Khanh the Killjoy

It's difficult for me to put my feelings about this book into context. I'm just devastated by this book because it was such a huge letdown. It was still pretty funny, and light, and amusing, but on the other hand, this is Julia Quinn, and I feel like this book should be more than just brain candy. The characters are largely forgettable, the plot is just ridiculous, and I am so sad that I can only give this a 2. There is just no substance to it. It is all fluff, and so completely lacking in everything that was bright and beautiful in the early Julia Quinn books that I loved.

Let me preface by saying I absolutely adore Julia Quinn. She is on my auto-buy. She is STILL on my auto-buy despite this book. Why? Julia Quinn is single-handedly responsible for my introduction into the cult of Regency Historical Romance. I have always scorned historical romance novels until I reached for one of her books one day, thinking the premise looked interesting, and well, she's a Harvard graduate, so surely it's less shameful to read a romance novel by someone so pedigreed. Yes, I am a book snob sometimes. I'm not perfect, and it's stupid, but I needed to rationalize my urge to read a genre of books that was inherently shameful to my conservative Asian upbringing.

With that said, my first few Julia Quinns were absolutely fantastic. I laughed til my sides hurt, I felt for the characters, and it finally got knocked into my stupid, silly, youthfully immature brain that I should not judge a book by its covers because a good book with amazing characters and humors can transcend a genre. Julia Quinn is the first romance author who taught me that romance novels have value, too, that it is a genre worthy of reading when it is so spectacularly written, that they're not merely bodice-rippers with brutish alpha males as the hero who ravish wilting maidens with heaving bosoms (no, thank you, Catherine Coulter).

But lately, it feels like Julia Quinn's books have lost the magic. This book is no exception. The last Julia Quinn book I remember loving is the 5th in the Bridgerton series. Since then, her books have been largely unmemorable for me.

Don't get me wrong, they're still good...but this is Julia Quinn, man. I don't read Julia Quinn books to merely have a "good" reading experience. I can reach for any light Regency novel and expect to get a book that's at least a 2.5 to 3-rating reading experience I expect sparks. I expect magic. I expect transcendence. I hold Julia Quinn to a higher standard, and I'm sorry, but I feel let down. Am I selfish? Do I have too-high-expectations of an author so beloved to my heart?

Summary: This book follows the Smythe-Smith family, you might be a little lost if you plunged in without having read the previous books, but not by much. This is Hugh and Sarah's story. Hugh is the second son of a Marquess, who has what would today be called a eidetic (or photographic) memory; he's also highly mathematical, being able to calculate enormous sums in his head. Hugh got pissed drunk a few years ago, and wound up making a mistake he never makes: he lost a game of cards. While drunk off his ass, Hugh makes the enormous mistake of challenging the man who beat him to a duel. That man happens to be Daniel Smythe-Smith, a good friend. The duel was a mistake, and what happens was also a mistake--Daniel shot Hugh in the leg, cripping him, and is forced to flee the country the escape from the wrath of Hugh's father, the Marquess. Daniel leaves behind a devastated, broken family, and a cousin, Lady Sarah Pleinsworth, who is more righteously angry about the entire situation than the entire Smythe-Smith family.

Things happen, namely Books 1 and 2 in the Smythe-Smith series, and Daniel is back in England, and getting married. Hugh and Daniel have since mended their differences, but he and Sarah still cannot stand one another. He dislikes her because, well, she's annoying. She hates him because of what he did to Daniel. They're thrown together by force at Daniel's wedding, improbable hijinks follow, and for some fucking reason, they fall for each other on the spot, considering they have not been able to stand each other for years.

The plot: I give Historical Romances some room for levity when it comes to plot, but I cannot overlook a plot that is so absolutely absurd as to be absolutely unbelievable by any extent of the imagination. The plot and the eventual resolution is incredibly fucking absurd, and please believe me when I say I take no pleasure at all in critiquing this book.

“No.” Sarah shook her head, aghast. “That can’t be true. It’s preposterous. It’s mad, it’s—”

Nope, Sarah. I may not like you at all, but you are absolutely right. The book starts off fairly well, and then devolves into a ludicrous resolution that I can't even hint at because there's no way that you could see it coming. There is no rationality, there is no reason. The resolution and the climax was just pulled out of thin air. I can't even hint at it because there is no foreshadowing involved and no subtlety because the ultimate confrontation just doesn't make any goddamn sense. The climax of the plot was grandiose, overdone, unnecessary, a complete fucking farce: it's the equivalent of using a jackhammer to insert a pushpin into a wall.

Some series needs to come to a graceful end. The Smythe-Smith family have been a long-running insider joke since the days of the Bridgerton series because of their terrible musical skills and their annual intolerable musical performance. Well, the joke should stop here.

The characters: There's just nothing about the characters in this book that stands out. The characters are more or less cookie-cutter dull, and the main character (Sarah) got on my nerves. For a book that is Regency, there's but the mildest effort at making it historically accurate, considering the inclusion of children at parties, the use of unicorns within discussions, and the use of the word "typecast." Really? "Typecast?" In the 1800s? There is just not even a pretense at making the characters' dialogue in this book anywhere near historically accurate. I get it, I don't want to read flowery purple prose and overly archaic language any more than I want to stab myself in the eye, but I read Historical Romance largely for the HISTORICAL part, and the speech should at least attempt to reflect the time.

I found Hugh to be inoffensive. I found Sarah to be quite annoying and grating on my nerves.

when Lady Sarah spoke, it was difficult to ignore her.
She used far too many adverbs. And exclamation points.

Sarah even admits it herself.

And I . . .” She paused. How to say it? “There are people in this world who find me quite annoying.”

She is overly judgmental, and she is overly sensitive.



Sarah reminds me of Helen Lovejoy in the Simpsons, largely because she is so overwrought and more offended FOR someone than the person who was actually hurt. She is uptight, snippy, and a mess of nerves. Yes, Daniel is her cousin. Yes, he got hurt. No, Sarah should not be screeching like a harpy and acting more hurt on behalf of Daniel than his actual family. Sarah is one of those types of people who are offended (and even more so) on your behalf; they mean well, but overall, they should just shut up and let the actual parties involved deal with it rather than taking it on as their personal cause.

The supporting characters includes a group of Sarah's teenaged sister' ranging from 11 to their late teens, and all the headache and squabbling that entails, as well as Hugh's Sad, Sad Past and an Evil Father who's more evil than any Disney villain. I just did not enjoy this book, and I feel like I have to be apologetic for not liking it.

The Romance: Not believable. Mainly because Hugh and Sarah have hated each other for years. He hated her because she's an annoying twit who runs at him screeching like a harpy at every single public appearance at which they meet.

All of a sudden, they re-encounter each other at a wedding. They fight and avoid each other like two particularly ill-tempered cat and dog. Out of fucking nowhere, the sparks fly.

For him.

And her lips, he realized now that she wasn’t hurling insults at him, were utter perfection, full and pink, and touched with just the right sort of curve. They seemed to tell a man that she knew things, that she knew how to laugh, and if he only laid down his soul for her, she would light up his world with a single smile.

And her.

And his mouth—he rarely smiled, or at least he rarely smiled at her, but there was something rather wry about it. She supposed some people might not find that attractive, but she . . .
Did.
Dear Lord.

Oh, please.

I've lost that loving feeling for Julia Quinn novels =(