generally they’re ones I enjoy a lot), there will be one line that jumps out at me. A line that I want to remember forever, and incorporate into my normal every day conversations.  What better way to keep it than memorializing it in a review? Accordingly, I’m sharing it with you. This is immediately after another minor conflict between Frances and Lucius.

But sometimes, he thought, love could feel remarkably like hatred.
This was one of those times.

It was perfect right there, and conveyed well… everything. Simple Unforgettable is a character driven novel, and that’s what I love most about romances. The people, their emotions, and how they go about dealing with them. It was also nice to see a number of secondary characters that have appeared in previous novels, as well as those that will have their own stories told in the Simply series.

I really liked this novel, but I’m beginning to think that I can’t read Ms. Balogh’s novels in rapid succession. I tried picking up Simply Perfect the same night I finished Simply Unforgettable, but it didn’t really hold my interest. I’m pretty sure it’s not the books, because the same thing happened with The Secret Pearl – which I tried to read after Simply Love. (Likely it’s that and my mood which is making this review less effusive than it might otherwise be.) What I think is great is that Ms. Balogh’s books – even the ones in series, can be read out of order as they can stand alone. In fact, I’m going to buy Simply Unforgettable. (The copy I read and reviewed was provided by my wonderful local library.)

I recommend this book to all of Ms. Balogh’s fans [if you've already read it, why not read it again? ], as well as anyone who enjoys historical romance. Or even someone looking to try historicals.

Grade: A-

Summary:

Frances Allard is returning to Miss Martin’s School for Girls in Bath, where she is the French and music teacher, after spending Christmas with her great-aunts in Somersetshire. She hoped for snow all over the holiday, and it has finally come–when she no longer wants it. The journey, in her great-aunts’ ancient traveling carriage, with their elderly coachman at the ribbons, is soon made very difficult indeed by the worsening conditions.

Read an excerpt here.

Other books in the series (these are the mass market paperback releases of the original hardcovers):

Shannon C.’s review of Widdershins by Charles de Lint
Urban fantasy released by Tor 16 May 06

Charles de Lint is a comfort read for me. I find his stories are fairly similar, with many of the same archetypes and descriptions, but I always feel a sense of homecoming whenever I return to the world he’s created, particularly in his wonderful Newford series. I have loved Jilly Coppercorn, the cheerful, optimistic artist who is one of the more infamous Newford residents, and Geordie Riddell, a fiddler who has been her best friend for years. I’ve been invested in their relationship, and I keep hoping they’d eventually realize they were meant to be. So when I learned that Widdershins was going to eventually bring Geordie and Jilly together, I had to wait impatiently to get my hands on a copy as soon as I possibly could. 

I’m not actually sure if people new to the Newford books would get as much out of this story. Certainly, it’s not one I’d recommend starting with, (For that I’d recommend the short story collection Dreams Underfoot, or even the novel Someplace to be Flying.). It certainly needs to be read after reading The Onion Girl, which introduces us to the horrors of Jilly’s past. But I have been a long time Newford reader, so for me, the book was like meeting back up with old friends.

The plot does follow what seems to be De Lint’s formula lately. This time, musician Lizzie runs into a group of boggans who have just killed a deer, which happened to be the daughter of one of the local clan of native deer spirits. This sets in motion a whole chain of events that eventually brings Lizzie and Jilly together and then traps them in the Otherworld, which is the spirit world that exists alongside of this one. Not only are they trapped in the Otherworld, but they are trapped with something ominous from Jilly’s past. Geordie, in an attempt to rescue Jilly, winds up in that world, too, and he and Jilly must finally face up to their feelings for each other.

De Lint does a lot of things well here. The Otherworld is a scary place, and there is a surprisingly dark undertone to the scenes found there. Which isn’t to say that De Lint doesn’t imbue Newford and the Otherworld with a certain magical quality that make it seem like you really could step into Dreamland if you wanted to, because he absolutely does, and it’s that sense of wonder that keeps me coming back. It’s that sense of wonder that I feel most other urban fantasy authors try to get at, but largely fail.

I liked the contrasting plots of Jilly’s very personal struggle with the demon she’s created for herself, and the very large-scale conflict between the native animal spirits and the fairy folk we’re used to. The plots are interwoven well, and both were resolved in what I thought was aa very satisfactory manner. I also liked the glimpses of popular Newford characters, including the Crow Girls, Mother Crone, and even Geordie’s brother, Christie.

On the other hand, sometimes it’s clear De Lint loves his characters beyond all reason. I have always disliked Joe Crazy Dog, mostly because he’s way more powerful than most of the rest of the people we meet, and De Lint tends to use a lot of superlatives when describing him. Still, he doesn’t actually get to *show* us what a bad ass he is. And sometimes the dropping in on old characters felt a bit unnecessary and drew the story out longer than it needed to. And since I am a lone voice crying in the wilderness about how much I dislike POV switches that go from first to third person, I won’t even mention how jarring that is for me.

All that being said, this is a good entry in the Newford series. I’m glad to see the question of Jilly/Geordie resolved in a satisfactory manner. I also loved watching Jilly vanquish her inner demons and truly begin to heal. I hope this means that De Lint will explore new characters and new aspects of this setting.
Grade: B

Summary:
Jilly Coppercorn and Geordie Riddell. Since they were introduced in the first Newford story, Timeskip, back in 1989, their friends and readers alike have been waiting for them to realize what everybody else already knows: that they belong together. But they’ve been more clueless about how they feel for each other than the characters in When Harry Met Sally. Now in Widdershins, a stand-alone novel of fairy courts set in shopping malls and the Bohemian street scene of Newford’s Crowsea area, Jilly and Geordie’s story is finally being told.

Before it’s over, we’ll find ourselves plunged into the rancorous and sometimes violent conflict between the magical North American “animal people” and the more newly-arrived fairy folk. We’ll watch as Jilly is held captive in a sinister world based on her own worst memories—and Geordie, attempting to help, is sent someplace even worse. And we’ll be captivated by the power of love and determination to redeem ancient hatreds and heal old magics gone sour.

To walk “widdershins” is to walk counterclockwise or backwards around something. It’s a classic pathway into the fairy realm. It’s also the way people often back slowly into the relationships that matter, the real ones that make for a life. In Widdershins Charles de Lint has delivered one of his most accessible and moving works of his career.
Source: Tor Books

Read an excerpt.

Holly‘s review of Taming the Highlander by Terri Brisbin
Historical romance published by Harlequin Historical 1 Jul 06

Although I enjoy historical romance novels, lately I’ve been disappointed in the majority of the ones I’ve read. I realized the other day the reason for my disappointment stems from the fact that I have a hard time suspending disbelief over some of the situations the characters find themselves in. Basically, I don’t think the novels I’ve read recently have been in keeping with how I think historical times really were. While that doesn’t always bother me, I think I’ve just been craving something a little more realistic. Terri Brisbin did an excellent job, in my opinion, of staying true to the times. It was very refreshing and just what I was looking for.

She didn’t gloss over some of the more unsavory aspects of historical times, but instead highlighted them. Jocelyn is all set to marry one of her father’s fostered men when she’s told her brother has been captured and the price of his release is her agreeing to marry his captor, Connor MacLerie, called The Beast because of the rumors circulating that he murdered his first wife because she couldn’t bare him children.

Though she doesn’t want to – especially considering the rumors surrounding him – she knows she has no choice. I think I liked this aspect best. She didn’t want to, but she knew she didn’t have a choice. There was no fighting it, or running away, or doing something stupid. She just did what she had to do. She didn’t like it, but she did it regardless. It was refreshing to have a heroine who knew her own mind and wasn’t afraid to stand up for herself when needed, but who also knew she had to make the best of a bad situation. I think she was much stronger than many other heroines for just that reason.

Connor’s first wife fell down the stairs. For three years afterwards he spent considerable time and effort cultivating the rumor that he pushed her. He’s been told by the king that he needs to remarry, so he chooses Jocelyn because she has enough spirit to stand up to him and because unlike his first wife, she’s not beautiful. Connor struggles to stay detached from her, because he knows had he not loved his first wife, she wouldn’t have died. I enjoyed his character very much. He was the typical highland warrior, more than prepared to go to war, but not nearly prepared enough to deal with a woman and her sensitive feelings. Though this could have become tedious, Brisbin did a credible job of balancing his need to be a man with his need to have peace in his household. He screws up several times, giving Jocelyn what he assumes she wants, but he always makes it right in the end. I even understood his need to keep her at arms length.

The plot was tight and well drawn, though it didn’t take much to figure out who the villain of the piece was. I’m not sure if the author intended for it to come as a surprise or not, but it wasn’t long after the character was introduced that I figured the whole thing out. Even so, the focus of the story was on the main protagonists, so the mystery/suspense plot wasn’t in the forefront and therefore wasn’t as important as it could have been.

Overall an extremely well drawn novel with wonderful character development.

Grade: A-

Lady Jocelyn MacCallum had always believed she would marry for love. But the price of her brother’s freedom was to become fearsome Connor MacLerie’s new bride – a bargain that could cost Jocelyn her life.

From the moment she looked into Connor’s sternly handsome face, Jocelyn began to hope that the rumors surrounding his first wife’s death were false. His reputation was as wild and untamed as the Scottish moors. Would she find a way to reach the man beneath that forbidding exterior?

Shannon C.’s review of The Red Heart of Jade (Dirk and Steele, Book 3) by Marjorie M. Liu
Paranormal romance published by Love Spell 1 Jul 06

Whatever there is to say about Marjorie Liu’s books, “boring” is not an adjective that describes any of them. In the third installment in Ms. Liu’s Dirk & Steele series, the action starts from the first and doesn’t let up until the end.

This time Ms. Liu transports the reader to Taiwan, where Dirk & Steele agent Dean Campbell is investigating a series of grisly murders which all clearly have a paranormal bent. Soon the fires aren’t the only thing that Dean, a clairvoyant, is involved with. He meets up with Mirabelle Lee, a girl he grew up with and whom he always loved, and the two of them are caught up in a dangerous quest to find a missing piece of jade that may be the key to unleashing a deadly force upon the world.

What I like about Ms. Liu’s paranormals is that her world-building is consistent. The world she’s created is a pretty grim place, but it’s one of the few paranormal worlds that I feel meshes well with reality. And I always love the exotic settings that Ms. Liu employs. Here we have Taiwan, and it definitely feels like a place the author is familiar with.

The characters here were likable. I’ve liked Dean from his appearances in the previous two books, and was curious about how Ms. Liu would make this smart-ass, porn-loving complete guy into a romantic hero. Dean is all of those things, but he’s also never forgotten Miri, the woman he loves, and his determination to be with and protect Miri was absolutely sweet.

Unfortunately, Miri works less well for me as a heroine. I like her well enough, but she’s nowhere near as cool as Dean. I understood why the two of them would want to be with each other, and they definitely had chemistry, and I suspect that Miri would have been a kick-ass heroine in any other story. But she’s not, and so she easily gets overshadowed by the plot.

The plot itself moves along at a breakneck pace, though there are quiet, introspective moments along the way which allow for character development. Ms. Liu throws the reader directly into the middle of the action, and one must either keep up or get lost. thankfully, I kept up fine, though I did feel at times that all the intrigue between the characters was a bit much and things got too convoluted. The book ends on a satisfying note, with plenty more for Ms. Liu to do in this universe, and I’m anxious to see where she goes from here.

I wish the heroine had been a bit more memorable, and I could have dealt with a plot that was a bit less complex, but overall I very much enjoyed this entry into the series.

Grade: B

Summary:

Imagine a world where magic rubs elbows with science, where men and women with supernatural powers secretly risk their lives to help others. It is a world where one right turn can deliver a mystery that will change your life forever, a world of shape-shifters, immortal magicians, criminal underworlds run by powerful psychics — intrigue, mystery, and romance.

The saga continues in THE RED HEART OF JADE as Dean Campbell — clairvoyant, dangerous, and irreverent — finds himself hot on the trail of a murderer who is part of an ancient hunt for power, a hunt that has only one outcome: death or destruction. And at the heart of that hunt — both prize and mystery — is a women who died in Dean’s arms twenty years earlier: Mirabelle Lee, childhood sweetheart and the love of his life. Together, alive and reunited, Dean and Miri are forced to rely on each other — and the strength of their enduring love — as they race to unravel the mystery that threatens not only their lives, but the entire world.
You can read an excerpt here.

This was posted forever ago, in fact still is. Instead of moving the one that is already up I am reposting it (I can do that   ) cuz I have excerpts for the next two books to go up today.

retro post all from April 13, 2008

Excerpt of Vanquished by Hope Tarr (Medallion, 1 Jul 06) – pretty covers, but some of the model’s poses make me go “ouch!” Have you seen her recent Blaze cover?

CHAPTER ONE

“Your denial of my citizen’s right to vote, is the denial of my right of consent as one of the governed, the denial of my right of representation as one of the taxed, the denial of my right to a trial by a jury of my peers as an offender against the law; therefore the denial of my sacred right to life, liberty, property…”

~ Susan B. Anthony
United States of America v. Susan B. Anthony, 1873

Westminster, London
February 1890

“Votes for Women now. Votes for women NOW!”

The protestors’ voices pitched higher still, shriller still, or so it seemed to Hadrian as he hurried across Westminster Bridge, the wind tearing at his greatcoat and scarf and threatening to rip the bowler from his head. Stepping out onto the crowded street, he tightened his grip on his camera, a German-made Anschütz with a shutter mechanism capable of arresting motion to one-thousandth of a second. He’d put the equipment to good test that afternoon at St. Thomas Hospital photographing a newly discovered medical anomaly. The poor bastard had been born with an enormous scrotum, tumor-mottled skin, and a chronic palsy that would have rendered traditional photographs little better than a blur. Even so, using his talent to turn a fellow human being into little better than a circus freak hadn’t set well with Hadrian, and the subject’s sad-eyed patience in holding any number of humiliating poses had made him feel like the lowest of beasts. Now frozen, footsore and famished, he couldn’t reach his studio soon enough.

But to do so he first had to run the gauntlet of suffragists who’d overtaken Parliament Square. They’d camped out for coming on two days now, creating a bloody nuisance for pedestrians and conveyances alike. Dressed in somber grays and serious blacks, the fifty-odd females picketing beneath the gray wash of winter sky might just as easily pass for a funeral procession as a political rally were it not for the placards the women held aloft and the noise they emitted — especially the noise.

“Miss Caledonia Rivers to speak on the subject of female emancipation… Hallman’s Assembly Rooms… tomorrow evening… seven o’ clock.”

Dodging traffic to cross to the sidewalk, Hadrian could only shake his head. That any woman fortunate enough to possess a roof and four walls would march about in the bitter air struck him as a sort of perverse self-indulgence, a foolishness on par with going slumming in the stews or touring prison yards to observe the convicts picking oakum. He had no patience for it, none at all and when one bug-eyed female had the audacity to try and stuff a pamphlet in his already full hands, he swallowed an oath worthy of his Covent Garden days and darted inside the park’s gated entrance.

He realized his mistake at once. Apparently not content with clogging the sidewalks, the damnable females had made camp within the park proper. A platform had been erected in the center of the green and several more dark-clad women busied themselves lighting the torches set about its perimeter. Giving them broad berth, he kept his head down and his sights trained on the opposite end of the wrought-iron gate.

The blare of a bobbie’s whistle from outside the park walls instinctively sent him swinging around — and barreling into a female’s soft body. “Ouf!”

Hadrian stared down in horror. The woman he’d knocked off her feet now sprawled at his, feathered hat askew and skirts bunched. On the frost-parched-grass beside her, a leather briefcase crammed with papers stretched wide open.

He went down on his knees beside her. “Madam, are you all right?” Unleashing his grip on the camera, he slid an arm beneath her shoulders.

She jerked at his touch. Behind the netting of veiled hat, her green eyes flashed fire. “It’s miss, actually.” She elbowed her way upright and yanked down her skirts — but not before Hadrian caught sight of a pair of appealingly trim ankles. “And I would be in fine fettle indeed had you but seen fit to mind where you were going.” Broken peacock feather dangling over her one eye, she got to her knees and began collecting her papers.

Courtesy toward women was deeply ingrained, one of the few values Hadrian possessed, and the only claim he could make to being a gentleman by deed if not by birth. And so rather than point out that she had bumped into him as well, he held out his hand to help her up. “Allow me.”

Beneath the weight of that atrocious hat, her head snapped up. “I believe I have had quite enough of your help for one day.”

As if bent on proving her wrong, the demon wind kicked up, scattering vellum sheets to the four winds.

She leapt to her feet. “My papers!” Hiking up her skirts, she gave chase across the park. Over her shoulder, she shouted, “Well, don’t just stand there. Do something!”

Bloody hell. With a muttered prayer that his camera would still be there on his return, Hadrian abandoned it to run after her. Hell bent on cheating the wrangling wind, he plucked one sheet from its skewer of wrought-iron fencepost and another from the foot of the statue of the late Benjamin Disraeli. At the lady’s insistence, he retrieved two more from the upper branches of one very tall, very scratchy oak tree. Breathless, bruised, and sporting a tear in his coat, he shoved the last of the papers in his pocket and climbed down. Dropping to the hard-packed ground, he scanned the square for signs of his erstwhile victim, but she appeared to have vanished.

He was on the verge of giving up and going on his way when he spotted her, down on all fours and buried shoulder-deep in the boxwood hedge. Coming up behind her, he tapped her smartly on the back. “What the devil do you think you’re about?”

From beneath the branches, her muffled voice answered, “Collecting my papers naturally.” She crawled out, feathers hanging at half-mast and a clutch of vellum in one grubby glove.

This time she accepted his hand up without argument. Standing face-to-face, he saw she was tall, nearly a match for his six feet. The novelty of looking a woman directly in the eye had him peering beyond the blur of veil for a closer study. No great beauty, he decided, nor was she any green girl. If he had to make a stab at guessing, he’d peg her at thirty-odd, perhaps a year or two older than himself, and a spinster judging by the “miss” as well as the dreary clothing. And yet the sage-colored eyes beneath the slash of dark brows were both expressive and arresting, and the full mouth and softly squared jaw completed a pleasing enough picture.

Caught up, it took her discreet cough to remind him of the papers bulging from his pocket. Handing them over, he said, “I think this is the lot.”

“Thank you.” She took them from him, her gloved fingertips brushing his, and improbably he felt the warm tingle of her touch shoot straight to his groin. Stuffing the papers inside her case, she spotted the mud and dried leaves festooning the front of her coat. “Oh dear, I’m a mess” she said, swiping at the muck with her soiled glove. “I never can seem to manage the trick of remembering a handkerchief.”

He fumbled in his pocket. “Here, have mine.” He pressed the square into her palm, again experiencing that peculiar surge of heat.

She accepted with a grateful smile and bent to brush away the dirt. “Thank you — again.” Straightening to her full, glorious height, she handed back his handkerchief.

Feeling in better spirits, he shook his head. “Keep it. Really, it’s the least I can do after mowing you down like so much lawn grass.”

She laughed then, a soft airy tinkling that made him think of the wind chimes his landlady insisted on hanging by his backdoor. “All right then… if you’re sure.” She stuffed the wadded ball of linen into her coat pocket and turned to go. Stopping in her tracks, she looked back. “Mind you don’t lose your papers.”

“My papers? Oh… quite.” Good God, he’d left his best camera out in the open and, worse yet, had been on the verge of forgetting it entirely. What the devil was the matter with him? Jogging over to retrieve it, he thought of his flat, empty save for his cat, and realized he was no longer so very eager to reach it — at least not alone. “I’m not always such an oaf, you know,” he called back, wracking his brain for something else to say, some pretense to hold her.

From a few feet away, she cupped a hand to her ear. “Sorry?”

“I said I’m not always such an oaf.”

“Oh.” She paused in mid-step, appearing to consider that. “Well, I’m not usually such a harridan, either except when I’m nervous — or in this case, late.”

“I don’t think you’re a harridan.” Camera in hand, he closed the space separating them in three ridiculously long strides. “It’s these protestors, taking up the whole bloody square as if they own every brick and statue, spewing their rubbish at all hours that have everyone on edge. I only came through the park to avoid them.”

Mouth lifting into a pretty smile of full pink lips and straight white teeth, she nodded to the park beyond them. “It would seem you’ve rather failed in that regard.”

“Yes, I suppose I have.” Looking back over his shoulder, he saw they were the object of a good many whispers and gawking stares. Their mad dash must have made an amusing spectacle indeed. Ordinarily that realization would have set him fuming but rather than care, he found himself saying, “There’s a tea shop just around the corner. Allow me to make amends by buying you a cup?”

She shook her head, looking adorably shy and far younger than she had at first when she’d still been tight-lipped and cross. “That isn’t necessary. And I’ve an… engagement to keep.”

Ah yes, presumably the engagement for which he had made her late already. A decent fellow would accept defeat and send her on her way. And yet the mental image of how splendid she would look freed from all those ghastly clothes and wearing only his bed sheets prompted him to press, “As you’re late already, why not postpone it altogether, at least until you’ve thawed?

She shook her head, causing the broken hat feathers to careen like a torn sail. “I can’t. I really must be going.” The tightening of her mouth told him he’d been too forward, that this time she really did mean to go.

“Ah well, perhaps we’ll bump into one another again sometime.” He fished inside his coat pocket for one of his business cards as a pretense to asking her name.

“Yes, perhaps we shall,” she allowed but there was no hope of it in her eyes. She turned to go and Hadrian knew this time there would be no more keeping her.

Before she could take a step, a squat woman with salt-and-pepper hair and a man’s plaid muffler wrapped about her short neck rushed up to intercept her. “Good Lord, Callie, are you all right? I was outside the gate and only just heard what happened.”

Beneath her veil, the woman — Callie — flushed bright crimson. “Calm yourself, Harriet. I am perfectly fine. I took a bit of a tumble, and my briefcase spilled.” Her shy-eyed gaze shifted to Hadrian. “This gentleman was kind enough to help me.”

From behind horn-rimmed spectacles, Harriet’s beady-eyed gaze dropped to the camera case in Hadrian’s hand. “I don’t know what rag of a newspaper you’re with, sir, but if your scheme is to scare up scandal and rubbish by waylaying Miss Rivers and photographing her in disarray, then you’d best think again.”

Taken off guard, Hadrian started to demur when from the vicinity of the stage, someone with a bullhorn belted out, “Miss Caledonia Rivers to make her address. Five minutes, ladies. Five minutes…”

Callie Rivers. Caledonia Rivers. It was then that the fog inside Hadrian’s head lifted. His mystery woman was one of them, a suffragette! And not just any suffragette but their leader! Seeing her through new eyes, he took in the spinsterish coat, the awful hat, and the leather case containing the oh-so important papers, and asked himself how a piquant smile and a pair of pretty ankles had turned him into such an absolute idiot.

He stared at her, feeling like a biblical figure from whose eyes the scales had just fallen. “Your pressing engagement, I take it?”

She answered with a brusque nod, at once prim and proper and utterly businesslike. “Quite.”

Now that his initial shock was fading, he could at least appreciate the irony of the situation. The first woman to pique his interest in years was the celebrated champion of a cause he’d come to loathe.

“Lest we part as strangers, my name is St. Claire. Hadrian St. Claire.” By this time, he had the sought-after business card in hand and his shock firmly in check. Handing her the card, he said, “I’m not a reporter. I’m a photographer. I have a studio a few blocks from here on Great George. Portraiture is my specialty.”

She tucked his card into her pocket with nary a glance. “I’m afraid I’m not terribly fond of having my photograph taken.”

“Pity. You’d make for a most intriguing subject.” And because he had absolutely nothing to lose — now that he knew who and what she was, what possible interest in her could he have — he looked directly into Caledonia Rivers’ beautiful, mortified eyes and added, “I should have recognized you from the newspaper etchings had they but done you justice. You’re far prettier, and far younger, than I would have supposed.”

Beneath the veil, the stain on her cheeks darkened from pale pink to dusky rose but, to her credit, she didn’t look away. “I think you mock me, sir.”

“On the contrary, miss, if either of us is the subject of mockery, I rather think it is me.” He nodded toward a clutch of young women watching them and giggling behind their gloves.

Harriet skewered him with a sharp look before turning back to the Rivers woman. “Callie, dear, we really must be on our way.” She hooked her plump arm through her friend’s and began leading her away.

“Ladies.” He tipped his bowler to them both, but it was Caledonia Rivers whom he followed with his eyes as she hurried toward the platform, creased and muddied skirts trailing the pavement, broken hat feathers caught up in the fingers of the wind.

So that was Caledonia Rivers, the celebrated suffragette spokeswoman making headlines in all the newspapers. What was it the press was calling her these days? Ah yes, The Maid of Mayfair. Unlike so many of her suffragette sisters whose reputations skirted the fringe of respectability, Caledonia Rivers was said to be so very good and virtuous — and yet not too good or too virtuous to indulge in a bit of a flirt in a public park, the little hypocrite.

He’d only paid her the compliment to torture her, and yet in his roundabout way he’d spoken nothing but the truth. The flesh-and-blood woman with whom he’d passed the last delightful few minutes scarcely resembled the stern-faced Amazon the newspapers made her out to be.

As for the “maid” part, he was deucedly sorry he wouldn’t have the opportunity to test that out for himself.

Or would he?

Lawson’s review of Vanquished by Hope Tarr
Historical romance released by Medallion Press 1 Jul 06

If you’re looking for a different sort of story, setting and characters, this book is for you. Set in late Victorian London, the story follows a leader of the suffragist movement, Caledonia Rivers. She’s a spinster whose whole life is the movement for women’s rights in England. She meets Hadrian St. Claire, a photographer, who has been asked to take her picture for a series of photographs to go along with the passage of a woman’s suffrage bill in Parliament. What, oh what, could happen? Probably anything and everything.

Hadrian has been blackmailed to take incriminating pictures of Callie by a high ranking Member of Parliament who wants to see her not only ruined, but vanquished. Hadrian has some gambling debts he needs to repay and has to accept the deal even though he doesn’t know Callie. However, Hadrian’s objectivity toward Callie falters when he sees she’s vulnerable as well as a well spoken leader of the suffragist movement.

Both Hadrian and Callie are very likable characters. Callie is a tall, voluptous woman, who was degraded when she was younger by her fiance. She has given up the rest of her life for the women’s vote because she doesn’t have the idea that she can be worthwhile to a man. Hadrian shows her through his attention and camera lens that she’s a beautiful woman and he also gives her the means to come out of her shell.

Hadrian is a different story. He’s had a harder upbringing, finally when he was 15 making it to an orphanage by the good graces of the prime minister William Gladstone. Before that Hadrian had been Harry Stone, son of a prostitute with a shady past. With Callie Hadrian sees that just surviving isn’t enough, that she is someone worth spending his life with.

Of course the whole sordid story of the payment for the photography comes out in the end, but what Hadrian does for the woman he loves helps to bring the MP to justice in a satisfying ending to the story. The fact that someone would go to such lengths is true, but done in an over the top sort of way. Also, the ties between the pasts of Hadrian and Callie seem sort of a stretch, but again, could have happened. The lives of the characters haven’t been easy and the societal hardships aren’t glossed over, whether Hadrian’s past or the treatment of the poor women of London.

The style and characters are well done as well as the setting, even if some of the plot devices are a little overdone. The next two books in the series follow fellow orphans of Hadrian’s, Gavin and Patrick, who are briefly introduced and help with some of Hadrian’s views that there’s more to life than just survival.

Grade: B

Blurb:

Known as The Maid of Mayfair for her unassailable virtue, unwavering resolve, and quiet dignity, suffragette leader, Caledonia —Callie — Rivers is the perfect counter for detractors’ portrayal of the women as rabble rousers, lunatics, even whores. But a high-ranking enemy within the government will stop at nothing to ensure that the Parliamentary bill to grant the vote to females dies in the Commons — including ruining the reputation of the Movement’s chief spokeswoman.

After a streak of disastrous luck at the gaming tables threatens to land him at the bottom of the Thames, photographer Hadrian St. Claire reluctantly agrees to seduce the beautiful suffragist leader and then use his camera to capture her fall from grace. Posing as the photographer commissioned to make her portrait for the upcoming march on Parliament, Hadrian infiltrates Callie’s inner circle. But lovely, soft-spoken Callie hardly fits his mental image of a dowdy, man-hating spinster. And as the passion between them flares from spark to full-on flame, Hadrian is the one in danger of being vanquished.

Read an excerpt (scroll down).

CONTEST! Comment here by noon CST [central standard time] according to the blog timestamp with what you like more: Hope Tarr’s historicals or her Harlequin Blaze’s. The prize is one of three copies of this book, all SIGNED by Hope Tarr!

Excerpt of Vanquished by Hope Tarr (Medallion, 1 Jul 06) – pretty covers, but some of the model’s poses make me go “ouch!” Have you seen her recent Blaze cover?

CHAPTER ONE

“Your denial of my citizen’s right to vote, is the denial of my right of consent as one of the governed, the denial of my right of representation as one of the taxed, the denial of my right to a trial by a jury of my peers as an offender against the law; therefore the denial of my sacred right to life, liberty, property…”

~ Susan B. Anthony
United States of America v. Susan B. Anthony, 1873

Westminster, London
February 1890

“Votes for Women now. Votes for women NOW!”

The protestors’ voices pitched higher still, shriller still, or so it seemed to Hadrian as he hurried across Westminster Bridge, the wind tearing at his greatcoat and scarf and threatening to rip the bowler from his head. Stepping out onto the crowded street, he tightened his grip on his camera, a German-made Anschütz with a shutter mechanism capable of arresting motion to one-thousandth of a second. He’d put the equipment to good test that afternoon at St. Thomas Hospital photographing a newly discovered medical anomaly. The poor bastard had been born with an enormous scrotum, tumor-mottled skin, and a chronic palsy that would have rendered traditional photographs little better than a blur. Even so, using his talent to turn a fellow human being into little better than a circus freak hadn’t set well with Hadrian, and the subject’s sad-eyed patience in holding any number of humiliating poses had made him feel like the lowest of beasts. Now frozen, footsore and famished, he couldn’t reach his studio soon enough.

But to do so he first had to run the gauntlet of suffragists who’d overtaken Parliament Square. They’d camped out for coming on two days now, creating a bloody nuisance for pedestrians and conveyances alike. Dressed in somber grays and serious blacks, the fifty-odd females picketing beneath the gray wash of winter sky might just as easily pass for a funeral procession as a political rally were it not for the placards the women held aloft and the noise they emitted — especially the noise.

“Miss Caledonia Rivers to speak on the subject of female emancipation… Hallman’s Assembly Rooms… tomorrow evening… seven o’ clock.”

Dodging traffic to cross to the sidewalk, Hadrian could only shake his head. That any woman fortunate enough to possess a roof and four walls would march about in the bitter air struck him as a sort of perverse self-indulgence, a foolishness on par with going slumming in the stews or touring prison yards to observe the convicts picking oakum. He had no patience for it, none at all and when one bug-eyed female had the audacity to try and stuff a pamphlet in his already full hands, he swallowed an oath worthy of his Covent Garden days and darted inside the park’s gated entrance.

He realized his mistake at once. Apparently not content with clogging the sidewalks, the damnable females had made camp within the park proper. A platform had been erected in the center of the green and several more dark-clad women busied themselves lighting the torches set about its perimeter. Giving them broad berth, he kept his head down and his sights trained on the opposite end of the wrought-iron gate.

The blare of a bobbie’s whistle from outside the park walls instinctively sent him swinging around — and barreling into a female’s soft body. “Ouf!”

Hadrian stared down in horror. The woman he’d knocked off her feet now sprawled at his, feathered hat askew and skirts bunched. On the frost-parched-grass beside her, a leather briefcase crammed with papers stretched wide open.

He went down on his knees beside her. “Madam, are you all right?” Unleashing his grip on the camera, he slid an arm beneath her shoulders.

She jerked at his touch. Behind the netting of veiled hat, her green eyes flashed fire. “It’s miss, actually.” She elbowed her way upright and yanked down her skirts — but not before Hadrian caught sight of a pair of appealingly trim ankles. “And I would be in fine fettle indeed had you but seen fit to mind where you were going.” Broken peacock feather dangling over her one eye, she got to her knees and began collecting her papers.

Courtesy toward women was deeply ingrained, one of the few values Hadrian possessed, and the only claim he could make to being a gentleman by deed if not by birth. And so rather than point out that she had bumped into him as well, he held out his hand to help her up. “Allow me.”

Beneath the weight of that atrocious hat, her head snapped up. “I believe I have had quite enough of your help for one day.”

As if bent on proving her wrong, the demon wind kicked up, scattering vellum sheets to the four winds.

She leapt to her feet. “My papers!” Hiking up her skirts, she gave chase across the park. Over her shoulder, she shouted, “Well, don’t just stand there. Do something!”

Bloody hell. With a muttered prayer that his camera would still be there on his return, Hadrian abandoned it to run after her. Hell bent on cheating the wrangling wind, he plucked one sheet from its skewer of wrought-iron fencepost and another from the foot of the statue of the late Benjamin Disraeli. At the lady’s insistence, he retrieved two more from the upper branches of one very tall, very scratchy oak tree. Breathless, bruised, and sporting a tear in his coat, he shoved the last of the papers in his pocket and climbed down. Dropping to the hard-packed ground, he scanned the square for signs of his erstwhile victim, but she appeared to have vanished.

He was on the verge of giving up and going on his way when he spotted her, down on all fours and buried shoulder-deep in the boxwood hedge. Coming up behind her, he tapped her smartly on the back. “What the devil do you think you’re about?”

From beneath the branches, her muffled voice answered, “Collecting my papers naturally.” She crawled out, feathers hanging at half-mast and a clutch of vellum in one grubby glove.

This time she accepted his hand up without argument. Standing face-to-face, he saw she was tall, nearly a match for his six feet. The novelty of looking a woman directly in the eye had him peering beyond the blur of veil for a closer study. No great beauty, he decided, nor was she any green girl. If he had to make a stab at guessing, he’d peg her at thirty-odd, perhaps a year or two older than himself, and a spinster judging by the “miss” as well as the dreary clothing. And yet the sage-colored eyes beneath the slash of dark brows were both expressive and arresting, and the full mouth and softly squared jaw completed a pleasing enough picture.

Caught up, it took her discreet cough to remind him of the papers bulging from his pocket. Handing them over, he said, “I think this is the lot.”

“Thank you.” She took them from him, her gloved fingertips brushing his, and improbably he felt the warm tingle of her touch shoot straight to his groin. Stuffing the papers inside her case, she spotted the mud and dried leaves festooning the front of her coat. “Oh dear, I’m a mess” she said, swiping at the muck with her soiled glove. “I never can seem to manage the trick of remembering a handkerchief.”

He fumbled in his pocket. “Here, have mine.” He pressed the square into her palm, again experiencing that peculiar surge of heat.

She accepted with a grateful smile and bent to brush away the dirt. “Thank you — again.” Straightening to her full, glorious height, she handed back his handkerchief.

Feeling in better spirits, he shook his head. “Keep it. Really, it’s the least I can do after mowing you down like so much lawn grass.”

She laughed then, a soft airy tinkling that made him think of the wind chimes his landlady insisted on hanging by his backdoor. “All right then… if you’re sure.” She stuffed the wadded ball of linen into her coat pocket and turned to go. Stopping in her tracks, she looked back. “Mind you don’t lose your papers.”

“My papers? Oh… quite.” Good God, he’d left his best camera out in the open and, worse yet, had been on the verge of forgetting it entirely. What the devil was the matter with him? Jogging over to retrieve it, he thought of his flat, empty save for his cat, and realized he was no longer so very eager to reach it — at least not alone. “I’m not always such an oaf, you know,” he called back, wracking his brain for something else to say, some pretense to hold her.

From a few feet away, she cupped a hand to her ear. “Sorry?”

“I said I’m not always such an oaf.”

“Oh.” She paused in mid-step, appearing to consider that. “Well, I’m not usually such a harridan, either except when I’m nervous — or in this case, late.”

“I don’t think you’re a harridan.” Camera in hand, he closed the space separating them in three ridiculously long strides. “It’s these protestors, taking up the whole bloody square as if they own every brick and statue, spewing their rubbish at all hours that have everyone on edge. I only came through the park to avoid them.”

Mouth lifting into a pretty smile of full pink lips and straight white teeth, she nodded to the park beyond them. “It would seem you’ve rather failed in that regard.”

“Yes, I suppose I have.” Looking back over his shoulder, he saw they were the object of a good many whispers and gawking stares. Their mad dash must have made an amusing spectacle indeed. Ordinarily that realization would have set him fuming but rather than care, he found himself saying, “There’s a tea shop just around the corner. Allow me to make amends by buying you a cup?”

She shook her head, looking adorably shy and far younger than she had at first when she’d still been tight-lipped and cross. “That isn’t necessary. And I’ve an… engagement to keep.”

Ah yes, presumably the engagement for which he had made her late already. A decent fellow would accept defeat and send her on her way. And yet the mental image of how splendid she would look freed from all those ghastly clothes and wearing only his bed sheets prompted him to press, “As you’re late already, why not postpone it altogether, at least until you’ve thawed?

She shook her head, causing the broken hat feathers to careen like a torn sail. “I can’t. I really must be going.” The tightening of her mouth told him he’d been too forward, that this time she really did mean to go.

“Ah well, perhaps we’ll bump into one another again sometime.” He fished inside his coat pocket for one of his business cards as a pretense to asking her name.

“Yes, perhaps we shall,” she allowed but there was no hope of it in her eyes. She turned to go and Hadrian knew this time there would be no more keeping her.

Before she could take a step, a squat woman with salt-and-pepper hair and a man’s plaid muffler wrapped about her short neck rushed up to intercept her. “Good Lord, Callie, are you all right? I was outside the gate and only just heard what happened.”

Beneath her veil, the woman — Callie — flushed bright crimson. “Calm yourself, Harriet. I am perfectly fine. I took a bit of a tumble, and my briefcase spilled.” Her shy-eyed gaze shifted to Hadrian. “This gentleman was kind enough to help me.”

From behind horn-rimmed spectacles, Harriet’s beady-eyed gaze dropped to the camera case in Hadrian’s hand. “I don’t know what rag of a newspaper you’re with, sir, but if your scheme is to scare up scandal and rubbish by waylaying Miss Rivers and photographing her in disarray, then you’d best think again.”

Taken off guard, Hadrian started to demur when from the vicinity of the stage, someone with a bullhorn belted out, “Miss Caledonia Rivers to make her address. Five minutes, ladies. Five minutes…”

Callie Rivers. Caledonia Rivers. It was then that the fog inside Hadrian’s head lifted. His mystery woman was one of them, a suffragette! And not just any suffragette but their leader! Seeing her through new eyes, he took in the spinsterish coat, the awful hat, and the leather case containing the oh-so important papers, and asked himself how a piquant smile and a pair of pretty ankles had turned him into such an absolute idiot.

He stared at her, feeling like a biblical figure from whose eyes the scales had just fallen. “Your pressing engagement, I take it?”

She answered with a brusque nod, at once prim and proper and utterly businesslike. “Quite.”

Now that his initial shock was fading, he could at least appreciate the irony of the situation. The first woman to pique his interest in years was the celebrated champion of a cause he’d come to loathe.

“Lest we part as strangers, my name is St. Claire. Hadrian St. Claire.” By this time, he had the sought-after business card in hand and his shock firmly in check. Handing her the card, he said, “I’m not a reporter. I’m a photographer. I have a studio a few blocks from here on Great George. Portraiture is my specialty.”

She tucked his card into her pocket with nary a glance. “I’m afraid I’m not terribly fond of having my photograph taken.”

“Pity. You’d make for a most intriguing subject.” And because he had absolutely nothing to lose — now that he knew who and what she was, what possible interest in her could he have — he looked directly into Caledonia Rivers’ beautiful, mortified eyes and added, “I should have recognized you from the newspaper etchings had they but done you justice. You’re far prettier, and far younger, than I would have supposed.”

Beneath the veil, the stain on her cheeks darkened from pale pink to dusky rose but, to her credit, she didn’t look away. “I think you mock me, sir.”

“On the contrary, miss, if either of us is the subject of mockery, I rather think it is me.” He nodded toward a clutch of young women watching them and giggling behind their gloves.

Harriet skewered him with a sharp look before turning back to the Rivers woman. “Callie, dear, we really must be on our way.” She hooked her plump arm through her friend’s and began leading her away.

“Ladies.” He tipped his bowler to them both, but it was Caledonia Rivers whom he followed with his eyes as she hurried toward the platform, creased and muddied skirts trailing the pavement, broken hat feathers caught up in the fingers of the wind.

So that was Caledonia Rivers, the celebrated suffragette spokeswoman making headlines in all the newspapers. What was it the press was calling her these days? Ah yes, The Maid of Mayfair. Unlike so many of her suffragette sisters whose reputations skirted the fringe of respectability, Caledonia Rivers was said to be so very good and virtuous — and yet not too good or too virtuous to indulge in a bit of a flirt in a public park, the little hypocrite.

He’d only paid her the compliment to torture her, and yet in his roundabout way he’d spoken nothing but the truth. The flesh-and-blood woman with whom he’d passed the last delightful few minutes scarcely resembled the stern-faced Amazon the newspapers made her out to be.

As for the “maid” part, he was deucedly sorry he wouldn’t have the opportunity to test that out for himself.

Or would he?

Memories.  Misty water-colored memories.  Awww! my first review!  It is almost enough to make me keep the book. For those playing the home game, I re-bought the book in massmarket paperback… I am a sad crack!whore for the Palmer! WoOT!

See the nifty things you can get away with when you RUN the site! RETRO REVIEW time! Blame Shannon (works or me).

Before Sunrise by Diana Palmer

Grade: C-
Sensuality: Hot

Diana Palmer is one of those authors you either like, or you wonder what kind of Crack the people reading it took. I generally love Palmer’s writing and simply enjoy her books without overthinking them. Yes, there are some very repetitive elements in her books, including the older man, young virginal woman, jealousy, mixed signals, and many things you don’t expect in a contemporary setting, but for me they are fun, quick reads with oddly endearing characters. Before Sunrise features all of the above, but it had me sighing rather quickly, and not in a good way.

Phoebe Keller met Jeremiah Cortez right before she started her last year in college. Being an anthropology student, she wanted to bring him home and study him, but alas – he was much too old for her. They parted ways as she held out an offer to come to her graduation. The book begins at Phoebe’s graduation, which Cortez attends against his better instincts. Sparks fly! Spit is swapped! Petting is heavy! Car windows steam! He has personal problems! They decide to be pen pals!

Full review can be read here.