Elinor meets Lohan, who is naturally intrigued because she’s somehow different and he needs a brand new source of amusement – admiring his penis in the mirror has become tad boring lately.
The money is running out, and when the story opens, Mommy Dearest manages to grab the last of the money to gambol in the Heavenly Host of Viscount Lohan. Anyway, our heroine Elinor Harriman lives in Paris with her younger sister and her crazed mother who is clearly suffering from dementia caused by syphilis. Ahem.īehold, people! Admire my fifty-inch prong that has seduced nuns, Sapphists, and the Pope and his entire hangers-on! How dare you ignore the way my prong is knocking on your luscious innocent petals! Open to me! Say hallelujah! By the way, I’m so much cooler than Jeff Buckley, don’t you think? It’s too funny – if a little depressing – that he manages to reach the ancient age of 39 without someone pointing out to him that his theatrics are best kept to the stage. “Are you really inured to temptation? I’ve managed to seduced nuns and Sapphists, and I’m unused to having my attempts ignored.” The world is a cesspit! And only he knows its secrets! And if he penetrates you with his secrets, he will think you are just another fool to succumb to his llama drama! Everything he does and says, right to the way he positions himself in a room, is calculated to show off how much of a cynical and debauched drama-llama he is. Who else resides in your household besides you and your mother?” He strolled over to the windows, looking out onto the early-morning landscape. “Don’t attempt to play games with me,” he said lazily. Why is he calling people “my child” and, later, “poppet”? Oh yes, because he’s a pretentious rear end of an emo llama, that’s what.
Let me get you a glass of wine and we can discuss this.” “Any woman in this house is a whore, my child. He styles himself the King of Hell, calls his orgies the Heavenly Host, and proclaims melodramatically that he has long decided that he is destined for hell. He has a permanent sneer on his gorgeous face, dripping with utmost contempt for his “followers” – debauched aristocrats who attend his Parisian orgies – and calling the women whom he had slept with whores. It is not a good sign when I burst into laughter the moment the hero, Francis Rohan, the Viscount Rohan, makes his appearance. I have not picked up her last few romantic suspense efforts because I didn’t like the direction she was heading toward, but curiosity compels me to pick up Ruthless, the first book in a brand new historical trilogy from this author. I think I have finally outgrown Anne Stuart’s books.
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