I haven't read a romance novel for years, probably decades. I have a taste for paranormal romance or mystery stories that include romance, which I find much more interesting. There’s more going on than just the couple mooning around about each other. There's a mystery to solve, maybe a terrorist plot to deal with (Miles Vorkosigan in Komarr), ancient relics that must be preserved (Burn for Me by Ilona Andrews), vampires to be dealt with (Sookie Stackhouse), or werewolves to sort out (Patricia Briggs' Mercy Thompson). The bonus to paranormal romances is that there's no requirement or expectation that they will be historically accurate.
This book was cute, but it was less real to me than the fantasy fiction referenced above. It's a 21st century woman's day dream of a historical romance that she uses to fall asleep at night—she doesn't care if the ideas are a bit too modern or the dialogue is sometimes too reminiscent of internet-speak. She's merely entertaining herself as her brain slows down towards unconsciousness. Readers who insist on historical accuracy will be horrified.
If you can let go of those ideals, it is what is advertised on the tin: an independent young woman is striving to work on an etymological dictionary and retain her freedom. A handsome carpenter is scrambling her thoughts merely by existing and when his attention turns to her, she is short-circuited. It is unmitigated fluff.
That will do me for several more decades, I think. The premise of the series (a society of Wallflowers who are striving to expand women's opportunities) is great, but the story lacks substance. While Beatrice is busily trying to prove that marriage shouldn't be the only avenue for a woman's life, the story herds her into matrimony. Not that women who want love and/or marriage shouldn't pursue them, but there should be more to the tale. There should just bloody well be MORE.
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