Insert clever title about romance novels.

Damn it. I started reading Courtney Milan. I may never recover.

I’ve been something of a closet romance reader for years. I am super picky about my romances, though–must feature strong female leads, for instance. No damsels in distress. Inclusive and diverse is desirable, too. And I like my heroes to be as implausible as possible: super buff, super masculine, super roguish, but with a heart as soft as a bunny, a distinct preference for ball-bustingly intelligent women, and a talent for, shall we say, giving rather than getting.

So I read romance a lot, but I don’t read a lot of romance. It’s hard to find stories to my taste buried among all the usual romance tropes. I’m also still waiting for a romance storyline that doesn’t end in marriage and kids, even among the authors that I love.

I particularly avoid historical romance. It’s just too easy for even “strong” heroines of that subgenre to fall into one of those eye-rolling plot recipes, i.e. sweet, good woman saves the heart of brooding, dickish man. Plus, petticoats just seem more cumbersome than sexy.

But then I discovered Courtney Milan.

I’ve been home sick the last couple of days, and after getting bored of the usual SVU and NCIS marathons, I wanted to read something. Finding something to read when you’re sick is an interesting challenge. You have all that weird energy–that I’ve-been-lying-in-bed-for-days-and-now-I-feel-restless-but-every-time-I-stand-up-I-almost-fall-over kind of energy. I needed something appropriately vivacious but that didn’t require too much brain space, which is why I decided to leave The Bell Jar alone for a little bit longer. I began perusing some of my favorite book blogs and stumbled across rave reviews for a couple of Courtney Milan books on one of my favorite blogs. I figured, what the hell? And bought The Heiress Effect on my Kindle.

I read it plus Suffragette Scandal in just over twenty-four hours. Damn you, Courtney Milan, for smashing all of my expectations and sucking me into your historical romance cult.

There are still plenty of stereotype boxes checked, of course–the marriage thing being something that’s just unavoidable in a book set in Victorian England. But oh, my God, these books are feminist or something. And I’m not just talking about Free, the heroine of Suffragette Scandal, who is exactly the kind of ball-bustingly intelligent, glorious sort of woman I would beg to be friends with. I’m talking about the subversive nods to everything else–classism, racism, ableism, heterosexism–it’s all there. Dressed up in waistcoasts and corsets, sure, but there nonetheless.

I know that romance has a certain reputation, and a lot of “serious” bookworms would be ashamed to admit that they read it. While I don’t think we should be ashamed of it (I’m working that), Courtney Milan may be the answer to the dilemma. I mean, sure, there’s sex, but there’s also frank discussion about women’s rights, worker’s rights, etc. But steamy sex scenes with roguish yet sensitive men with great pecs don’t hurt, either.

Now excuse me while I crawl back into bed and finish reading Unveiled.