Dls’s Comments (group member since Sep 14, 2010)

Dls’s comments from the Fans of Eloisa James & Julia Quinn group.

Each week one person posts an excerpt on
Monday from a roman d deleting the names of the hero and heroine, to see if others know it. You are not supposed to say if you do but you can give clues that show you know. Then on Tuesday night or so the poster says what book and author it is.
As you can see this has been going on for years now and before we did it here we did it on a website founded by Julia Quinn and Eloísa James.

Please let me know. I think we need at least 8 people.
Deb

This is Not Quite a Lady by Loretta Chase. Another classic in the field. I love this book—it combines a charming love affair and deep pychological insight

This is from The Indiscretion by Judith Ivory. If you haven’t tried her books I strongly recommend her. She is one of the classics in romance, quirky and highly unusual.

I love this one because it both takes the mores of the time seriously and also supports modern values.
So often historical romance books have characters acting in ways that simply couldn’t be done in that period because they are non consonant with modern values.

Hero knew better than to suggest taking Pip home with him. Heroine’s son would stay at Lithby Hall, the boy’s mother and grandparents said, until after the wedding.



They had wanted to discuss the wedding after dinner, but hero had already made up his mind what must be done.



What must be done was not agreeable. Given a choice, he’d rather spend a week talking about nothing but curtains. But it was necessary, for his wife-to-be, and for Pip.



“We must marry in the local church, and all of my family must be here,” he told them. “That includes Grandmother. We must show a united front.”



“Good heavens, not your grandmother,” Heroine cried. “I should never ask that of you.”



“It’s the only way to assure that you won’t be treated unkindly,” Hero said. “A great many people will not wish to offend Lord and Lady Lithby or lose the chance of enjoying their famous hospitality. A great many will not wish to offend my parents, either. Still, my grandmother represents the one certain way to strike terror into the hearts of the hypocrites and moral zealots. Our united front will be most effective if she’s at the head of it.”



“If you think snubs will hurt my feelings, you ought to think again,” Heroine said. “I have my family. That’s all that matters. Losing my place in Society is no great loss. The Beau Monde can be suffocating at times. While I might miss some aspects of it, I can live well enough without it.”



“So can I,” he said. “Easily. Happily. I should not miss Mrs. Badgely’s company a jot. But that is not the point. The point is, you should be treated no differently for having had a child out of wedlock than a man would be.”



“That is a radical view, Mr. Hero,” said Lord Lithby. “I am not at all sure I would wish to encourage women to behave, generally, as men do. We should revert to barbarism, I fear. It is the women who keep us civilized.”



“Then let us think of my grandmother as a civilizing influence,” Hero said. “And let us try not to let the thought give us nightmares.”

I am going to post two this week, because after I prepped one I realized I may have done this book before. But I love it and I think it’s one of the few where a public declaration really works. It comes after a scene where Hero can’t bring himself to make a serious declaration in front of a much smaller group.

By the end of the fifty-yard shoot, Heroine was not only the high score, the high hits, best gold, and the champion: She’d broken the women’s British record. Only one of her arrows the entire day missed the targets, the one that had set her back to a theoretical tie at sixty yards.


While the band played, her family and their friends—half the archers were her friends—came from the field, from the grandstand, the bandstand, and tents, from all over. Hero had to fight to get near her.


And when he did, all he could think to do was call to her, “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” Many people jostled her and wanted her attention, but she watched him.
It made him feel good, though he didn’t know what to say from here.


Boddington, though, the big mouth, suddenly had a lot to say. “Straw targets,” he was expounding as he came up with Gwyn Pieters on his arm. “A true marksman shoots at moving targets. Straw targets are nothing. I mean, they just stand there, waiting to be hit. Why, you should have seen us on the grousemoor….”


At first Hero ignored him. The man belittled Heroine’s win, but let him. He was an ass.

It was too much, though, when the ass said, “It’s a woman’s sport. For skirts. Heroine’s a nice woman, don’t mistake me, but she sets too much store by all this. It’s only straw.” He mocked her. “Certainly, she’s good when shooting straw, but she’s never shot at anything live, nothing moving as I have or most of the men here. She isn’t capable of real shooting. It’s a silly woman’s sport, archery—”


Hero couldn’t resist. “So what do you want? Shall I grab a target and run up and down the field like a crazy grouse with one of your dogs after it?” Madder than he realized, he said, “Hell, she could shoot the eye of a mosquito at a hundred yards. She’s a regular Annie Oakley.”


“Annie Oakley?” Boddington asked.

“Yeah, the American markswoman who—”

“I know who she is,” Boddie said. “And, no, you don’t have run with a target. You could just stand there with the cigarette in your mouth—isn isn’t that how Oakley does it? She shoots cigarettes and coins from men’s mouths and fingers.” He shuddered.
“Ugh.”



“She could do it,” Hero said.

Heroine’s eyes widened. “Hero—”

“She could.”

“Fine,” Boddington said. “Let’s see it. I have fifty pounds that says she’ll go wide. Or put an arrow through your cheek.”


“Peanuts,” Hero told him. “I’ll bet a hundred—no, two hundred—no, five hundred”—he was sort of enjoying watching ol’ Boddie’s eyebrows go up—“that she pins the cigarette to the target without touching a hair on my head—five hundred pounds and my cheek against”—he looked around for something he might want, then spotted Boddington’s new carriage—“against that.” He pointed.


“Ha,” Boddington said, though for a few seconds his eyes lingered nervously on his new vehicle. “The way the two of you fight,” he said, “you’ll be lucky, Hero, if she doesn’t skewer your privates.”


“I’m not worried—”

“Hero—” Heroine complained, louder.

Their eyes met. It suddenly occurred to him what he was doing: “No, you do it, Heroine: I’ll trust you and cooperate.”


Her eyes grew wide. She wet her lips and stared at him. Whoa. He could tell by her face he’d said the right thing. Finally. Accidentally. Because he meant it.


Hoping for a lucky streak, he continued, “And I’d like you to trust me and cooperate so I can take a shot at you. With this.” He retrieved a small velvet box from his coat pocket, then tossed it. “Catch.”


In a hand against her bosom, she did, then put her bow under her arm to examine the box in both hands.


Watching her open its small, hinged lid, Hero was suddenly on edge. “Oh, dang,” he said, “don’t embarrass me in public, okay? Even though I’d deserve it. If you don’t want it, just sort of close it and—”


Her mouth, her face, her expression, opened in surprise at what she found inside. She stared down into a box smaller than the palm of her hand—looking, he knew, at a perfect diamond as large as the tip of her finger.



More nervous still, he apologized. “Look, I know it’s a little crass for it to be so big, but, see, I figured it had to be bigger and better than Gwyn’s, since she’d tell you if it wasn’t, and you’re kind of competitive.” Beneath the diamond, attached—he hoped she’d find it—was a platinum engagement ring.
She looked up at him, her amazed, open mouth drawing into a smile that gaped a little.
Delicately, with three fingers out, she plucked the ring from its box, and put it on, wiggling her hand to stare at it.


She smiled up, one eyebrow raised at him, then bit the side of her lip. She teased, “Do you think it’ll throw my shot off? It’s awfully heavy.”


“No. I think you’ll do everything better wearing it. Does it fit?”

“Yes.” She frowned and smiled, both, studying her finger. “Perfectly.”

He admitted, “Your brother helped me.” Then added, digging into his coat pocket again, “Oh, and something else.” She waited as he reached around in an empty pocket. There was a moment of panic until he remembered he’d put it into his inside pocket. “Here,” he said, finally and oh so nervously.


He handed over a piece of paper rolled tightly with the matching partner to the diamond ring, a wedding ring, holding the paper in its scroll. She took it, puzzled, sliding the ring off and unrolling his official offering.


“It’s a special license.” The fanciest—and quickest—way to get marriage in England.
He wished he weren’t such an expert on how to set up marriages, but there he was; at least he knew. “I had to move heaven and earth to get it by today.”


“Our names are on it!” she said with surprise, then looked up at him. Earnestly, she asked, “Hero, do you think this is a good idea? I mean, we fight an awful lot.”


“Yeah, I think it’s a good idea. I really want this, Heroine. I want to marry you, live with you forever. I never wanted anything so much in my life.” He laughed a little sheepishly. “And, yeah, I think it’s okay if we fight. We do a lot things pretty intensely. You’re right, it’s no good, purposeless bickering. Still, if you’re upset with me, you have to say. And I have to say if you rile me.”


When that didn’t seem enough, with every face turned to him, and—oh, own up, Hero, you’re rambling: He couldn’t shut up. “See, so long as we say what we need and leave off criticizing what the other one wants, we’ll be okay, I think. Arguments are chances to meet each other halfway. And we will; we always will: as soon as we figure out where halfway is.”


Heroine beamed at him. What a smile she had.

Someone sighed.

Another person, a lady’s voice, said, “Oh, that’s so sweet.”

“How lovely,” said someone behind him.

“They’re in love.”

“They’ll do beautifully together.”

Boddington interrupted with, “Yes, if she doesn’t kill him. Are you going to do it?”
he asked, real sarcastic. “Or are we going to stand here forever and watch the two of you make eyes at each other?” His own eyes kept going to the huge diamond ring.
“Either hand over my five hundred pounds, Hero, or walk out there and let her shoot.”


“Sure,” hero said and shrugged, Mr. Nonchalance. “Who has a cigarette?”

A dozen people did.

“Hero—” Heroine frowned at him.

“Do it,” he told her.

“You want me to?”

“Yes. I’m going to trust you. You’ll do fine.” He added more playfully, “Plus you always wanted a carriage with a crest on it. Now we can have one. Win us his carriage.”


He took one of the offered cigarettes. Boddington himself lit it, and Hero turned on his heels. He strolled casually out to the first target, one hand in his trouser pocket, the other holding out the burning tobacco, letting it swing with his arm.



He was not as relaxed as he looked, or hoped he looked. It occurred to him that now Heroine was excited.


Distracted.

A fine sweat was on his forehead by the time he reached the straw target and turned sideways. He bent down on one knee, planted the other foot in the ground, and rested his arm on his thigh, putting the cigarette at the gold. This was easy, he told himself.


It was hard. Out the corner of his eye, he knew when she loaded the arrow, then aimed.
All over him, like goose bumps, he felt when the breeze picked up. She waited, everyone silent, Hero as tense as if steel ran down his spine. The wind blew his shirt against his chest. Maybe he should turn around. The way the wind was, it would drift the arrow from its path toward the cigarette right into his ear. That’d be dandy, he thought, an arrow through his head, in one ear, out the other.


After a full minute of his heart racing and the crowd so quiet he could hear a bird’s chirping on the tent top, the breeze gently flapping everything in sight—Heroine eased the string back, lowered the bow into her skirts, and toed the ground. Boddington jeered. Hero couldn’t hear what he said, but could see his mean mouth moving. Yep, he was going to have to flatten the fellow’s nose; it was going to come to that. Then, no, Heroine looked back at the jackass, said something, then turned toward Hero again.


He had enough time to really, truly wish—repent—he hadn’t made her nervous on purpose out on her practice range. Oh, the regret. And, please, oh, please, don’t be nervous now, Heroine.


Then the wind died down, she loaded, pulled, and, like that, shot.

Hero was still, utterly rigid, except for the wince as the feathers of the arrow literally kissed his mouth on their way past, the end of the cigarette exploding into shreds of tobacco. Bits of it flew at his face. He was left with a half inch of frayed cigarette clamped in his teeth for dear life—he’d intended to let go to the arrow, but its flight had been too quick. He took the wet piece out, then, smiling, filliped it up into an arc, showing Heroine what remained. People were already cheering as he ran toward her.

I’ve ordered the sample. Thanks!

I’m about to start Courtney Milan’s The Devil Comes Courting

I definitely haven’t read this

There are a lot of other wonderful books by Julia Quinn.

This page was founded by people who love Quinn and Eloísa James. You might start with Essex Sisters or Depserate Duchesses.

If you want historicals with a touch of humor I recommend Julie Anne Long’s Pennyroyal Green series.

And for amazing writing I am passionate about Joanna Bourne

I definitely haven’t read it.

I have been reading a lot of books that I couldn’t bring myself to read a few months ago when I was doing. Comfort rereading. Madeline Hunters Heiress in Red Silk, Lois McMaster Bujold Physicians of Vilnius, Aaronovitch What Abigail did that summer, Kingfisher Paladin’s Strength which wasn’t as fun as Paladin’s Grace but still worth it, also some Sharon Shinn rereads.

I have no clue.

I have definitely not read this.

I definitely have not read this.

It’s Winter’s Orbit by a new author Everina Maxwell

I'm sorry about this being so late--its been crazy at work. I'll post the answer Friday to give folks time to see this.

This is a M/M sci-fi romance, and I really liked the way it handled the theme of the forced marriage for political reasons. They were required to marry for diplomatic purposes soon after Hero J’s prior husband, also a marriage of convenience for diplomatic purposes, died.

It was just unfortunate, that was all. They lived in close quarters at home and they had been forced into closer quarters here. If Hero K could get the space he needed, they could go back to what had developed into an almost comfortable equilibrium. Hero J activated his wristband automatically to look up more about monasteries, but of course they were out of range. Never mind. He could ask Bel when they got back.

Hero J looked up from the heating capsule when Hero K returned. It was working now: the tent was so warm that Hero K shrugged out of his coat the moment he came in. “I thought we might as well use another one,” Hero J said in explanation. “I’m not sure when you want to set off, but I assumed we would wait at least until it was light enough to see, so we may as well keep warm. And I think we may be able to use this to warm water?”

“Good idea,” Hero K said. “There’s coffee powder somewhere, did you find it with the food?” He seemed more energetic. He must have taken at least one more stim tab.

“Yes,” Hero J said. He shook some powder into the cup attachment, which Hero K took outside and filled with snow. Hero J paid more attention to melting it than necessary, but once it was fitted to the canister and warming, he ran out of things to do to keep from looking at Hero K. He found himself locking his hands together in his lap and inspecting them.

The awkward silence stretched out for long minutes, until Hero J heard Hero K take a deep breath. “So, uh,” Hero K said, sounding as if he had reached some sort of conclusion when he was outside. “Can we talk for a moment about … stuff?”

“Stuff,” Hero J said blankly.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said about the monastery. I think I know why you brought it up.” Hero J’s back started to knot up with tension; so it was going to be that kind of conversation. Hero K carried on, “It’s about having your own freedom, right? I understand. I know you didn’t choose this marriage. But, you know, long-term, it doesn’t have to be so much like a marriage. I mean, we’re—we’re friends, right? Sort of?”

He stopped. Sort of friends echoed in Hero J’s head. It was a relief to hear it confirmed, and more than he should expect. It shouldn’t hurt. Hero J didn’t know why it did.

Hero K was still waiting. Hero J realized he was expecting an answer, and gave a slow nod.

“Right! Yeah,” Hero K said. “So we can just stay like this, can’t we? Being married won’t stop you doing anything you want to do. If there’s someone you—if either of us was to start seeing someone on the side, that’s—that’s fine, right? We can both keep it quiet. So we can make sure the marriage doesn’t get in the way of, of either of our lives.”

Someone on the side? Hero J realized he was staring at Hero K, groping in vain for some sort of response, and made himself look back down. “I see.” It was not his business if Hero K wanted to see someone else. He must get offers all the time. At least he was being honest about it.

“Right,” Hero K said. There was more uncomfortable silence. Hero K reached for the open ration pack and wrapped it up to put away.

Someone else. It was like an invisible splinter: Hero J didn’t want to press at it, but at the same time he couldn’t leave it alone. “This is an impolite question,” he heard himself say, “but may I ask who it is?”

The wrapping in Hero K’s hands ripped.

“What? Me?” he said. “No, wait, there isn’t anyone! This isn’t me telling you I’m seeing someone!”

“Why not?” Hero J said. It was easier to sound calm and reasonable if he didn’t look at Hero K’s face. “Your marriage isn’t fulfilling. I don’t mind.”

“It wouldn’t be fair to them,” Hero K said. He sounded baffled, which didn’t make any sense. “It wouldn’t be fair to you.”

“I see,” Hero J said. He didn’t. Hero K seemed to be undermining his own argument. Hero J felt like he was trying to unravel a mathematics problem, but he cared about it too much to have any chance of solving it. “So you would like to see someone in the future.”

“I just thought—I thought you—” Hero K opened one hand in a frustrated gesture. “Look, it’s better than you going off to a monastery.”

Something unreasonable shot through Hero J’s chest like an energy cutter. He looked down at the coffee to conceal it. It was starting to boil, but he couldn’t seem to move his hands to do anything about it. The orange light flickered on Hero K’s face, highlighting his expressive eyes and the consternation there. Hero J had somehow hurt him. He didn’t know how to fix it.

“Sorry,” Hero K said.

He apologized to make Hero J feel better when it wasn’t even his fault. Hero J’s chest hurt. Hero K meant well; if only Hero J weren’t so inadequate. If only Hero J could be good enough for anyone. He shut his eyes. It was his cardinal rule not to ask questions in a situation like this: they tore away more remnants of his dignity and they irritated his partner. But Hero K said everything he thought, and Hero J had to try. “Is there anything I can do,” he said, his voice coming out flat and toneless, “to make myself less repellent to you?”

“Repellent,” Hero K said, and stopped.

Hero J tried not to pay attention to the shriveling feeling inside him. The moment’s pause stretched out to eternity.

Then Hero K said, “What?”

They should never have gotten into this conversation. Hero J wished he could erase the last five minutes from existence or somehow switch to a continuum where he had not asked the most inappropriate question possible. He turned away to take the water off the heater. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Where the—what the—Hero J.” Hero K leaned forward on his hands in the tiny space. Hero J stopped in the middle of screwing a lid on the water cup. He had seldom seen Hero K reduced to stuttering. “What do you mean, repellent? You can’t mean you. We’re not talking about—” His hand gesture included Hero J from head to toe, but he seemed to realize what he was doing and snatched his hand back.

Hero J put the cup down and tapped the heating canister, which was quietly hissing. He couldn’t make himself meet Hero K’s eyes. “I know you’ve tried to spare my feelings, and I am grateful. But you don’t have to pretend.”

Hero K didn’t say anything. Hero J had handled this so badly that even Hero K couldn’t think of anything to say. He was just looking at Hero J as if Hero J had hit him over the head. Hero J opened his mouth, ready to take it back, but then stopped. It was better to have it in the open.

Hero K groaned and dropped his face into his hands. “Hero J,” he said into his fingers. He pulled his hands down until his dark agonized eyes met

Hero J’s. “You’re beautiful.”

The world twisted sideways. “What,” Hero J said.

“It’s really distracting,” Hero K said. Then he added hastily, “Not that that’s your problem. That really isn’t your problem, sorry, I’ll get over it.”

“I don’t understand,” Hero J said. “If you think I’m—” He broke off, and his mouth moved but nothing came out. He tried again. “If you think—that, then why—” Another sentence he couldn’t see how to finish. “Then why?”

“You were grieving!” Hero K said. “Are grieving, I mean.”

Hero J’s thoughts were transparent and slippery, and every time he tried to face one, it fled. All this time he had been trying to figure out Hero K: what he wanted, what he liked and disliked, what made him angry. Hero J felt as though he’d been asking himself the wrong questions the entire time. Hero K wanted him. It was true he was in mourning; had that held Hero K back? When he looked back Hero K’s eyes were still locked on his, and a jolt ran down his back—not fear, but something foreign or forgotten. He knew fear. This was something else entirely.

“I haven’t stopped living,” Hero J said. He meant it as an explanation, but it somehow came out more like a challenge. Hero K had already had a chance and had turned it down. “You left. The night we were married.”

Hero K hadn’t taken his eyes off Hero J’s. Hero J could see the shallow rise and fall of his chest. “I thought you were just doing your duty,” Hero K said. His hands had clenched where they rested on his knees. “You were shaking. You had to force yourself to touch me. I might be slow, but I can tell when someone’s not interested.”

Oh. Hero J hadn’t expected that. Whatever was happening between them felt like pebbles gathering speed at the start of an avalanche; a voice in Hero J’s mind told him stop, told him that he was misreading Hero K’s intent. He deliberately blocked it out. He didn’t even let himself listen to his own voice as he said, “I’m interested now.”

He saw Hero K’s throat move as he swallowed. The sight of it sent a curl of warmth to Hero J’s stomach.

“So…” Hero K said. He trailed off. For once he didn’t seem to know the right thing to say.

“So,” Hero J echoed. The shadows of the tent wavered. Hero J took his courage into both hands and plunged over the edge. “Come here.”

Improbably, unbelievably, Hero K moved. He was drawing closer even before Hero J’s voice died away, as if his words had weight enough to make this happen. Hero J knelt up in the cramped space to meet him. Hero K’s mouth on his was warm and sure. Hero J didn’t remember it feeling like this. He barely recognized this feeling in himself at all, not this hunger for another body pressed against his. Hero K’s hands had crept around to the small of his back, but lightly, as if he wasn’t sure he would be welcomed. Hero J leaned forward in an experiment, pressing their bodies together, and Hero K’s hands tightened convulsively.

I thought she was the author but couldn’t place the book. I hope you are better today

Pretty sure I know the author. I have a guess at tbt book

Will do!