We romance readers have come a long way, baby, but, sadly, you¹d never know it from picking up this book. To be honest, there’s a lot I remember fondly about the good old days of romance, and there’s a lot I don’t – with pathetic, waifish heroines and heroes who actually seem to like that same pathetic waifishness and willingly playing Sugar Daddy topping the list.

Heroine Devon St. James is a waif – make no mistake about it. Yes, she’s got a bit of a mouth on her (displayed far more in the early chapters than in the latter ones), but basically she is an injured and pathetic Victim under the power of the cold and frosty (on the outside only, of course) nobleman who eventually succumbs to her waifish charms. And, shades of early Judith McNaught, much of the hero’s emotions for the heroine center around sympathy and guilt. In 2004, frankly, with years of more evolved, resourceful, and intelligent heroines behind us, that’s just plain creepy. And, as if all that weren’t enough, there’s even a contrived and wholly predictable resolution to the couple’s class differences that will be very familiar to anyone who’s ever read Barbara Cartland.

Raised in squalor by a mother impregnated during her governess days, breathtakingly beautiful Devon has managed to hold on to her virtue even while working as a barmaid. Attacked on her way home one evening by a brutal gang of thieves and left for dead, the bloodied young woman – who also appears to be hugely pregnant – is discovered by Sebastian Sterling, marquess of Thurston who sweeps her into his luxurious carriage and takes her to his even more luxurious home.

His discovery (while undressing her, of course) that the lump under her clothes is a pillow and not a pregnancy convinces Sebastian that he must be harboring a thief who used her voluminous clothing to hide her booty – a belief confirmed by the valuable necklace he finds in her possession. Upon her awakening, Devon’s protestations that the necklace is hers are met with predictable disbelief.

Still, Sebastian finds enough to intrigue him in Devon’s story that he journeys to St. Giles to investigate her claims. Sure enough, he finds that she did indeed work as a barmaid, where, if the by-play in the tavern is anything to go by, she must have been voluntarily manhandled on a regular basis. The conclusion he jumps to is the predictable one: The other barmaids are clearly whores, so Devon must be as well. Her hovel of a room – complete with an evil, nasty landlord determined to put her out on the street – is so hovel-y that he can’t even begin to imagine Devon’s lovliness in such terrible surroundings. Surely he can never let the beautiful young woman live in such squalor again!

Is Devon a thief? Is she virtuous? Even with those questions swirling in his mind, Devon’s beauty and pure spirit shine through and Sebastian can’t help but lose his heart. But, alas, the differences between them are immense and, as everyone knows, a marquess can hardly marry a bastard.

See what I mean about the retro plotting? First and foremost, Devon is under the power of Sebastian for virtually the entire book and his care for her is based on pity and lust, all of which is just downright icky. Even more disconcerting, his feelings of love are clarified only after Devon is devastated by a conversation she overhears between Sebastian and his brother – which, of course, ultimately amounts to even more pity. Sebastian is that stereotype-of-stereotypes: A repressed and haughty aristocrat still smarting from the childhood abandonment of his shallow and adulterous mother that can only be healed by the love of a Virtuous Virgin.

As for Devon, I can’t say I ever really warmed up to her. I don’t question the fact that anyone living in her circumstances is to be admired for managing to survive (chaste, no less), I just don’t happen to cotton to heroines I’m supposed to feel sorry for. (And, believe me, it’s impossible not to.) As for the ultimate conclusion of the romance of Devon and Sebastian, though I can’t reveal the circumstances for fear of spoilers, trust me, it’s in the Grand (or maybe Not So Grand) Tradition of stories of this ilk.

I’ve enjoyed Samantha James before and can heartily recommend several of her books. Regretfully, this isn’t one of them.