Why, oh why did I not listen to the words of wisdom just DNF this lifeless excuse for a bodice ripper?
But no, like the idiot I am, I kept reading on, expecting something interesting to occur. First one thing happens, and then this happens, and then this other thing happens, but none of it has any zing or excitement about it. In Heather by Cordelia Byers, stuff occurs while characters are like marionettes being pulled by strings to the next scene. Absolute sacrilege for a bodice ripper, because these are the kind of books that are supposed to be so chock-full of craziness that they madly affect the senses, either by offending or delighting or titillating.
I was a little offended, I suppose; not because there was anything to upset my “delicate sensibilities,” but because this book was so freaking boring.
Beautiful Heather Cromwell is brought up as a foundling by a wealthy Marquis. She’s treated as a part servant/part distant relative, and even though it’s not a rough life, it’s not a great one, either. Heather grows up loving the Marquis’s son, David but knows that her love is hopeless.
Enter Sir Nicholas Guyon, the studly and handsome Captain of the king’s guard. He takes one look at Heather and becomes instantly obsessed. Why? Because she’s bee-uu-tee-full, of course. (Did you expect any other reason, like for her charm, personality, wit, or even foot-stomping, spicy temper? Egads, no. None of that here. Heather is the blankest slate of a character I’ve read in a long time.) Heather’s heart is only for David, however; she despises Nicholas because… that’s what the story demands.
After David is assumed dead at sea and the Marquis is arrested for treason, Heather heads to London to live an exciting life in the big city. But Heather’s so dumb, she gets conned and robbed, and ends up in a whorehouse as a Madame’s specialty. Of course, because Heather is so bee-uu-tee-full, she’s not pimped out right away, as the Madame has plans to sell her the highest bidder. Guess who that happens to be?
Nicholas has now been promoted as the British Ambassador to France (Yeah, that made no sense to me, either) and Heather still hates him. She comes up with a plan to play along as his mistress so she can save the Marquis. For a virgin who hates a guy so much, she sure has a lot of confidence in the magic powers of her cuca.
Then guess who turns out to not be dead? Heather’s beloved David, who was held captive by pirates and now is… Oh forget it, I don’t care anymore.
Stuff happens and the story ends as these books always do, happily ever after. I guess I should apologize for spoiling this great piece of romantic literature, but I won’t.
This book was so dull, I couldn’t even get excited about writing a review. This just blew big, giant whale chunks.