our greatest blessings come to us by way of madness Phaedr. 244a


The Playboy Sheikh's Virgin Stable-Girl

Just read Katrina Passick Lumsden's Review of Fifty Shades of Grey. No, I haven't been moved to read Grey (HOW DARE YOU MENTION TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES!), but love the way Lumsden has nailed it. Looking at Maeve's bodice ripper (see bonus below), it's nothing like Ana and -- what's his name. I include the excerpt at the end of my novel as a sort of appendix, written by one of the main characters, a response to what she learns through living in my novel about the people who built her house. Make sense? Anyway, I have no idea what the rest of Maeve's book would be (oh wait; I do), but it wouldn't be in shades of grey. Dorian Gray, maybe, but nothing remotely Cullen-cloned.

Seriously, I don't tend toward genre romance, but -- being fascinated with fascination -- I'm always curious about how one gets drawn in.

I did read The Lord Next Door* in one sitting, just for the the exercise. Also sampled one of the Spur paperbacks. It strikes me that the wide stance of these two specific works puts a tentative finger on the perhaps impenetrable distance (think about it) between ladies and gentlemens' response to this sort of printed simulation of life. "Lord" was the opulent house and trimmings, the clothes, the title, the social climb, and a whole lot of mannerly slooowww but progressive (skilled) (and strangely irresistible) teasing of an innocent heroine followed by true love and marriage. On the other hand (irresistible sequitur here), "Spur" was actually porn. Bought it at a library sale, where there was a whole series of it. The librarians had no idea it was porn; they thought it was like Zane Grey, something for grandpa who kept his mouth shut about such discrepancy. The Spur plot comes on as simple repetition /formula: hero (Tom Buchanan physique) larks about in cowboy outfits shooting and pummeling bad guys, returning hungry to the saloon/hotel where he finds a most comely lady who insists that he take her then and there, i.e., no foreplay, no bother, just some happy / inconsequential fast food.

So -- all I can conclude is that as long as no one gets hurt you just need a sense of humor about these things.

Or you can get religious like Pat Robertson and make up laws to support the no-fault inevitability of the eternal drama.

Or maybe, like me, simply see the gods rising up in us as we go along -- gods being, after all, the personifications of the energies of the organs and what-not.

Still, it's all quite confounding, and maybe that's also why it's fascinating when fascination is found. The simple but essential business of energy gradients, the force that steers the sun and all the stars.

The Lord Next Door: To rescue her family from financial ruin, lovely Victoria Shelby has no choice but to marry. Her options for a bridegroom are limited . . . until she remembers the shy servant boy next door. Then she discovers that her childhood friend is actually Viscount Thurlow -- ruthless businessman, future earl, and a man whose family is shrouded in scandal! ~Amazon

Best review ever: The Playboy Sheikh's Virgin Stable-Girl:
http://smartbitchestrashybooks.com/blog/the-playbot-sheikhs-virgin-stable-girl-by-sharon-kendrick  And the cover. (No fluttering robes?)

book at amazon:
"From the second he rides into the story until the last page, he says and does nothing redeeming."

Maeve is a character in my Opus #2. She likes to read and write bodice rippers. (Which Opus2 is not.) A peek at her work...
Prelude: 1885*

*Excerpted from M.P. Stoke’s future work-in-progress, The Lily and the Stone

There were no secrets from him, not in all the world, and the moment he heard, he was off by train, New York to Ohio. By midnight, he was in the foyer of Locksley Hall, swirling off his satin-lined cape. He’d come dressed for the occasion--a masked ball.

Music poured down the grand staircase; brushing past the footman, he swept up through it, bounding to the third floor. There, in the ballroom, things were well in progress, and taking a fluted glass from the long row of tables, he relaxed. Sipping champagne, he became just another vaporous being, wigged and masked and incognito; something conjured from a gothic novel, perhaps magician, perhaps priest. In truth, his billow of robes came by way of a British barrister, a sometimes useful associate—

But wait. Why spoil our intrigue.

Exchanging the stray anonymous smile, he strolled among the exuberantly costumed guests. In the far wall of mirrors, rows of them danced, bright harlequins, Queens of Hearts and such, stepping forth on tip-toe with hands linked and held high, not minding in the least being caricature. Their glimmering props — jewels that needed locking up, heirloom swords that once flirted with blood — were not the objects of tonight’s fascination. Tonight’s fascination was the mask.

Masked or no, their hostess was easy to spot, aptly dressed as an angel and just now turning to make her curtsey as the rows of dancers broke into pairs. A ponderous Henry VIII bowed back to her, his bearing blithe and ludicrous, be he in reality solemn poet, cutthroat politician, or (cutthroat) industrial financier. Ah! This hostess, angel of the highest order! Her beauty charms open the deepest pockets. And more, her prey is willing. This is a charity ball, and even they, for all their glistering power, have inklings of that one inescapable reality. The one that never bargains yet might keep score. The great equalizer,when the world will flow on merrily without them.

And now they are here, far from their celebrated watering holes, gathered in a town they deem a mere backwoods, a place not even Cleveland. And once again, it is she who works this magic.

As the music ends, her eyes wander mask to mask, catching on him. Instantly, he raises his glass, bowing stiffly, as if twice his age. Her smile, gracious in response, hides all traces of puzzlement. It would be impolite not to place her guest, everyone here so important, most of all to themselves. Should he go dance with her? No; best lose himself in the crowd. She’d know him by touch, ruining this rare opportunity, the reason he’d come. No secrets were safe from him, true. Other eyes watched; word always got back. But other eyes could not penetrate a gloss as his did. What was she like when he wasn’t around? Was she truly so heart-wrenchingly good?

The music cues up again. The dancers start returning to the floor. And she—?

She is nowhere to be found.

In the hallway, he sights her through the maze of banisters as she makes her way down the stairs. Tracking her to the first floor, he finds her slipping out the balcony doors. He follows, stealing along the marble staircase, keeping to the coolness of the wall.

There’s a full moon in the garden, a hint of winter in its strange, permeating light. And a silence so perfect that you hear the foliage about to fall, the leaves as they shrivel back into their source. She is standing on the flagstone path, her face bare, and she seems to be holding her breath.

Still, she stands. Unbearably still. And long, as if stealing the moment from time.

Enough! Leaning against the archway beneath the stairs, he takes a cigarette from his pocket, lights it — gray smoke writhing like a dragon — and shuts the gold case with a snap.

She turns, and seeing him, gives a startled laugh, her hand at her heart. “Goodness, I didn’t know anyone was there,” she says. “This moon. Its beauty.” She gestures, looking back at it. “It will not let you go.”

How tantalizing, her not knowing him. And how strange: nothing between them but her openness. She, a lily — exquisite and tender, needing to be touched in kind.

Pulling off his coarse wig, his suffocating mask, he goes to her. And she steps back. She steps back. She, a reverberation — stepping back a thousand times in the shattered light, as all falls to instinct, as he takes her with a lunge, pulling her into the shadows, his breath in her ear. “Come, seraph. Your guests will not miss you.”
snippity snip

Goodness. A bit sinister, yes? But don't worry. She wins in the best way.