Reading this was certainly an interesting experience. This was a third-hand recommendation from someone who told a friend that This Is All I Ask was a read-alike for Laura Kinsale's For My Lady's Heart, so that's why we picked it up, and... WOW is that not the case. I mean, at all. It's not even really a very good book, but I do think it occupies an interesting place in m/f historical romance's decades-long struggle to unpack toxic masculinity and understand consent. So for that, at least, I'm glad I read it.
The basic premise here is that Gillian, our heroine, lives with her horribly abusive father, and has been promised in marriage to the "Dragon of Blackmour" - the lord of a scary and forbidding castle on a cliff who is rumored, I guess, to dabble in some kind of dark magic? (Honestly, how anyone in England Times kept their evil lords with scary castles straight or remembered how they got their fearful reputations is beyond me. Was there a separate Debrett's for that?) Anyway, the time comes for Gillian to be married, and she shows up to Blackmour to find Christopher, a man with a relatively unconvincing bark and no bite at all, who is trying to hide the fact that he's blind. And they fall in love, and miscommunicate a lot, and make some colossally stupid decisions on their path to plotting the murder of Gillian's abusive father (always a fun couples activity) and admitting their feelings to each other. Also there's a group of 3 witches who are bad at magic who keep popping up at plot-opportune moments to give them potions. Or sometimes fake potions, so they could discover the beauty and courage that were inside them all along.
Like I said, it's not necessarily a *good* book. The pacing is way off: all of the action is stuffed into the first and last 10% of the book, and the middle is a flabby mess of Gillian and Christopher telling each other how wonderful they are, and then retreating to their separate corners to inexplicably decide that the other person secretly hates them, actually. Despite the heroine being an adult, her portrayal makes her seem much younger, in a way that often squicked me out significantly. The depiction of Christopher's blindness is both wildly inconsistent and horribly ableist. And the witches just make no sense at all.
However, this book (which I think it bears mentioning is 22 years old) does make some really fascinating decisions around consent and intimacy and recovery from trauma. The setup of the book is, I think, deliberately familiar: an innocent young girl with a dead mother and an abusive father is shipped off to be married to a man with a fearsome reputation. In my reading at least, there was a clear plot expectation that Christopher would be a domineering asshole, largely replicating the emotional abuse Gillian suffered from her father, but would eventually convince her to love him via semi-coercive sex and minimal displays of vulnerability (generally limited to the vulnerability of admitting a single feeling, which he will call love, but will largely read as sexual obsession). Like, we know that story, right?
Except... that doesn't happen here at all. Christopher almost immediately recognizes how deeply Gillian has been traumatized by her father. And sets out - with a great deal of patience - to restore her courage and faith in herself. His main goal isn't to convince her to get in bed with him, but rather to convince her that she's safe, and that she can express her desires, and even her contrary opinions, without fear of retaliation. (The way he loves it when she sasses him, because he sees it as a sign of recovery, is legitimately charming). Sexually, he's very into consent, and moving things slowly, and letting Gillian take the lead. At one point, he offers to pretend to be asleep, because that seems like a safer scenario in which Gillian can explore her desire to kiss him. There's even a scene where he takes care of her while she has her period, without later attempting to seek knighthood for it.
But what fascinates me most is that for all its enlightenment about consent and trauma... the book seems unwilling to just let Christopher be a man who happens to understand consent and feelings. We may be running away from traditional bodice-ripping tropes here, but there's a WHOLE lot of baggage to carry as we run. For starters, Christopher tends to relate to the other male characters in this book primarily by... wrestling them to the ground and punching them in the stomach a lot? Truly, every time two men walk by each other in this novel, they end up rolling around on the ground in some kind of weird, semi-comedic efflux of undirected toxic masculinity. Christopher is clear with all the men around him that they have to avoid startling Gillian, or touching her, or making any sudden movements around her, because she's recovering from massive trauma but... the book seems to still think that men have to beat up *something* to remain men, and in the absence of Gillian as a target, they only have each other.
More problematic still, though, is how Christopher's blindness factors into calculations around masculinity. There's a scene towards the end of the book where Christopher fails to kill Gillian's abusive father in battle because he's unable to see. Christopher clearly reads this as a failure of masculinity, and I think the reader is invited to as well (I mean, an inability to slay the father with a sword to protect a woman would probably leave even Freud saying "nah, a bit too obvious"). And that tension doesn't come out of nowhere. Christopher spends a lot of time feeling like "less of a man" because he is blind. And even though, at the end of the book, Christopher learns to "reconcile" being a man and being blind (in part by finally killing Gillian's father)... the idea of that needing to be reconciled at all is still incredibly ableist, as well as a deeply troubling way to think about masculinity.
So while the book never comes out directly and says Christopher cares about consent and feelings and likes a bold and bossy wife *because* he doesn't fully think of himself as a man... the suggestion is there. Rather strongly. At the very least, this book is written from a space where emotional care and understanding of consent cannot exist in a hero without weird excess anxieties about masculinity popping up all over the rest of the narrative. Which, at the very least, made this book a fascinating time capsule of where romance was with this kind of thing in 2000. I'm just not sure I'd recommend this book for... anything other than Romance Archaeology Reasons.