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Both were wounded in the same train robbery in frontier Colorado and left on Abigail McKenzie's doorstep to nurse back to life.

Gentle, loving David, promising her a happiness she'd lost hope of finding, was all a lady could wish for.

Jesse stood for everything she hated: he was rude, violent, roughly handsome and disturbingly sensual.

But it was Jesse's mocking mouth that troubled her dreams, Jesse who made her feel a hundred things a lady should never know, Jesse who challenged her every waking hour.  She fought him with all the stiff propriety her stubborn will commanded...but in her burned the aching embers of love too long denied--love that would force her to a choice no woman should ever have to make...

He was everything her heart warned against—an arrogant scoundrel whose rough good looks spoke of savage pleasures. And thought Kincaid's scorching kisses fired her blood, she brazenly resisted him...until one rapturous moment quelled their clash of wills, and something far more dangerous than desire threatened to conquer her senses...

Let us review the formula of this novel: a sexually repressed widow hires a disreputable rake (as opposed, I suppose, a reputable one) to help her find her kidnapped brother. Along the way, she discovers there’s more to the rake than people realize. Also that she’s one lusty lady. They find the brother, vanquish the bad guy, fall in love, and live happily ever after.

The romance world loves a great series. Heck, I love a great series, but like so many readers, I am fickle. So few series compel me to continue to the very end (a certain man named Miles Vorkosigan excepted, and even he has his moments). The problem with all series, great and small, is that not every character should be resolved. Some should remain the mist.

In Jo Beverley’s The Rogue’s Return, Simon St. Bride, an English aristocrat in Regency Canada, is preparing to return home with evidence of thievery in the Indian Affairs group. His temper leads to a forced duel with the man he’s fingered; his actions lead to a forced marriage with Jane (Jancy) Otterburn, a recent immigrant from England. Only this Jane Otterburn isn’t the Jane Otterburn he thinks she is – rather than a poor relation of aristocracy, he ends up with the bastard daughter of a respected family.

HelenKay: From the title of this book you may expect a swashbuckling alpha hero - sort of a romance read of old where the strong handsome man kidnaps the desperate heroine and through a serious of arguments and fights love blooms. In these other tales, financial interests or vengeance motivates the hero's actions. Love isn't the goal; it's the result.

In some ways that throwback description fits Marshall's Captain Sinister's Lady but not really. Morgan Roberts does capture Amanda Stephenson and does decide he wants to keep her. Those characteristics remain. The difference here is in the why and how. The problem here is in the when. One of the drawbacks of the book is that the majority of the romance action takes place in in the first third of the book, leaving the last 200 pages with little conflict or driving force.

In the past few months the publishing industry has seen scandals that range from the eyebrow raising variety, to the forever-alter-the-way-business-is-done variety. The latter, of course, refers to James Frey’s embellished memoir; the former could be filled by any number of minor disgraces authors and publishers have endured. It wasn’t that long ago, a little over a year, that the book business scandal of the moment was Fordham University Professor Mary Bly’s confession that she writes romance under the nom-de-plume Eloisa James. In the wake of A Million Little Pieces, Bly’s confession hardly seems worthy of ink. There is no true scandal in an academic with degrees from Harvard, Yale and Oxford writing those books. More importantly, James writes with too much elegance to be anything less than an asset to romance.

As fairy tales go, the one where the handsome prince sweeps into a small village and tells a pretty—if unassuming—young woman that she is his princess, is hard to beat. Whether the young girl is cleaning out fireplaces or just living an ordinary life, wife of royalty is a more exciting proposition. Then there is the prince himself, who in the fairy tales is always tall, dark, and handsome, and never ever has ears like dinner plates. In romances the prince (be that literal or figurative) is monstrously well endowed, with a prowess that never abates, and enough skill to coax even the most shy and reluctant future princess into multiple earth shattering orgasms. The enduring and wide spread appeal of this fairy tale is understandable. Who wouldn’t want Prince Charming? Jennifer Ashley takes on the tale and the prince in Penelope & Prince Charming and proves that the story is worth telling again.

Lorraine Heath’s Promise Me Forever was a PBR reader suggestion, and since I’ve never read Heath (how is it that I’ve read more romances than the average soul, yet managed to miss so many big-name authors?), I eagerly volunteered. Sheesh, now I’m telling whoppers before I start the review. I volunteered because I love a challenge.

As teenagers, Lauren Fairfield and Thomas Warner fell in love (as only teenagers can do) despite their different stations in life. Then Lauren was whisked off to live in London and Tom took up cattle ranching. Now Lauren’s a proper lady who still mourns her first-and-only love – and, conveniently, Tom is now a long-lost earl (also conveniently filthy rich) arriving in London to take his proper place in society. One can only guess at the odds that Lauren and Tom will somehow reconnect and rekindle and reunite.

Every first novel has an interesting story of its road to publication. Interesting, at least, for the author. Few have a story that would interest anyone else. Of the tens of thousands of works of fiction that come into the marketplace every year, few have a tale like A Confederacy of Dunces which was published eleven years after author John Kennedy Toole’s suicide (a suicide widely attributed to Toole’s publishing failures) and only after the book was championed by Toole’s mother. Once released, it won a loyal and rabid fan base, and went on to take the Pulitzer. In the end, it’s a success story, the rarity of which authors everywhere should be thankful for.

Caitlin Scott-Turner’s journey to publication doesn’t rival Toole’s, but it is worth repeating. Her first novel, The Queen’s Fencer was written two and a half decades ago. At the time, it was very nearly published, only to fall through the cracks. After years of languishing, the novel was self-published before finding its way to the small press Five Star. Yes, more than a quarter century later, Scott-Turner’s novel was published.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: the beauty of a good Regency romance comes from the execution. Ever since William Makepeace Thackeray made his name skewering the social structures in Vanity Fair, writers have used the Regency era to excellent comic effect...while allowing the Regency’s unique point in history to explore specific cultural issues.

While Nicole Byrd’s Seducing Lord Oliver doesn’t quite achieve the standard of Thackeray (honestly, who could?), it reminded me that nothing beats a good Regency. Sure, I think this could have been a better story, but it’s been a while since I sat down and devoured a historical romance. What Byrd lacks in plotting and story development, she enhances with energy and nuanced characterization.

A mere six months ago, I reviewed the ostensible second-to-last novel in Jo Beverley’s “Rogues” series. At that time, I pondered the idea of series that have run their course. Specifically, I wondered if thirty years was too long for one series. Especially if said thirty years was punctuated by periods of unavailability for some of the titles in the series.

I am the ultimate series sucker. You write them, I will come. And will keep reading and reading forever. In fact, I will keep reading long after I have sworn I will stop. There are possibly twelve-step programs for people like me, I simply haven’t found them. But still, there’s a point where even I wonder why I keep coming back...and then suddenly I remember who’s in charge of me, and I take the initiative and stop myself cold turkey.

There are some books written to be savored and pondered, thought about and argued over long after the final words have been read. There are others that do not aspire to such lofty heights. Instead they seek to momentarily entertain, asking only that the reader step into their pages and go along for the ride. Most of romance is the momentary variety; disposable even. Read it once, enjoy it or not, and then there isn’t a need to think on it again. Cheryl Holt’s newest historical romance, Too Wicked to Wed, should be of the fleeting sort. The romance is engineered to be light reading, the plot is not complicated enough to inspire deep thought. The result is strongly crafted diversionary entertainment. On that front, Too Wicked to Wed succeeds at what it sets out to do. On the whole, however, it is not as ephemeral as it should be. Holt makes story choices that feel uncomfortably like moral judgments and the discomfort generated lingers beyond the fiction and ultimately overshadow the romance.

There are times when I feel like I need to confess the awful truth to Wendy and HelenKay (and, well, Lorna and L.J.). This is one of them. When it comes to picking books for review, I have almost no process. I pretend I do, and sometimes that pretending leads to an actual thoughtful choice.

But mostly it’s a matter of serendipity mixed with my desire to read where no reviewer has read before. But it’s the serendipity that seems to lead me to the most interesting books. In the case of Lady Anne’s Dangerous Man by Jeane Westin, I was poking through the teetering book pile, desperately seeking something new and different to read. Not even for review. I just wanted something that would let me escape for a little while. I was aiming for disposable but interesting.

The primitiveness of 1136 Scotland can make the modern mind shiver. Those pesky Romans were gone from England but the Normans had come and conquered and subsequently left their mark on: the English language (the beginnings of its modern version anyway), the monarchy, and well, sufficed to say, Western history. Outside of the political arena the daily lives of average folks were pretty tough. There was no Costco back then. Which might not matter as there was also no refrigeration to keep five gallon tubs of mayonnaise fresh. For that matter, there were also no cell phones, TiVo, internet, cars, or anything approaching modern convenience. It actually gets much worse than no electricity, there was also no public sanitation (that’s for humans or livestock). It would be another seven or eight hundred years before people started to bathe regularly (and by people, that means: people with money; and by regularly: that doesn’t mean daily). Given the harsh and unhygienic conditions, it’s no surprise that the life expectancy was only in the early thirties. All things considered, it was a dicey time.

As I confessed in a previous review, there is a certain element of randomness when it comes my book selection process. I judge books by covers, by clever synopses, by really bad synopses, and, sometimes, by guilt. For example, let’s say someone sends me a book for review and I haven’t gotten to it, then I get an email reminding me that this book is in my possession, and guilt nudges me, saying “You should at least open the package.”

Rest assured that this latter scenario rarely happens. But a week or so ago, I received a friendly reminder from a publicist suggesting that I should have received, read, and loved Elizabeth Hoyt’s The Raven Prince. Whoa there, I thought, you think I get around to this stuff in a day or two? You don’t know me.

And of course I’m also thinking that I’m going to show this publicist. You get all “you’re gonna love this book” with me, and I’ll show you. Take that and that and that.

There’s little room for surprise in the clockwork art that is genre fiction. What is expected of the formula is, after all, the expected. But fiction, good fiction, needs the element of surprise, some bit of plot or character or device that isn’t as expected. It is in the unanticipated, the unforeseen, the unpredicted that talent shines brightest and readers are given something memorable. Debut author Colleen Gleason has neatly sidestepped the issue of triteness with The Rest Falls Away, by stretching and straddling genre boundaries. The result is a story that isn’t strictly a romance or strictly a paranormal or strictly a Regency. It’s a romance without a central love story, a paranormal that never looses sight of the fact that vampires are monsters, and a Regency whose heroine has something besides the ton on her mind. All that makes for a read that surprises.

Sometimes you enjoy a book, reading cover-to-cover with a speed usually reserved for eating your way through a family-size potato chip bag, and you have no idea why. Maybe the plot isn't all that new. Maybe there are flaws in the reasoning by both the heroine and hero. Maybe there are a few (or more than a few) "wait, what just happened?" moments. Maybe there's an overly annoying character, or an immature character or an unnecessary character. Yet you keep on munching. Debra Mullins' Two Weeks With A Stranger, an enjoyable read-it-in-two-sittings historical romance, has a bit of that flavor.

With the number of romance novels published each year exceeding 2,000 titles – and those are just the ones we know about -- there is little wonder that it’s hard to find new authors that excite readers.

Heck, it’s little wonder that it’s hard to find story concepts that excite readers.

Over and over, we’re subjected to improbably perfect heroines, women who tend to resemble Barbie dolls rather than females of the human species, and implausibly handsome heroes. These men are so incredible that their beard stubble doesn’t hurt the heroine’s delicate skin. Maybe that’s the ultimate fantasy: no tell-tale rashes during illicit rendezvous.

The first time I read Lynn Kurland, it was the beautiful This Is All I Ask. A bit later, I read, as all true romance fans must, Stardust Of Yesterday. Then another Kurland. And another.

And before too many years passed (she is not the type of author who inspires mass purchases of ever novel she’s ever written and the requisite locking of oneself in a room until all said novels have been read), I noticed that I was completely and utterly bored with the antics of the time-traveling McKinnon/MacLeod/de Piaget families. If it wasn’t this one traveling forward in time, it was that one traveling back. Sure a few of the characters found the gumption (or maybe they didn’t find the time portals) to remain in their own time/space dimension, but, let’s be honest, eventually Kurland’s stories took on a rather unshiny sameness.

It felt like the same novel with a few of the pieces rearranged.

I have to come to believe that there is a karmic balance to reviewing. You hit a patch of bad books, you think that’s what life will be like forever, and then, bam!, good books galore. It gives one (me) the strength to go on.

I think I mentioned that I came late to historicals in my reading career. Something about all those bosoms seemingly desiring to bust free made me nervous. Sort of like I was one bad bra strap away from social disaster. Also, those covers were just plain awful. Embarrassing. I mean, I read in public.

So my historical thing came about when I found the tasteful covers of Amanda Quick. Then I realized that, frankly, I sort of liked them. All things being equal, I preferred the Regency era to, oh, medieval times, but that’s due to the fact that personal hygiene was greatly improved in the 1800’s. Also, people weren’t so much eating with their knives and indoor plumbing was just around the corner.

I freely admit a great deal of my anthropological and societal education has been gleaned from the pages of historical romance novels. I know, for instance, that a woman in England couldn’t inherit a peerage, but she might be a peer in her own right. I’m aware that while a pelisse was an absolute necessity for a young woman rushing off to meet a shady character in Hyde Park so she could save the hero/her mother/family estate/world, she wouldn’t typically be in need of a man of affairs. That’s because she didn’t have affairs. Men handled money and business. Women stayed home to serve tea and have babies. For certain, other than kick-ass chicks like Elizabeth I and Catherine the Great, women generally had less-than-powerful lots in life until about 1982, when Boy George burst on the scene and forever altered the face of masculinity, forcing women to revolt and change their lots from less-than-powerful to more-powerful-but-still-not-great.

I’ve been suffering from a bad case of the reading blahs lately. Nothing – name the genre, the style, the whatever – captures my attention. Thus, there has been more than the usual amount of picking up books only to set them aside due to lack of interest.

It was only inevitable that I’d eventually return to Stephanie Laurens’ What Price Love? (A Cynster Novel), what with the continual casting about and giving discarded novels a second chance. You know what they say, if you can't read ‘em, review ‘em.

Oh, where to start? Ah right. Nothing like a brief synopsis to get the reviewing juices flowing. Let me attempt to capture this story in a few pity phrases. So Lady Priscilla Dalloway, the most beautiful woman to walk the planet, is desperately seeking her missing twin brother. He’s gone missing and, based on his last correspondence, he’s on the trail of Something Bad.

For more than a decade Lisa Kleypas has entertained her readers with historical romances filled with strong men and women who find love, true love, with one another. Recently she changed direction, penning Sugar Daddy, a contemporary women’s fiction novel with a first person narrative. This departure from her nineteenth century third person past had many fans wondering whether she would continue to also write historicals or simply depart to contemporaries complete.

Well, fear not, fans. Kleypas’s new book, Mine Till Midnight, is not only a historical, but it appears her sojourn writing about contemporary Texas was just what she needed to return to nineteenth century England with a tale as fresh as it is page-turning.

I’ve mentioned, oh, a good dozen times that I was once a huge reader of historical romance. Devoured the stuff – the good, the bad, the really bad, and the really good (not necessarily in that order; I believe you must read a lot of bad romance in order to truly appreciate the good and even the tolerable). There came a time when even the best of the best was too much for me to handle.

It was all those dukes and marquesses and earls and Ton and, you guessed it, Regency overload. Some would solve the problem with a good dollop of Medieval, but it turns out that while I like a good knight errant, I spent too much time worrying about hygiene and too little time worrying about the story. Also, see above re: overload. Too much of a good thing can make you want anything but that good thing.

But I keep coming back to historicals – a fictionalized version of the olden days is often preferable to current times. I am happy to announce that some of the best romance reading I’ve encountered in the past year has come from the historical realm. I’ve even dipped back into the intrigues of Almack’s (slowly, my dears, very slowly). What has been good for me is a crop of authors doing unusual things: new twists on old stories and new time periods to explore.