Avon, $3.50, ISBN 0-380-89536-6
Historical Romance, 1985
I have a most guilty pleasure for old school bodice ripper romances, and I’m never going to apologize for it. They’re so good to either laugh at or laugh with. Virginia Henley was one of the often-overlooked queens of bodice rippers when one thinks of the glorious era of these literary gems, and honestly, you can’t really blame people for this as her early books were pretty clunky to read. Wild Hearts is one such example.
Let me paint you a picture of this masterpiece. Our hero’s name is Paris Cockburn. Yes, you read that right. Try not to giggle every time you see it, I dare you.
Paris discovers that his late father had been supporting a young girl in an orphanage. Being the gentleman he is, he visits her, realizes she’s probably a Cockburn too (because why not keep it in the family?), threatens the abusive orphanage mistress, makes grand promises to the girl… and then promptly forgets about her. Classic hero material, folks!
Wait, there’s more! When Paris learns that the girl is betrothed to a pox-ridden old lord seeking the “virgin cure” (ah, romance!), he hatches a brilliant plan. He’ll let the wedding happen, then kidnap the bride for ransom before the consummation. Genius, right? But oh no, the “chit” makes him feel “all hot and naughty,” so he decides to keep her for himself. Never mind that she might be his sister, as what’s a little potential incest when he’s in heat?
Paris is cut from the same cloth as the infamous Steve Morgan of Sweet Savage Love, only he’s more “benign” in that he only rapes the heroine maybe once… okay, three times, or four. Who’s keeping count anyway? But it’s fine because he doesn’t smack her around too much while he’s at it. What a gentleman! He’s hypocritical, cruel, selfish, and self-absorbed. You’ll find yourself wondering why he ends up with the heroine when he treats her with all the tender loving care one displays for a sack of turnips.
The heroine, Tabby, has her spirited moments, and you might actually like her outside of her perplexing devotion to Paris. But for the most part, she’s a doormat where the hero is concerned. Stockholm syndrome, anyone?
Ms Henley’s writing style doesn’t help matters. It’s clunkier than a rusty suit of armor. There are more exposition dumps than a medieval sewage system, and the misuse of adverbs is enough to make your high school English teacher weep. The comparisons are unintentionally hilarious—Paris is described as “a brute with a pride as tall as Mount Everest.” I didn’t realize mountains could be proud, but okay.
Still, you’ll have a rip-roaring fun time with this story. The twists and turns are more absurd than a clown car at a circus, and the hero’s callous disregard for the possibility of loving his sister is both creepy and fascinating to behold. It’s like watching the most over-the-top soap opera ever, only with more bodices and fewer evil twins (I think).
My only gripe? Ms Henley doesn’t go balls-to-the-wall crazy enough. This story doesn’t quite break out from the “clunky” zone to become something so bad that it’s awesome. It’s stuck in that awkward middle ground, like a teenager at their first school dance.
In conclusion, this one is best left for completionist fans of the author. Ms Henley improves her art in subsequent books, so you’re better off reading those instead. Unless, of course, you’re into potentially incestuous heroes named after French cities. In that case, dive right in!
