This was always going to be the most fascinating book of the series. Wulfric, the Duke of Bewcastle, has been sketched in as a man without emotion, but we’ve seen in the last couple of books, first when his brother Alleyne was believed to be dead, and later when he is found again, that Wulfric isn’t really emotionless and cold at all. But he’s created such high walls around himself that it’s hard to see how any potential duchess can get past his defences.

Christine Derrick is not your typical potential duchess, however. She’s gauche and clumsy, constantly in some scrape or other, and she’s not the least bit cowed by the haughty, aristocratic duke. Far from dropping her eyes when he stares at her, she outstares him, and even as he deplores her lack of elegant manners, he’s drawn to her. She is the very opposite of him: where he is (seemingly) cold and devoid of humanity, she is fizzing with life, bringing light and joy to everyone. Even ice-cold dukes, apparently.

The challenge for an author with setting up a character as dramatic as Wulfric is to allow him to fall in love without losing the very essence of his character. It becomes necessary to show those walls coming down without somehow changing him. A man who has hidden his nature from the world for almost two decades is simply not going to melt into a puddle of emotional longing overnight. Balogh pulls this off superbly. She shows the reader both the reason for Wulfric’s protective shield and also how Christine works her way past his defences. Their moments of high drama are more about anger and violent quarrels than anything romantic. It makes for a powerful and compelling story.

This review must act as a summary of the whole series, too. I liked the varied characters, the six Bedwyns, very different from each other but united as a family. I liked the complicated backstories Balogh wove into the romances. I liked the settings, from Bath and London to the grand country houses. Balogh doesn’t spend too long on extraneous nothings like travelling; she gets straight to the next encounter between hero and heroine. I disliked the way all these heroines rushed into bed with the heroes, under the most improbable of circumstances. Sex was a huge deal for an upper-class Regency woman, and the lucky-I’m-not-pregnant casualness of it all grated on me. And naturally the virgins are all instantly orgasmic. {Rolls eyes}

But in the end, Mary Balogh gets me in the feels every time. Her women might be a little too modern and her Regency is slightly wonky to my eyes, but the writing is superb, and I tore through the entire series in double-quick time. This final book is the best of an excellent series. Five stars.

Another in the series that starts with a bang, with a dramatic midnight encounter at a roadside inn, and never lets up for a minute. But that’s entirely in keeping with the characters of our hero and heroine, the wild and independent Lady Freyja Bedwyn and reckless, rakish Joshua, Marquess of Hallmere.

Here’s the premise: Freyja, the elder of two sisters of the Duke of Bewcastle, has run away to Bath, boring as it is, to avoid the imminent confinement of the wife of the man she’d loved and hoped to marry. On the journey, her sleep is disturbed by a man entering her room to evade some pursuers. Even though he’s clearly a criminal of some kind, it amuses her to hide him. But in one of the coincidences that Balogh loves, there he is in Bath, and wouldn’t you just know it, he’s the Marquess of Hallmere. In no time flat, the two are causing all sorts of ructions in Bath’s sedate society, each intrigued by the other but equally determined never to admit to the least attraction. When Josh’s manipulative aunt appears with plans to marry him off to his cousin, he persuades Freyja into a fake betrothal to keep his aunt at bay.

I’ve never quite understood why any man would be troubled by this sort of scheming because men can’t be pressured into marriage in the way that women can be. So long as they’re alert to the possibility of compromising situations, they don’t have to do anything they don’t want to do. Still, it’s such a common trope in Regencies, and it makes for such a good story that I forgive it. Instantly there are all sorts of complications and the story notches up a gear.

I have to say, these two are among my favourite types of character. Freyja is the original wild child, up for any scheme that she thinks will amuse her, no matter how outrageous, and Josh is the consummate charming, roguish hero, a bit rakish but (as is usual) not nearly as bad as his reputation suggests.

As with all Baloghs, there some fairly graphic sex in there, but it fits with the nature of the two characters. There are some modern ideas as well, especially as relates to disabilities, and I wasn’t at all sure about the resolution for one character in particular, but it wasn’t a big deal.
Beautifully written, as always, with very few Americanisms apart from a few spelling differences. I enjoyed this one enough to rate it as five stars.

Book 2 of the Bedwyns series, and after the slow start to book 1, this one starts in spectacular fashion and never quite lets go. It’s a bit of a trope-fest, but very readable, for all that.

Here’s the premise: Judith Law is travelling on a dismal journey, leaving behind her family to become the poor relation after her charming but feckless brother brings debt on the household. A public stagecoach is a miserable affair for a gently brought up woman, and her daydreams of a handsome highwayman scooping her up and riding away with her are poor comfort. But when the coach overturns and a lone horseman offers to rescue her, the temptation is too great. And when her rescuer offers her a brief liaison while they are trapped at a provincial posting house, she seizes the opportunity. At least she will have a little happiness to look back on in her dreary future. And her two nights of passion are all she had hoped they would be.

Unfortunately for Judith, Lord Rannulf Bedwyn isn’t the ship that passes in the night. He’s staying at the neighbouring estate to her relations, and is the principal suitor for the hand of their daughter, Judith’s cousin. There’s no avoiding him, and although he now realises she isn’t the actress and courtesan he originally thought, and offers for her from guilt, she refuses and leaves him free to pursue her cousin.

I’ve said that the book is a positive trope-fest, and it’s absolutely true. Quite apart from the penniless poor relation trope, there’s the silly ingenue trope (we can blame Georgette Heyer for that one), the overbearing aunt who treats Judith as a servant, the lecherous bloke who tries to rape Judith, the compromise-the-hero-into-marrying plot device, the heroine who doesn’t realise how beautiful she is trope, the heroine who runs away constantly, and finally, the revenge plot (which I won’t spell out, to avoid spoiling the surprise, but none of it will surprise experienced readers of Regencies).

Nevertheless, Judith is a sympathetic heroine – I confess, I’m a sucker for the Cinderella-type story, where the heroine does eventually go to the ball. And Rannulf makes for a wonderful hero, even if it takes him far too long to realise that he wants to marry Judith and not the silly ingenue.

This being a Mary Balogh story, there is, naturally, a whole heap of sex of the relatively graphic variety, but since those two nights of passion are the whole foundation of the story, it’s hard to quibble about it. The other characters are relatively minor, or else unpleasant, so they don’t merit much discussion. I confess I got muddled sometimes by the two grandmothers, and wasn’t always sure which one was being talked of. Another compelling read, but the weight of familiar tropes keeps it to four stars.

A much better read than the first book in the series (The First Snowdrop, to which I gave three stars – for a Mary Balogh book!). This one has a vastly improved hero, and two possible brides for him, both trying to do their best in difficult circumstances.

Here’s the premise: Jack Frazer has been invited to spend Christmas with his ducal grandparents, along with their vast family, a lot of organised events he’ll be required to participate in, and his future bride. At least, a young lady has been invited, and Jack will be expected to court her and, if they like each other, to propose. He’s not much minded for marriage, having enjoyed his freedom very much, thank you, but he finds himself obeying the summons and meeting the young lady, only to discover that, while she’s very pretty, she’s also very young, a petite, doll-like creature who looks as if she’s straight out of the schoolroom.

Meanwhile, the main entertainment of the festivities is to be provided by a renowned actress, Isabella, the Comtesse de Vacheron, who will perform several extracts from Shakespeare, with the aid of a supporting cast provided by the family. She’s a widow with two children, and remarkably respectable for an actress, having been feted in both France and Britain. There’s only one problem – she was Jack’s mistress for a year nine years ago, a relationship that ended in anger and bitterness. Neither is happy to find the other at the party, but they agree quite early on to leave the past where it belongs and avoid each other as much as possible.

The reader knows, of course, how well that’s going to work out. What makes this whole setup so interesting is that Jack’s potential bride, Juliana Beckford, is also given equal billing with the two principals, so we see her thoughts and feelings as well as Jack’s and Bella’s. I liked Juliana very much. Some reviewers called her spineless, but I think she’s a perfect Regency lady, well brought up, if very innocent and unversed in the ways of the world, and she puts her duty and obedience to her parents above her own wishes. They have arranged a very prestigious marriage for her to the grandson of a duke, a man of independent wealth, and even though she worries about him being so much older and more experienced than her, and she isn’t in love with him, she sets out to do what she feels is the right thing.

Jack, too, is determined to do the right thing. He accepts at an early stage that he’s going to offer for her, and sets himself to court her conscientiously, taking things slowly because he realises she’s very innocent. And if he has reservations about her youth and his lack of physical desire for her, he tells himself that will grow, and that he can make her happy. He’s being honourable and mature and not trying to recapture his youth with Bella, and that makes him a proper hero in my book.

Bella I’m less sure of. I’m not much enamoured of heroines who are so driven to succeed in their chosen profession that they essentially sabotage every other part of their lives. But I suppose she was young and naive and caught in a difficult situation when she was Jack’s mistress, and as a mother she can’t be faulted. She puts her children first, always, and I can only applaud that. The children, actually, are a real highlight of the book. They’re not merely ciphers or plot devices or there to be winsomely cute or wilfully awful. Things do get a bit schmaltzy towards the end, but Balogh keeps it just on the right side.

I do dislike the obvious double standard. One of the reasons Jack and Bella fell out was because he was convinced she was sleeping with other men, despite her denials. When he finally realises the truth, there’s an air of: oh, that’s all right then, she’s not a slut after all. Whereas he consoled himself after their parting by sleeping with every woman he could get his hands on. But somehow nothing is ever said about that.

What else grated? The vast assortment of relations, and since most of them are happily paired off with young children, it’s difficult not to believe that there’s a whole series somewhere that told the stories of them all. As it was, the only ones I knew were the awful hero from The First Snowdrop and his wife, and I remembered Freddie (‘I’ve got no brains’) from that book, too, because really, could Balogh not have given him some variation? The whole acting thing was pretty tedious, and apart from the plot device of getting a famous actress to the house, there was no point to it. There was no moment of revelation when Jack and Bella acted together, and all the lurches forwards and back in their relationship happened for other reasons. I’m not a big fan of a Christmas setting with snowball fights and decorating the rooms and the inevitable kissing bough. And did they really have an evening church service in the Regency? And please, please, please can we banish the obligatory skating on the lake scene, followed by the mind-numbingly predictable falling through the ice scene. It’s been done. It’s old.

But despite my grumbles, I really loved this book – mostly! I can’t quite give it five stars, but Balogh did her usual trick of making me cry several times, so let’s call it a very good four stars. Warning: it’s Balogh so there are sex scenes.

One of the things I most admire about Mary Balogh is her ability to look unflinchingly at her characters and their behaviour. This is one of those cases where I rather wish she had flinched, and given the hero at least one or two redeeming features. This was her first published work, so perhaps one should make allowances, but it’s difficult. This is a fairly ranty review so it’s quite spoilerish. Don’t read unless you want to know most of the plot.

Here’s the premise: Six years ago, Richard, the Earl of Brampton, had met a passionate but regrettably anonymous stranger at a masked ball. She disappeared before the unmasking, and he was never able to find her again, although he’s never forgotten her. Now, with his mother agitating for him to marry and sire the essential heir, he settles on mousy Margaret Wells, who will give him no trouble, and can be safely left in the country raising the heir while he maintains his mistress in London. What he doesn’t know is that Margaret is the very same passionate stranger he remembers so vividly. He also doesn’t know that she fell instantly in love with him six years ago. So the scene is set for a gradual rediscovery of that passionate interlude.

Except that’s not what happens. Richard decides that he can’t inflict passion on his mousy wife, so sex is a brief, perfunctory affair, and she is too mouse-like to complain. And naturally, she can’t possibly tell him that she was the stranger from six years ago. Wait… why ever not? Well, because the plot requires her to keep quiet about it, that’s why. And so she does, but she’s a bit sad, because she enjoyed all that sexy kissing and fumbling under clothes from six years ago and she’d like a bit of that now, thank you very much. But when younger sister Charlotte arrives for her come out and asks why she’s a bit sad, Margaret tells her the whole story, and Charlotte has the brilliant idea that Meg should dress up in her mask costume again and see if she can entice Richard into a bit of that sexy stuff. And so she does, arranging to just happen to bump into him at Vauxhall’s, and would you believe it, he not only falls for his mysterious stranger all over again and gets hot and heavy with her, but he doesn’t even recognise his own wife?

Well, no, I wouldn’t believe it, actually. They even begin a torrid affair in his best mate’s bed, and even though he sees the similarities with his wife, he doesn’t once twig that it’s actually her. Yet the best mate, who doesn’t know her half as well, recognised her instantly. How ridiculous is that?
The other major stumbling block to credibility is Margaret herself. We’re supposed to believe that her public persona is very calm and reserved, almost cold in its lack of emotion. Nothing, it seems, dents her composure. But somehow, put her in a Marie Antoinette costume, a wig and a mask, and she becomes an unrestrained nymphomaniac. I would have found this more credible if we’d been shown any sign of this inner tempestuousness, but there’s nothing at all, not a flash of anger or a sharp word or the slightest hint of a flounce. She doesn’t even speak up for herself, simply accepting whatever neglect or implied insult her husband heaps on her head.

The question of Richard’s morality is more ambiguous. Nowadays, a hero who maintains his mistress after he’s married and then has an unrestrained affair with a woman whose name he doesn’t even know is a bit of a non-starter for a romantic novel, but when this book was written, almost forty years ago, heroes of this type were par for the course. And he does very gradually come to appreciate his wife. He dispenses with the mistress and he even gives up his affair with the mystery lady because he tells himself he’s in love with his wife.

Meanwhile there are a couple of side romances going on, for Charlotte and also for Richard’s brother Charles. This may be an opportune moment to point out that there a great many perfectly respectable names for Regency characters, so it would be nice if authors would refrain from using two such similar ones as Charles and Charlotte. Anyway, the side romances aren’t wonderful, but in the end they’re better than the main event, which blows up in spectacular fashion.

Richard, you see, discovers the Marie Antoinette costume in his wife’s wardrobe and the slow-top finally realises that she was the mystery lady all along. Whereupon he goes into a towering rage at being made to look a fool, because it’s all about him, you see. He was the one who chose to have a torrid affair with a woman he believed was not his wife, but it’s her fault for being a slut and enticing him (or something). She tries to explain but he doesn’t want to listen, and then he crosses an inviolable line, in my view, by using violence against the heroine, his own wife. Even when she tells him not to hurt her too badly because she’s pregnant, it doesn’t calm him down because he doesn’t believe her! Only when she finally blows her top and points out what a hypocrite he is does he realise that maybe she has a point. Then he cries, tells her he loves her and they go to bed and have passionate sex, and I can’t tell you how much I despise him at this point. I don’t have much respect for her, either, but he is far, far worse. I don’t think he even knows the meaning of the word love.

This was heading for three stars, because on the whole the thing is readable and even enjoyable for much of it, and even though I wanted to slap both hero and heroine upside the head, I make allowances for the age it was written in, and it was Balogh’s first book, after all. My own first Regency was pretty terrible, too. But that ending made me so mad, I knocked it down to two stars. So there. Recommended only for completists, and definitely not for anyone looking for a clean read – there’s an awful lot of sex in it. Or a lot of awful sex for Margaret, poor girl.

The theme of this book, the Regency marriage of convenience and what it would be like in reality without the romance author’s typical sprinkling of magical stardust, is one that interests me greatly. Balogh has tackled the idea in two other books (that I know of; there may be others). Dancing With Clara (1993) suffers a little from a depressing ending, in my opinion, but in The Obedient Bride (1989) she gets it absolutely right, and with a proper hero. I highly recommend it as an antidote to the insufferable Richard.

These early Baloghs are a bit of a mixed bag, but even at their worst, they show flashes of the author’s brilliance, and at their best, they’re superb. After a so-so last Balogh (The First Snowdrop), this one was definitely in the superb category, although as with all older books, the reviews are fairly mixed.

Here’s the premise: Jane Matthews is still unmarried at the age of twenty-three, but she’s having another season with her younger friend, Honor Jamieson. Jane is the quiet, rather plain, sensible one, while Honor is the beautiful bubblehead, revelling in her power over men, and flirting outrageously with any male who catches her eye. And the first man to do so is Michael, Viscount Fairfax, wildly handsome and now a widower with two small daughters, and in the market for a second wife. Honor determines she’ll have him, and his friend, Joseph Sedgeworth, a much plainer man, will do for Jane.

But then a strange thing happens, for Michael decides that Jane would do very well for his second, more practical, marriage and makes her a wildly unromantic proposal, which she rejects with extreme prejudice, giving him a piece of her mind for treating her like a commodity, not a person of worth in her own right. And the twist here is that she’s been in love with him ever since she first saw him five years earlier. And as if that weren’t enough, Jane finds herself falling into a comfortable friendship with the friend, Joseph, and when he proposes, she accepts him. Silly girl.

The Michael/Jane situation reminds me a bit of Georgette Heyer’s Sprig Muslin, where the heroine turns down the hero’s pragmatic offer because she’s been in love with him for years. Which never made the least bit of sense to me. If you love the guy, then for heaven’s sake marry him and wait for him to appreciate your true worth (as he inevitably will, if he’s a halfway decent sort of bloke). But Jane wants her true worth to be appreciated right now, thank you very much, and when Joseph does so, she settles for him instead of the man she loves. Who then promptly realises what he’s lost, and falls in love with her. Of course he does.

So the rest of the book is the familiar, not to say well-worn, engaged-to-the-wrong-person plot. The author’s method of extricating her characters from this tangle is ingenious, requiring the bubblehead to be sensible for once, although as it gets her what she wants, too, and she’s a very determined lady, it can also be viewed as a selfish move.

This book wasn’t subtle at all. When the scene shifts to the hero’s country home where the cute kids are waiting, inevitably they take to Jane at once and she to them, whereas the bubblehead hates kids with a passion and avoids them like the plague. Since the hero is besotted with them, any possibility of a match between them is out of the window. Meanwhile, hero and heroine are playing happy families, and bubblehead is amusing herself with the friend (who is engaged to the heroine, mark you, but bubblehead wouldn’t let a trivial detail like that stand in her way).

Since this is Mary Balogh, there has to be the obligatory sex scene, although it’s more of a quick fumble and a hasty adjusting of dress. It’s also completely unnecessary and (in my view) out of character for the people involved, but the author seems to feel the need for something graphic. It’s a pity, because otherwise this would please the traditionalists nicely. There are some minor anachronisms (dance cards and a modern style of waltz, but these are almost ubiquitous, sadly). Otherwise, this is an excellent examination of how marriage worked in Regency times, and how you choose a partner for life in the mad social whirl of the season, and the sort of mistakes that arise because of that. I very much enjoyed it. Five stars.