This was another of my very common found at a thrift store books. Saw the cover, recognized the author (Julia Quinn), it was .47 cents, so I grabbed it. Oh I know I sound so negative so often about so many of these books, but I just didn't care for this. I wanted too - I always want to love what i read - I finished it, but it was a challenge. So our heroine in this story - Miranda - falls in love with her best friends older brother when she is a little girl. He gets married, his wife cheats on him multiple times, eventually dies, and he is back on the market so to speak - though he claims he will never marry again. There was no real romance to this book. This was the story of a young girl throwing herself at the man she has wanted for years and he taking advantage of that, eventually knocking her up, having to hunt her down after she runs away, marrying her against her will, and then at the very end realizing he loves her too. *gag* And if that wasn't a run-on sentence I don't know what is!
Sorry Julia - this book rather sucked. Please don't judge all of Ms Quinn's based on this one book - read The Viscount Who Loved Me .
Amazon Product Description:
2 March 1810 . . .
Today, I fell in love.
At the age of ten, Miranda Cheever showed no signs of Great Beauty. And even at ten, Miranda learned to accept the expectations society held for her—until the afternoon when Nigel Bevelstoke, the handsome and dashing Viscount Turner, solemnly kissed her hand and promised her that one day she would grow into herself, that one day she would be as beautiful as she already was smart. And even at ten, Miranda knew she would love him forever.
But the years that followed were as cruel to Turner as they were kind to Miranda. She is as intriguing as the viscount boldly predicted on that memorable day—while he is a lonely, bitter man, crushed by a devastating loss. But Miranda has never forgotten the truth she set down on paper all those years earlier—and she will not allow the love that is her destiny to slip lightly through her fingers . . .
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