This book had every quirk, tick and awful trick I despise in romance novels layered up like a big sundae:
- the lovely and perfect heroine who borders on TSTL swirled together with the roguish and charming hero who subscribes to the "one bad relationship + one broken heart = ALL WOMEN ARE MORALLY BANKRUPT" theory of life
- the conniving ex oozing into every scene for dark drama
- the rainbow sprinkle-saccharine and precocious child
- BIG MISUNDERSTANDINGS like nuts that would break your teeth
- narrative and plot developments that are as loosely held together as the molecules in cheap, store-brand whip cream
- and it's all topped off with a whopping cherry-on-top epilogue featuring the happy couple, their blissful sex life and their bazillions of cherubic children running all over their beautiful British mansion that they can somehow afford in the post World War I economic collapse.
I stuck with it because the dance aspect was fascinating. I know very little about ballet, but the performance descriptions and poses were so fun to read about and then look up on the internet. Besides that, though, I found nothing redeeming about this book.