Elisa Braden, $0.99
Historical Romance, 2016
Julia Willoughby’s idea of entertaining herself, while as a guest at the Earl of Dunstan’s country estate, is to re-organize the man’s messy library without his knowledge or permission. Yes, we have that kind of heroine in Twelve Nights as His Mistress – someone who tries too hard to be quirky and bluestocking-y, maybe because merely reading a book is no longer fashionable. Then again, maybe it’s just an excuse for Julia to slip from the ladder and fall into the arms of Charles Bainbridge, Lord Wallingham, who has always wanted her to rearrange his personal library, if you know what I mean.
Even while her husband was alive, Julia had felt tingles in her loins for Charles. She doesn’t know it, but we all know it: whomever a heroine has tingles for, that man is her true love, so yes, people, put out to men who make your loins tingle or you will miss out on nabbing your true love. That is, only if you’re in a romance novel – you’d probably even up being disillusioned with men’s staying power and prowess should you do this in real life.
Anyway, Julia left her husband in London to flee to her husband’s country estate once she realized that she wanted to bone Charles more than her husband – and then the poor husband died in a carriage accident while making his way back to the country estate for Easter. Hence, Julia is now determined to never, ever put out to Charles out of guilt, regret, et cetera. Mind you, he’s single, she’s single, and he seems to have honorable intentions for the two of them, but no, the conflict in this story is that Julia is determined that her desire for him is “selfish” and hence, never shall her honey pot touch his spoon.
“For every bloody thing I can give you. All the things he never will.”
“Oh, God above,” she groaned. “You must stop, my love.”
She felt his grin grow against her skin. “A rhyme. It appears I am doing rather well.”
I really like parts of the story like the one above.
“Your refusal is nonsense, Julia.” Now his eyes were upon her, narrowed and glittering. Tortured. Resentful. “I’ve given you months to reconcile whatever fears have sent you fleeing from me. No one can deny I have been patient. But the time for patience is over.”
The inner me who loves the trashy nature of romance novels of the 1980s reacts positively to this kind of tortured manliness from Charles.
Hence, I have to really sigh, because damn it, that plot is the hill the author chooses to die on for this story.
“Enough.” His voice was clipped and harsh. “We have done everything your way for two bloody years. It is well past time for me to take matters in hand.”
Sadly, taking matters in hand isn’t what you may think it is – this is a historical romance, people, not erotic romance. Instead, these two continue doing their increasingly tedious merry-go-round, which sees him doing the gentlemanly version of wagging his tongue at her and she running around insisting that her thighs remain clammed shut, even as deep inside she is begging to ask him to stuff her up like it’s Thanksgiving and she’s his special turkey.
I mean, come on. If the author wanted to play this silly game out, couldn’t she make things a bit more interesting? I don’t know, maybe have her husband catch Julia kissing Charles in a moment of weakness and die after tripping down the stairs while running away from the scene. That will make Julia’s guilt far more believable, and give her a credible reason not to want to succumb to her attraction to Charles. Instead, here, it’s just “Oh, my husband died on his way back to our home, and I guess it’s my fault in a bizarre, roundabout way!” Also, the author could have had Julia behave more melancholic, more somber, perhaps, to drive home the burning guilt in her heart. No, here, our heroine is the usual tart, lippy heroine with ornamental quirks, who only exists to get flustered when Charles points his chubby at her.
I do like the way the author racks home how horny and in-charge Charles is, and there is a certain grace in the narrative, but nah, Twelve Nights as His Mistress ends up being a contrived story that is much ado about nothing.
