is a delight to read -- once you put aside the niggling nudges of common sense at the back of your head, and the desire to smack the protagonists' heads together. A healthy suspension of disbelief is a natural necessity upon venturing into the world of the Regency Romance, but especially so in a Heyer Regency Romance, where everything tangles up hilariously and resolves itself in such a ludicrously happy way reality rarely permits.
It comes to the wealthy Max Ravenscar's attention that his foolish young nephew is determined to marry a girl straight from a gaming house, and that simply will not do. So he takes it upon himself to be as much of an ass whilst paying her off, and of course, Deborah Grantham's pride flares up at this high-handed treatment. Though she doesn't intend to marry the boy in the slightest, Ravenscar's insulting behavior causes her to raise up a charade to teach him a lesson. In the course of events, there are vulgar masqueradings, kidnappings, curricle races, and of course, a mad wedding dash northwards.
How the lesson is taught, or how on earth they end up falling for each other, or really, how any of their harebrained plans are supposed to work is baffling, but the journey is what's important, isn't it? Because Faro's Daughter
is an outrageous, sparkling journey that hurtles along and drags you onwards with it. Misunderstandings abound. Deb and Max are delightfully stubborn and modern in their uncompromising ways (by which I mean to say fustian propriety isn't worth a damn to either of them, really). By the end of the book, I was completely hooked and it didn't matter to me that in real life, these two would probably be hurling lawyers at each other by the end of a year's marriage. I believed in Deb and Max, and hey, there have been odder couples.