Avon, $5.99, ISBN 0-380-80081-0
Historical Romance, 1999
How to Marry a Marquis is the point where Julia Quinn fully embraces her formula and never looks back—minimal angst, top-tier comedy, and a plot that feels like it was scribbled on a napkin during afternoon tea. This book is a greatest-hits collection of popular tropes, slathered in her signature humor, which, let’s be honest, is doing a lot of heavy lifting here.
Let’s start with Elizabeth Hotchkiss, our heroine who’s so determined to find a rich husband to support her and her younger siblings that she’s practically waving a “For Sale” sign. She insists she’s not mercenary, just practical—because nothing says practicality like trying to snag a wealthy man while clutching a self-help book that’s one bad meme away from being a punchline. The book, conveniently the novel’s namesake, is filled with such absurd advice that even Elizabeth knows it’s nonsense, yet she goes ahead and follows it anyway. Why? Because we need something resembling a plot, apparently.
Speaking of plot—or the lack thereof—Elizabeth decides to test her newfound (and utterly ridiculous) “skills” on “James Siddon”, a man she assumes is a humble estate manager. Using a poor, unsuspecting guy for your own gain? Charming, really. Except, surprise! James is actually James Sidwell (sit on, sit well…), a marquis playing undercover detective in his aunt’s petty blackmail drama. Because nothing says “romantic hero” like a man embroiled in a scandal that barely qualifies as a subplot.
Now, I’ll admit, the book is funny. But it’s the kind of funny where you’re laughing more at the sheer absurdity of it all than with the characters. The relationship between Elizabeth and James is obnoxious in its core. Elizabeth barrels through the story with a charming mix of idiocy and irresponsibility, but don’t worry—the author makes sure everyone else takes the blame for her actions. Her clumsiness, meant to be endearing, just makes you hope she trips, knocks her head, and wakes up with the kind of convenient amnesia that transforms her into a less irritating character.
When Elizabeth finally realizes that James is rolling in dough, you’d think she’d be thrilled. Instead, she goes into full-blown melodrama, because heaven forbid she solve her financial problems and secure her siblings’ future without throwing a tantrum about her pride. Yes, because letting your family starve is totally the responsible thing to do. Speaking of those siblings, don’t even get me started. They’re like creepy little adults trapped in children’s bodies, spouting dialogue that no real child would ever say. It’s as if Ms Quinn wrote them after watching one too many horror films.
Just when you think the madness is over, James decides to extend the story by pitching a fit of his own, refusing to marry Elizabeth because she hasn’t professed her undying love. Really, James? This is where you draw the line?
In the end, How to Marry a Marquis is a funny, frothy read where you can see Ms Quinn crystallizing into her final form as a romance novelist. But let’s be real—you’ll be glad to see the back of this obnoxious couple once you reach the last page.
