"Sounds like he's either a philosopher or a romantic"

There are many problems facing an aspiring romance fiction author. Secrets Uncovered offered assistance, reminding us that heroes must be men, heroines must be women, endings must be happy and words must describe things. Their aversion to external conflict was noted, but any writer hoping to fill a book's worth of paper with sentences might be trepidatious when faced with the prospect of turning boy-blackmails-girl into fifty-five to sixty thousand combinations of letters. Delaying one conversation for twelve chapters is a challenge for even the most skilled of story-teller, perhaps explaining why the most skilled of story-tellers tend to steer clear of romance fiction, but certain subgenres have found means to avoid flagging second acts by concentrating on things other than womanly dithering and manly T-shirt wearing. NASCAR has driving, Paranormal has werewolves, Spice has gratuitous sex and Suspense has suspense. Bewildered Heart has chosen to gloss over the inevitable combination of love and violence ever since the unusual punishment meted out by The Domino Effect, but Romance Suspense is big business, and a handful of the biggest names of the genre have joined forces for Dangerous Attraction, a box-set of novels containing everything from Christmas to terrorists to courageous pinnipeds working on battleships. Fans are greeted to all the traditions Romance is known for. The covers are adorned with models in states of undress, the titles are embarrassing and the synopses sound like parodies of what they actually are.

Who could resist Legal Ease by Lori Ryan, for those who enjoy their lawyer procedurals with a degree of comfort, or Fallen SEAL Legacy, a name not immediately indicative of romance? Three Days in Seattle appears to be cashing-in on Fifty Shades through geography, while Catching the Bad Guy is probably better than no title at all. If it is story-lines a reader is after then the Suspense subgenre has got them. Seeking more ambitious plots than a couple perfect for one another slowly realising they are perfect for one another, Suspense action-packs Romance's traditionally flimsy narratives with chases, fighting and military training. Look no further than Toni Anderson's The Killing Game, 'Forced to choose between his country and his heart, British SAS Soldier Ty Dempsey risks it all to save a wildlife biologist caught in the cross hairs of a ruthless killer.' Besides the angry growth of a murderer's follicles there seems little standing in the way of our prospective lovebirds here. Will Ty find a way to keep both his nationality and vital internal organs? Why are wildlife biologists so irresistible to enamoured suitors and the homicidally deranged?

Other novels take a similar approach, as masculine heroes bravely save attractive women from things attractive women should not be involved with. As further proof, how about Ignited by Kaylea Cross? 'Can sexy ex-SEAL Hunter Phillips keep Khalia safe from the terrorists who took her father's life?' Probably. After all, terrorists rarely succeed in romance novels, unless their objective is married life in the suburbs. For a twist on what has already become convention after only two examples there is Deathscape, which may sound like science-fiction, but instead is described thus, 'Detective Jack Sullivan will do anything to put Ashley in prison for her crimes… even if he's falling in love with her.' Even a Bewildered Heart-like knowledge of the genre will struggle to name many novels that conclude with the heroine sent to jail, but perhaps author Dana Marton has contrived a means to avoid a sequel made up of conjugal visits. Still, at least Deathscape includes a potentially burdensome obstacle for the characters to overcome, even if the resolution will likely involve an explanation that the synopsis was misleading.

The popularity of this action-adventure-romance hybrid has not gone unnoticed by Harlequin Mills & Boon either. They have several imprints dealing with danger and mystery, including Love Inspired Suspense and Intrigue. They both sound packed with excitement, mystery and romance, but which is more suitable for an aspiring author's manuscript about a fearless semi-aquatic mammal's amorous pursuit of a left-wing revolutionary on the grounds of Berkeley University during the 1970s? Mills & Boon describes Love Inspired Suspense as, 'Edge-of-the-seat, contemporary tales of intrigue and romance featuring Christian characters facing challenges to their faith… and to their lives.' Gosh, as if combining love and adventure wasn't demanding enough, Love Inspired insists on integrating religion into the drama. As a result of, 'a Christian worldview and wholesome values,' there is little fun to be had in the traditional sense. Gambling, drugs, alcohol, profanity, pre-marital sex and graphic violence are all forbidden for the hero and heroine, although it sounds as if the antagonists are allowed all manner of interesting hobbies. Yet without these typical means of seduction how is romance supposed to blossom?

The leads should be, 'Heroic, courageous, relatable characters faced with dangerous situations who'll triumph and find love.' Everyone can relate to heroism and courage, especially when embellished by a strong moral code inherited from Bible lessons, but who is this subgenre-specific hero? 'A man bound by loyalty and love. He is a fierce protector.' Protector of whom? The object of his affection, the damsel in distress? 'The heroine is no damsel in distress. She is an equal partner.' Oh, sorry. Together they must solve a mystery or battle a presumably secular conspiracy, with plenty of furtive glancing and innocent hand-holding. Despite the emphasis on Christianity authors are instructed to bring a level of subtlety to the dogmatic indoctrination genre writers consistently fail to bring to their story-telling. For those still confused, how about two poorly-chosen examples from the godless world of network television? 'Castle or Bones, for their solid suspense stories and romantic tension between the characters.' What would Bones be if the makers replaced the sex and graphic violence with Jesus? Who knows, but they would probably have the change the title.

Meanwhile, there is Harlequin Intrigue, an imprint that might deserve the vague-to-the-point-of-meaningless description Mills & Boon usually introduce their subgenres with. 'Crime stories tailored to the series romance market packed with a variety of thrilling suspense and whodunit mystery.' Gosh, such an enigmatic bunch of words are enough to arouse anyone's curiousity, but what do Intrigue editors look for in the hundreds of unsolicited submissions they receive every week? Traditionally, when merged Crime and Romance have walked uneasily through a pretty meadow before finding a corpse in a small clump of trees. The difficulty the novelist faces is in finding the balance between the two, placing an emphasis on developing the love story while simultaneously emphasising the crime element that drives the narrative while never forgetting that in Mills & Boon it is the romance that drives the narrative. There are multiple acts of illegality to centre the plot around, such as, 'Kidnappings, stalkings, women in jeopardy and murder.' It appears as if Intrigue offers rich potential for nerve-shedding thrills, visceral set-pieces and hot-blooded passion. What don't these books have? 'No graphic sexual details, explicit language or gratuitous violence.' These may be gripping adventures, but they are first and foremost love stories for the easily-offended.

The obligatorily North American hero and heroine must, 'Share a palpable physical and emotional attraction throughout.' Yet who are these attractive, but respectful, lovers courting delightfully who foil villains through soothing diplomacy? 'The hero is not afraid to break the rules in order to see justice done and to protect the innocent.' He sounds archetypal, while at least differing from the Love Inspired Suspense protagonist, who must play by the rules and leave justice-doing and innocence-protection to the big guy upstairs. Yet what about this innocent? Is this the object of his affection, the damsel-in-distress? 'The Harlequin Intrigue heroine is the no-nonsense, girl next door who may be caught up in dangerous circumstances.' Oh, good. She sounds likeable, yet flawed, and far from the frivolity-loving women about town found in Modern, or the self-determined ladies in blouses found in life. For those still confused, how about three oddly-chosen examples from the romance-hating world of action blockbusters? '24 for pacing, Justified for composition of the hero and Unknown for complex plot.' What would 24 be if the makers replaced the lone wolf and graphic violence with a loveable couple avoiding physical harm over a more appropriate time period? Who knows, but they would probably have to change the title.

Without studying the intricacies of the subgenre too closely the appeal of these imprints is self-explanatory. The sales numbers of Crime Thrillers make it impossible for publishers to resist the opportunity of crossing-over. The formula lends itself to romance, as two characters investigate and solve while their relationship intensifies organically between the lines. Certain examples have been reviewed here previously. MacKenzie's Promise struggled to integrate the love story with the kidnapping in a satisfying manner. Accidental Princess tacked on antagonistic threat as an amateurish afterthought. The Truth about the Tycoon seemed reluctant to follow through on its numerous subplots and The Domino Effect shouldn't really be considered a novel. Still, none of these titles belong to Intrigue or Love Inspired Suspense, yet their disastrous failings at inter-lacing their criminal element with their ultimate romantic objective are indicative of the problems awaiting an author aspiring to write for these imprints. Romance regularly struggles to credibly portray a couple falling in love even when they are married and one is pregnant with the others baby. How much more of a challenge would it be to work in his former life as a marine animal, a worldwide conspiracy, terrorism, pious devotion to the Lord and an admittedly slightly contrived helicopter chase while still maintaining a focus on his arrogance and her unresolved father issues?

“Can she really be falling in love with a man she doesn’t even know?”

For as long as romance fiction and Feminism have existed there has been a slightly unnecessary debate over whether the two are mutually exclusive. In previous times each side has been content to ignore the other, but this has proven unhelpful. Now there are weblogs such as Romance Novels for Feminists reclaiming the genre as worthy of scholarly examination. Outside the comforting bosom of Harlequin Mills & Boon there are feminist writers, readers and critics, but are they battling uphill and hopelessly to have romance taken seriously by the larger critical community? In regards to this, sociologist Elaine Wethington brought up the notion of Gentrification, and whether romance will ever be held in similar esteem to other genres, reviewed in reputable newspapers and discussed by academics on late night panel shows. Will romance, she wondered, ever be considered art? There are four sticking points that Wethington has worked to refute, but fortunately for her she has enjoyed a broader spectrum of reading material than Harlequin supplies. When concentrating solely on Mills & Boon those Bewildered Hearts struggling for recognition as cultural theorists are faced with obstacles so insurmountable if romantic hero and heroine were faced with such differences they would break up immediately and the novel would be over by chapter two. In order to quietly abandon this strained analogy let us study the four issues that are prevent the publisher from a high-brow world of intellectualism and espresso-drinking.

'Point 1: Romances are all the same' - This accusation is difficult to verify one way or any of the other ways. From the pro-romance standpoint it is obvious that their novels are not all the same. They have different titles, covers and authors. For example, The Sheikh's Forbidden Virgin is by Kate Hewitt, whereas Forbidden: The Sheikh's Virgin is by Trish Morey, yet a company releasing up to twenty books a month for close to one hundred years could surely be forgiven for occasional repetition. The specifics of the genre demonstrate its consistency and appeal. Now Mills & Boon has found its successful formula they would be foolish to add variety solely to appease dissenters. Nevertheless, even within the cosy confines of the publishing juggernaut there are numerous deviations from the norm. Sheikhs, after all, are not surgeons, unless they are sheikh surgeons, while even the most cursory research will show an inherent difference between the NASCAR and Medical™ subgenres, unless there is a crash and the charismatic, yet scarred, driver must be nursed back to health by a sensitive, yet beautiful, doctor with problems of her own. If romances are defined by their invariables, the same criticism could be levelled at more respectable genres such as crime novels, where a troubled detective solves a murder, or family sagas, where an elderly couple take a river cruise.

The constraints of the genre inform, 'Sticking Point 2. Romances are produced by publishers who demand conformity to a set formula, not by authors exercising full creativity' - Without complete freedom of the artist does their art deserve analysis? This attitude might appear snobbish, but it is instead contemptuous of mass production inhibiting personal expression. Food critics rarely write about microwave dinners from their local supermarkets and flatpack furniture does not feature in fine housekeeping magazines. Committee-made Hollywood blockbusters are not regarded in the same way as auteur-directed independents. Still, does Mills & Boon insist upon a rigid formula and frown upon experimentation? Do the restrictions of story and structure really impinge upon an author's creativity to the extent that they are merely inputting words into a company program, mindless drones churning out a standardized product? This is a disservice to romance authors, who retain a degree of dignity through the delusion of imagination as well as a disservice to the publisher, who constantly wish to remind everyone that there is no set formula. There are, however, rules it would be foolhardy to disobey, yet these guidelines have helped to create the familiarity that defines the brand. Furthermore, authors are offered freedoms to invent their own worlds, write in their own voice, name characters whatever they please, locate their stories wherever they choose and have their exotic billionaires hail from any corner of Earth; Greek, Brazilian, Spanish, Italian, it doesn't matter, just as long as they're Caucasian.

'Point 3: Romances promote a conservative message about male-female relationships' - Does the output of Mills & Boon conform to stereotypical displays of propaganda, persuading the public that married child-bearing is the apex of happiness? There can be little argument that the novels adhere to traditional views in this way. Although there are numerous different paths to matrimony, including, but probably not limited to, blackmail, surprise pregnancy, eyelashes, mistaken identity, inopportune fainting and revenge, the only acceptable reason for any action is in the ultimate pursuit of a wedding. Yet romance novels wish to be romantic. Without romance they would simply be novels and novels are not nearly as popular as romance novels. Either the market generated the aspiration or the aspiration formed the story-telling structure. Going by the historical high points of the literary genre an expert can ascertain that Mills & Boon is not entirely responsible for propagating the belief that love and marriage go together like a wheeled vehicle drawn by horse and the aforementioned animal responsible for its momentum. The romance genre of today, with its colour-coordinated covers, suggestive titles and lazy clichés, has tapped into basic human desires for financial purposes. The books push the pursuit of romantic love onto readers who are either married with children or on their way to marriage and children. By glorifying a life choice already prioritised Mills & Boon fortifies its audience's value system, offering a fanciful remedy for the complexities of living.

For a supposedly purposefully apolitical publisher a commitment to promoting traditional lifestyles might seem incongruous, yet romance cannot be exempt from cerebral appraisal due to perceived political leanings. Still, these are genuine reasons to worry, as Wethington notes. 'Romance novels encourage women toward views that reinforce gender inequality... and readers are subconsciously attracted to a latent message that subverts feminism.' Ignorance is not a meaningful defence, and Mills & Boon have encountered criticism such as this on many previous occasions, but they remain determined to do little about it. How high or low the esteem in which the company is held might be irrelevant to profits, but the reputations of themselves and their loyal customers are significant. As Wethingon concludes, '(Critics) equate opposition to academic feminism and enjoyment of sex scenes as indicative of a lack of education. Hence, they find it difficult to accept that even the best romance novels can rise to the level of acceptable popular art.' Therefore, intelligence is wasted on reading romance, and even more so on in-depth analysis. This is quite a knock to Bewildered Heart's confidence and we still have a fourth point to discuss. How else can critics insult romance fans, by subtly insinuating they are all perverts?

'Point 4: Romances are borderline pornography' - No matter how badly romance feels it has been treated by a dismissive cultural elite, it can take solace in having greater artistic value than whatever the cultural elite deem pornography to be. The thinking is understandable. Sex without quality is pornographic and romance novels are without artistic merit, for the Sticking Points previously outlined. Yet because it is unlikely anyone reads Mills & Boon solely for titillation the books can only be described as borderline pornography, due to the fact that they contain levels of sexual content ranging from explicit to light petting. In this case, the borderline the critics have noted separates what is pornographic and what is non-pornographic, with Mills & Boon caught without definition between the two. Thus millions of novels wait to be claimed, read and critiqued, either by erotica scholars or the term someone should invent for people who study and judge the heavier stuff. Why does Harlequin feel that euphemisms are a fundamental element of the genre? Is their target readership uneducated and liable to enjoy such things? Sales of Fifty Shades speak volumes and while sex is emblematic of the power struggle that shaped the story much of the word count spent describing exquisite thrusting was narratively redundant. Yet despite their commercial displays of gratuity, romance writers take a careful approach to carnal relations, using sex scenes to further plot and deepen intimacy. Fearmongers have claimed only 11.5% of Harlequin Romances feature contraception, but this is a misleading statistic, failing to acknowledge that many novels do not feature sex, culminate in surprise pregnancy or belong to the accuracy-obsessive Historical imprint, except in the case of The Carpenter's Virgin Bride, which features all three.

By interpreting the assumed prejudices of the non-existent what can an internet blogger make of the continued isolation of romance fiction, left in the cold to await the unlikely but inevitable arrival of a tycoon carrying a coat? The spirit among readers is positive and progressive, believing romance belongs to feminists and public perception will improve with time, although the cross-over successes have not recently shown the genre in a flattering light. For all that has changed, with hero and heroine meeting on equal footing, him learning from her, she enjoying a career as a professional chef, wedding organiser or secretary, there remains demand for Cinderella fantasies, demure virgins and leading men who take control or, failing that, at least offer money. Are these kinds of romances and feminism mutually exclusive? It might appear so, but the market is enormous and varied enough for this schism to exist. Does the embrace of equality spell the end for captive brides, blackmailed mistresses, convenient wives and less-than-professional housekeepers? So much of the genre has dated poorly and is viewed now with a mixture of embarrassment and shame. When the books being produced today are met with a similar reaction it is difficult to imagine the opinions of a future, which will either be more enlightened or more narrow-minded, and that will depend, albeit only a little, on Harlequin's next move.

"That man was no more a devout Catholic than the dog that begged for scraps at the kitchen door"

During the down time between reading novels and drinking Bewildered Heart scours the headlines for interviews, competitions, medical research and university papers as inspiration and something to write about. In the ever-expanding mass of nothingness later renamed the World Wide Web a day rarely goes by without a baseless accusation, some outrageous opinion or a tired retread of conventional wisdom to tide us over until this weblog can add to the ever-expanding mass of nothingness you, dear reader, are wasting time on at this very moment. Recently, however, keyword searches and Google alerts have not offered much in the way of excitement. However, a recurring theme has developed and, when faced with few alternatives, a recurring theme has to be considered enough. Diana, a biopic of the Princess of Wales, was released and critics everywhere decided that no review could be complete without a reference to Mills & Boon, inundating the Bewildered Heart inbox with antipathy and photographs of Naomi Watts smiling. The storyline of the movie appears to have all the elements considered vital for a conventional romance. There is a beautiful princess, a dashing surgeon and plenty of conflict to threaten their coupling. Yet the critical savaging is not aimed at the scenario, it is based on a supposedly true story, after all, but rather the narrative treatment.

Diana has been reviewed variously as, 'a Mills and Boon with worse dialogue, a doctor and princess book from the Mills & Boon stable, a Mills & Boon-esque misfire, let down by the Mills & Boon-level script, with syrupy sentiment Mills & Boon might reject for being too cloying, and a heroine with a weakness for speaking in Mills & Boon, while events plod a Mills-and-Boon, low-brow and soapy path, playing out like a Mills & Boon romance, with history receiving a full Mills & Boon makeover.' So much for minimising word repetition. Despite this overwhelming barrage The Guardian newspaper disagreed. 'The movie isn't so much Mills & Boon as a horrendous Fifty Shades of Grey with the S&M sex taken out,' they countered, neglecting to notice that Fifty Shades without the S&M sex is Mills & Boon. What can it mean for a brand name to become synonymous with artistic atrocity? Such a calamity befalls Harlequin every so often, as a novel, film, song or heartfelt declaration is criticised for displaying the qualities indicative of the publisher. Is this fair to the likes of Diana and Mills & Boon, their admirers and their detractors? Is this lazy journalism, offering soundbites without evidence or context? Is the use of Mills & Boon in place of an adjective harmful to any hope Harlequin may have of redeeming its reputation?

For a fan of the numerously aforementioned company the backlash aimed at Diana does not make for pretty reading. Fortunately, fans of the numerously aforementioned company are not accustomed to pretty reading. Nevertheless, what can be made of these critiques, besides the obvious insinuation that Diana might be a film to avoid? The use of Mills & Boon as a signifier suggests that the related work is traditionally romantic, predictable and sentimental. The connotations, however, are entirely negative. Even without having read anything from the Harlequin canon any observer will have had their expectations dampened. Devourers of Mills & Boon might be reluctant to flock to a screening of Diana, even though it sounds like an adaptation of their ideal novel. Still, they should bear in mind from real life that their prerequisite happy ending will probably not be forthcoming. More fool the critics, as romance is the most successful genre in literature, boding well for box-office receipts. Still, the implication is unequivocal. Diana is a failure of a film, so bad it is the cinematic equivalent of Mills & Boon. Given sales, however, shouldn't Mills & Boon-esque by an aspiration instead of a depth only the truly inept can plumb? To say something is like Mills & Boon calls for a singular, and agreed upon, definition, but critics have used the term as a shorthand for mushy sentiment, insipid dialogue and indulgent lighting. There is good romantic fiction and then there is Mills & Boon.

A recent interview with Abby Green in the Irish Independent attempts to challenge some of the clichés the public associates with the publisher. Her novels, belonging to the Modern imprint, deal in dark subject matter including rape, sex trafficking, bi-polar disorders and false accusations of rape. Titles such as In Christofide's Keeping and Forgiven But Not Forgotten? are far removed from the likes of The Queen's Nine Month Scandal, Mistress to the Merciless Millionaire, The Brazilian's Blackmail Bargain and The Mediterranean Billionaire’s Blackmail Bargain, which are, admittedly, also by Abby Green. Still, there is more to Mills & Boon than extortion so affordable you would be a fool to pass it up. Anything goes, according to the author, albeit within reason. It is not as if anything goes.  'Nothing is forbidden, but you have to be aware of what interests the readers,' she explains. There is a threshold of what an audience will tolerate, although this uncrossable moral line Green speaks of seems to have been personally marked and based on rationality rather than research. Thus, gay romances are excluded, at least until homosexuals are in the majority, while paedophiles are unsuitable for the role of hero due to their lack of attraction towards the archetypal heroine. Interviewer Mary Kenny offers a handful of sentences in defence of Green's backers. Novels are grittier and more sexually explicit than they used to be, while heroines are typically portrayed as independently-minded young women with careers and contentment in singledom. Nevertheless, endings remain conservative and, 'Despite the advance of equality heroes still tend to be dominant Alpha-males and heroines feminine.'

If Green is right to believe her stories embrace female empowerment this has not been translated into a coherent market strategy. Ruthlessly Bedded, Forcibly Wedded will do little to improve the image of the business, with its tawdry tale of revenge, unexpected pregnancy and innocent heroine manipulated in an exotic location. Taboo-busting adult themes will mean nothing unless they are handled with maturity and insight. Otherwise, concepts such as sexual abuse and mental illness will feel tactlessly included for some unwarranted edge. As Green and Kenny both note, Harlequin is acutely aware of its market and is driven by reader demand. Fairy-tales, brooding masculinity, glamorous locales and incredible wealth are all sought and delivered as a means of escape from the drudgery of everyday living. Darker subject matter either does not belong or is not wanted. It would appear that the unfavourable inferences of the name Mills & Boon have been well-earned and the company show no signs of changing. However, if there are romantic fiction lovers who have wearied of fantasy, virginal heroines and happy endings, but still seek the amateurish standards of writing they are familiar with, critics everywhere agree that there is a film apparently made especially for them, as long as they exit theatres twenty minutes early. Meanwhile, for those hoping for a disappointing conclusion, as always, Bewildered Heart has you covered.

"If Jane Austen had written a book set in a castle off the coast of France"

When we last checked in on Princess Sophie Baldwin for the latest gossip we found her tumultuous life had taken a turn for the turbulent. She and teenage daughter Savannah had decamped to a sovereign island nation to assume their rightful places on the throne after decades in North Carolinian exile. While Savannah's exploits will surely be told in several year's time as another St. Michel romance, potentially entitled Accidental Daughter, Sophie's time is now, and not just because several foreigners are either trying to sleep with her, murder her or offer her shiny headwear. No, there is nothing quite like God-given authority over a well-populated dominion, and the love of a handsome man, to give someone their groove back. Sophie had led a weary existence as ludicrously dressed doormat due to Frank's mistreatment, her adoptive parent's betrayal, her real family's choice of either abandonment or death, her daughter's impertinence, Mary's snobbery and Laura dying. Thus, she has truly suffered for her shot at superiority. One might have assumed that ruling a kingdom would see an end to her troubles, but disaster seems to follow Sophie as closely as her security detail.

Once she has landed and partaken in splendour, the machinations are in place to seal her discreditation. Several inappropriate trysts with the evil Vicomte Yves de Vaugirard sully her reputation and reveal to the world's media that she is in fact the daughter of Princess Sylvie and rock legend Nick Morrison. One might have assumed that this would be the end of her troubles, but there is still the problematic matter of a decades long Founteneau Curse to consider, as well as the mutual physical longing that has consumed the thoughts of Sophie and part-time Oliver Martinez impersonator Luc Lejardin, who isn't the most competent bodyguard at the best of times. Sophie invites her shy yet likeable maid, Adéle and her mother, Marie, to the castle for tea and awkwardly translated conversation. Marie previously worked as Sylvie's most loyal and obsessive assistant, and confesses that when the plane crashed Nick and the Princess were headed on their honeymoon, having been married in a small French village. Does this change anything? Not exactly, because Sophie had already been scandalously born and remains illegitimate, but the revelation elicits a minor response from Luc possibly signifying meaning.

With the numerous subplots established and one hundred and eighty pages filled with words, Thompson is able to pen the final chapter. There is much to resolve and neither the time nor the talent to do so satisfactorily. First up, there's the business of Sophie's claim to her title, which can be challenged on the grounds that her parents were unwed. Fortunately, they were married. Did anyone mention Luc's brother, Alex, is a lawyer who has been studiously scanning the Constitution for legal loopholes? No? Well, he is and he was. What about ex-husband, Frank, and his demands to see his daughter more often than the reader does? This afterthought of an inconvenience is dealt with in a single sentence, as nebulous external conflicts should be. Frank is paid off and invited over whenever he wants. As for Luc's concerns about his besmirched family name and lowly commoner status, this is settled simply by pretending no one had brought it up to begin with. Plot points are resolved in one paragraph of good news, better news and best news, and inevitable love-making follows, as Luc and Sophie fuse into one, although the author rather skimps on salacious detail. There is no time for euphemisms for body parts, not when there are crimes to solve and crimes to prevent.

Speaking of which, how is Luc's investigation going? As the population of the island consists of himself, the King and two other people, Luc manages to narrow his list of suspects down to two. Having patiently waited until after his best friend had been murdered, Luc installs informants in the de Vaugirard household where homicidal schemes are hatched with such Gallic arrogance that staff are invited to listen and offer criticism. Oh, you foolish de Vaugirard's, your secretive and successful killing spree has been uncovered by your lack of secrecy. Yet, despite the damning evidence of countless witnesses, Luc and the King still do not have enough evidence to convict the pair, perhaps because the St. Michel police and court system are inept and open to bribes. Therefore a plan is concocted to lure a hired assassin into the open at the New Year's Eve Ball. Despite the danger, the St. Michel New Year's Ball is something of a tradition and the King isn't about to let threats upon his or his granddaughter's life get in the way of a good party. Still, mannequins are to be dressed and stood on a distant balcony to draw the gunfire. Suddenly and without drama two shots ring out, and, obviously fearing the end, Luc throws his massive body on Sophie's. How did the de Vaugirard's know of the decoy trick? That hardly seems important. What does seem important is not lingering on anything narratively influential.

Thompson skips forward a few days to find Luc and Sophie driving up towards St. Ezra, where Princess Sylvie was wed, to find the necessary documentation proving her legitimacy. King Bertrand was saved by his trusty bulletproof vest. The assassin and Daddy de Vaugirard are behind bars, although Son de Vaugirard escaped. Nevertheless, Sophie is plagued by doubts about her future, and wishes to return to North Carolina with Savannah and Luc in tow. Her lover fixes this fleeting crisis with a similar series of clichés that must have worked on Amanda, because Sophie decides to stay where the money, power and happiness is. All is well, but what's that? Yves de Vaugirard? Awaiting them with a loaded gun? How did he know they would be there? That hardly seems important. What does seem important is disarming him with the minimal amount of tension. Luc takes a bullet to the shoulder and Sophie headbutts the villain. The first headbutt in Mills & Boon history? It seems likely in a world where kisses tend to be spectacular. A cursory epilogue wraps things up as merrily as possible. The murderers are jailed, the hero and heroine are engaged, Savannah is probably all right, the King lives, Luc is redeemed from the scandal only he was aware of and any subplots Thompson forgot about can't have been significant. Everybody loves a wedding. The End.

For all its failings as a romance, and the many deficiencies that prohibit it from working as a mystery thriller, Accidental Princess also misfires as a fairytale. Nancy Robards Thompson is unable to create an atmosphere of wonder to make for a traditional story, while an absence of either wit or insight keeps her contemporary twist clear of subversion. By allowing her heroine moments of clarity she calls attention to the incredulity of the plotting. Despite the world outside intruding hungrily on the idealised island neither St. Michel nor North Carolina are convincing. The characters are too poorly-drawn to perceive events in a credible manner and the novel falls flat around a limp heroine and hackneyed obstacles. With little in the way of internal conflict the plot relies on the supposedly frowned-upon device of external threats. The magnitude of the situation relegates romance to a subplot and fails to differentiate between Sophie's courtship and her regal ascension. Accidental Princess takes a haphazard approach to politics, concluding that unelected Plutocracy works for everyone so long as the oligarchs are nice. As events culminate in farcical crime-fighting Sophie's attempt to redistribute the wealth while retaining all the power and luxury are forgotten, although a Christmas toy drive is tacked on for no worthwhile reason. Her work in social services and initial disagreement with de Vaugirard over just how revolting poor people are become trite indications of Sophie's humanity, and are wasted instead of developed into a moral dilemma as she learns about her new home's systematic inequality.

To bulk out proceedings Thompson introduces several attractive characters for the benefit of a franchise. Luc has two gorgeous, charming and wealthy brothers, while Sophie calls her confidante, the beautiful and single Lindsey (Linds to her friends. Hi, Linds!), ostensibly to learn that Laura's death was an accident, and not suicide, thus absolving Sophie of guilt. Linds, Henri and Alex each later enjoyed their own surprise riches, secret babies and designer shoes with Accidental Heiress, Accidental Father and Accidental Cinderella joining Accidental Princess in a series based around a theme of inadvertency. The first of the series also marked Thompson's debut for Harlequin Mills & Boon, although the publishers repackaged the novel for a Special Moments 2-in-1 alongside Stacy Connelly's Once Upon a Wedding, as a tenuously-linked pair of underwhelming modern fairytales. The publisher's patronage of Thompson is difficult to fathom, as Accidental Princess has the lazy plotting, clumsy prose and laboured setpieces of a seasoned professional coasting on legacy. Authors with several titles behind them have struggled to skillfully combine a standard romance with a dramatic b-story, as The Domino Effect and MacKenzie's Promise prove. Therefore we can perhaps forgive Thompson's indiscretion as foolish ambition. Attempting a cross-genre Mills & Boon just sees a writer offer two disappointments where there should have been one, although if we were to count Once Upon a Wedding on top then that would make three disappointments.

"Obviously new or at least not thirty-three years old"

Bewildered Heart has always maintained the belief that Bewildered Heart is superior to all the other weblogs on this here internet, but until recently we lacked the statistical evidence to prove it. Thankfully those scientific types at Canada's York University have banded together to ponder the significance of people's reading preferences and whether what they read says anything about their personality. The catchy title all psychological studies see as a must have read as, What You Read Matters: The Role of Fiction Genre in Predicting Interpersonal Sensitivity, and appeared recently in the journal Psychology of Aesthetics, Creativity and the Arts, an essential journal for those that way inclined. Unfortunately for those that way inclined a PDF of their findings will set you back a hefty twelve dollars, but the money conscious can find succinct analytical breakdowns at places such as The Atlantic, where Julie Beck has offered an explanation for anyone either cheap or inattentive. While the former might want to stop frittering away their income on romance novels, as it turns out the latter might wish to improve their interpersonal sensitivity by reading romance novels.

According to The Encyclopedia of Human Relationships, 'Interpersonal sensitivity can refer to both how well one reads other people and how appropriately one responds.' Reading involves both verbal, including the pitch and rhythm of the voice, and non-verbal communication, such as facial expressions, postures and gestures. The key question for readers of Harlequin Mills & Boon concerns whether or not a history of enjoying romance fiction will, 'provide a distinctive conceptual framework through which readers construct meaning about the social world.' There are few reasons to read trite tales of true love besides the betterment of the self through emotional learning. Has Katrina Fong, and her team of trusty Canadians, found conclusive proof that reading Fifty Shades of Grey makes you an enlightened and insightful milksop, rather than the lonely pervert all logic suggests you are?

To reach the answers a rational person might have guessed the boffins first gathered together a group of 328 willing participants, 258 of which were women, and asked them to identify authors from a series of twenty-five names. The list consisted of non-fiction and fiction writers, along with other names summoned from the imagination. To simplify matters further, four fiction genres were selected, and they were domestic fiction, romance, sci-fi fantasy and suspense thrillers. Following that a personality test was carried out, in order to uncover any significant characteristics that might suggest there is more to sensitivity than literature consumption. The central part of the methodology involved showing black and white photographs of eyes and asking the contributors to recognise the expression from a multiple choice of mental states. The results were hardly surprising. While fiction readers showed more interpersonal sensitivity than non-fiction readers the romance lovers tested higher than fans of the other genres. Does this mean reading romance novels puts you in touch with your feelings, or do highly emotional people simply prefer romance novels due to the dramatic nature of the stories? Thankfully, those running the experiment have no idea either, while Julie Beck figures that the truth lies somewhere inbetween.

There are a handful of estimations one could gleam from the statistics. For example, is it possible that regardless of reading habits females are more empathetic than males? After all, predominantly it is women who read romance novels. The results of previous studies dictate that romance-reading women are likely to be more interpersonally sensitive than the men who traditionally read sci-fi fantasy and the rollicking adventures of seven foot tall ex-military private detectives who solve crimes through a combination of grunting and violence. Still, this conclusion relies heavily on generalisations and prejudice, and if those were able to create irrefutable evidence there would be no need for science at all. The authors of What You Read Matters do end on an epiphany of sorts. 'It may be that the emotional experiences evoked by romance novels lead to rumination on past relationship experiences… perhaps encouraging readers to puzzle out the complexities of their own past romantic relationships. This thoughtful introspection might then be usefully applied to new social interactions.' While this is possibly correct, meaning and benefit continue to prove elusive. Are these conclusions nebulous enough to render the entire endeavour redundant? This appears to be a more worthwhile question. There appears to be only the most flimsy reasoning behind the notion that following words on a page might assist in the distinguishing of emotional states from pictures of eyes.

The full report may offer more indepth insights, but the sensible supposition is that readers tending towards compassion and human interest will seek out romances for their emotional conflicts and happy resolutions. Crucially for Bewildered Hearts though, the study failed to differentiate between the various subgenres of romance fiction, and the varying degree in quality that sees romance as a genre ranges from classic Jane Austen to the likes of Bedded at the Billionaire's Convenience or Taken by the Sheikh. For genuine interest in relationships there is a more pertinent and compelling source of entertainment than Mills & Boon where characters are familiar archetypes, the stories are predictable and the writing is lifeless and shallow. You would hope that the truly empathetic would tire of such formulaic nonsense all too quickly. Meanwhile, for someone desiring to improve upon their interpersonal sensitivity there are entertainment sources with greater gravitas and emotional range than Mills & Boon, and so they, like the rest of us, would be wasting their time treating what Harlequin provides as educational material. Nevertheless, no matter how the findings of York University are analysed What You Read Matters is another positive argument for romance, which in turn is another positive argument for Bewildered Heart being superior to every other blog on this here internet.

"An action that could've been interpreted as unintentional... or not"

Those weblog devotees who can remember starting Accidental Princess will certainly want to forget reading it. We left Sophie Baldwin in the crux of a life-changing dilemma, putting aside all reason to decide on either changing her life or keep it chugging along aimlessly. There was little to recommend the latter, only her teenage daughter's inevitable pregnancy would someday break the tedium of working and occasionally living. There was, however, something about the alternative offer of taking on the royal duties of a small Mediterranean island. All the umming and ahhing in the world proved unable to make Sophie decisive and therefore within a few pages of chapter four her mind had been made up for her, through a combination of important men and God, perhaps the most important man of all. Initially Nancy Robards Thompson seemed to suggest Sophie's choice was something of an agonising philosophical conundrum, but within moments of intriguing her readers with three chapters of thinking and back-story she resolved to wrap things up as abruptly as possible. After all, who would say no to becoming an European princess and why would those who would say no be reading a Mills & Boon Special Moments Romance entitled Accidental Princess?

Well, due to her career in the social services Sophie cannot simply abandon North Carolina to live on a fictional island. She has obligations to her clients, such as fraught single mother Laura Hastings, and possibly others with names of their own. Somewhat fortunately for everyone involved Laura kills herself, landing her four young children in something of a quagmire, but completely freeing up Sophie's Tuesday afternoon. Still, there is more to life on the east coast than work. What about her spawn and those two strangers who masqueraded for decades as her parents? Savannah cannot decamp to another country, not with school, her father and a first boyfriend to contend with. Somewhat fortunately Sophie's ex-husband is a jerk, Tick reconciles with a former flame and the school denies ever having a student named after a city, completely freeing up Savannah's life. Meanwhile, parenthood is tricky, and made especially tough with no natural bond between adult and child. When considered on these terms, all the betrayal and dishonesty in the world cannot overshadow the selfless act of devotion Rose and John showed by feeding and misleading Sophie across those thirty-odd years. Thus, with details such as organising emigration glossed over, Princess Sophie and Princess Savannah jet off to someplace even the most cursorary research would have told them only exists in the imagination of a geographically-confused author.

Never mind glaring plot flaws though, because regality is tremendous. Sophie and Savannah are indulged, waited upon and given expensive gifts that aren't even real yet, including a super-cool cellular phone that makes the iPhone look like a cinder block with numbers drawn on. Flashy gadgets and luxurious bedding are used primarily to disguise the lack of emotional development in the characters. Luxury appears to appease the mother and daughter, as they recover from the shock of their overnight success. Still, it is not all pillows made of puppies and castles filled with candy, because the thought does occur to Sophie that her biological mother perished as a teenager, her biological father was a rock and roll legend and her adoptive parents are nothing more than fawning imposters who raised her in deceitful poverty. Still, nothing really matters in the face of Luc's haughty handsomeness, which is used primarily to disguise the lack of credibility in Sophie's personality. The novel supposes that the mutual attraction that develops between hero and heroine overcomes the shakiness of the narrative. Nevertheless, this manages to be more convincing than the single stumbling block standing in the way of their union, the class system. Luc is acutely aware that his disgraced family name leaves him in no position to woo a princess without it appearing as ungentlemanly social climbing. Sophie, meanwhile, is from the far more enlightened United States, and she won't let tradition tell her who she can and can't sleep with.

To let the proverbial gremlin loose in the proverbial system, Robards Thompson remembers to introduce the subplot involving someone murdering the king's family in a bid to claim the throne. Who could it be? Luc, the comically inept head of security? The King? Sophie? Savannah? What about the conceited St. Michelian who hates everyone and is hungry for power? Possibly that last one, but whoever knows isn't telling, and so the fairytale continues with several elements that clearly don't belong in a fairytale. Snooty, middle-aged Vicomte Yves De Vaugirard and his less significant father, Comte Pascal De Vaugirard, are dismayed to learn of a secret love child and an unconstitutional attempt to make her queen. Before turning to his trusted method of murder-to-look-like-accident the elitist villain and the evil mouse that lives in his pocket make a much more innocent play at discrediting Sophie, through a combination of kissing and photography. The public relations nightmare that enfolds only drives Sophie into the grateful arms of Luc Lejardin, who had until then been keeping his distance, unable as he is to control his passionate manhood around royal women. With that Chapter eleven ends with the promise of lip-locking, death-defying and subplot-forgetting.

Casual misogyny, trite political moralising and offensive stereotyping briefly enliven proceedings, but besides that Accidental Princess is largely a disappointment and whatever the opposite of entertainment is. Secrets Uncovered would argue that while situations need not be believable for romantic fantasy the reactions of the characters must be credible to keep the scenario tethered to reality. Nancy Robards Thompson's downfall comes from a protagonist too swept up in wonderment to make the necessary decisions to bring about dramatic resolution. She spends her time asking why her, and the majority of her thoughts tend towards Luc, either thanking the heavens he is beside her or asking the heavens where he has got to. This is necessary, of course, given the genre's demands for a love story, but there seems to be greater need for the plotting and fleshing out of the troubled daughter, decades long murdering and the throne ascension, the things the novel has included as background colour. While optimistic hopes that these strands can be brought together for a satisfying finale border on the delusional, readers have the right to expect that Thompson would not have included a mass of detail without the intention of later remembering what it was.

The politics of St. Michel are discreetly hidden behind a wall of confused understandings of how countries exist. The island appears to be an autocracy, running on a form of an unelected elitism, which seems to have suited everyone for centuries. The people are peons to the royal family and while nearly everyone is somehow financially resplendent Sophie does hear of small pockets of poverty from the pampered lips of an unelected elitist. Needing a mission to keep from appearing the ineffectual figurehead she is supposed to be, Sophie discovers the socialist principles all Americans are taught and reveals her nobility by learning her servants names and ordering them not to work on Thanksgiving. What's Thanksgiving, they ask? You're welcome, she smiles, not as their boss but as their equal. While this does call to mind her sterling social work in North Carolina the narrative has no interest in righting societal wrongs, and includes this fleeting attempt to redistribute wealth as a means to reiterate Sophie's kindness. This is hardly helpful to an already crowded plot, but with everything so easily solvable Robards Thompson should be able to fix Savannah, bring a killer to justice, wed Sophie to Luc, give the serfs a decent wage and bring democracy to St. Michel, thus abolishing the Monarchy and allowing Sophie the quiet married life she always wanted. As always, Bewildered Heart reads on, endeavouring against our better judgement to find out what we already know.

“Fresh air in this climate of women who would stop at nothing to get what they want”

Last time on Bewildered Heart, over a glass of Chardonnay and an episode of Mistresses, we discussed the nature of guilty pleasures. The not entirely recent invention of the MIRA imprint has thrown critical assessments of Mills & Boon into jeopardy. After all, how does a Bewildered Heart analyse an ever-changing body of work that responds to disapproval and reacts to progress? MIRA is not completely at odds with the historical canon of the genre, and the majority of Harlequin's product is uniformly indistinguishable, although the coloured covers are a clue to the superficial differences between subgenres. With certain hip twists such as the introduction of teenagers, vampires, ethnics and NASCAR drivers, there is a danger that Romance could become heralded for its diversity, when instead the entire collection of books, across every imprint and from every author, should be defined by their political and narrative consistencies.

The typical scenario sees an alpha male meet a beta female and after however many pages of sex and hand-wringing they live happily after. This has been accepted and unchallenged for a century of unbridled success, and the romance genre had not exactly been struggling before the advent of Mills & Boon. From the viewpoint of behavioural psychologists there is a question of just how much of Mills & Boon's output is reactionary. Women think about weddings and babies, so why not cater to these passions? The company cannot be blamed for finding an untapped market and exploiting its common interest for financial gain. The audience existed before the business, after all. MIRA has given its readers a little more credit by noting that women also like shopping and celebrities, but this is perhaps not quite the feminist victory it at first appears. Harlequin's push for sexual equality is purely market driven, and that may explain their patient wait before they tackle other inequalities, including race and sexuality. There being a separate African-American imprint seems inherently racist. Yet if the publisher is reluctant to lead the way then their role is to adapt to the readership.

However, critics contend readers have been reduced to passive consumers, preferring familiar formulas and classic gender roles. Therefore, romance purveyors are leading the market they created and continue to manipulate. Within this vacuum how can social and artistic progress be achieved? Were Mills & Boon to be specified as a guilty pleasure their failure to engage in public discourse and confront regressive hegemonies would explain away those feelings of shame among readers, writers and publishers. Yet the state of affairs their stories establish and strengthen only help the company on its financial ascent. For Harlequin to maintain its success a vulnerable, passive following could be seen as necessary, and over the years subversion and intelligence have disappeared from the product. Even the supposedly upmarket MIRA offers intellectually-undemanding, superficially engaging stories of celebrity scandal that empower the social and economic status quo. Gender roles are not disputed, the wealthy are romanticised and the world is depoliticised in the name of love.

Romance novels by their very nature explore identity, happiness and relationships. The Mills & Boon world, the one their characters exist in, is alien yet not unrecognisable from our own. Suffering does occur, albeit in back-story, while poverty is a childhood affliction overcome by adulthood without leaving scars. Resentment might linger, but when all billionaires are hard-working, self-made, philanthropic and charming any anger soon disappears. Love solves socio-economic problems and corporations are embodied by a gorgeous male face with the public's best interests at heart. Examples exist in the small sample of books reviewed on this site, from One Night with the Rebel Billionaire to The Billionaire's Housekeeper Mistress, to the likes of Fifty Shades of Grey, where the money-driven control freak hero really just wants to feed the world and cuddle monogamously.

In their analysis of book titles Anthony Cox and Maryanne Fisher viewed the glorification of wealth in evolutionary terms. A rich husband and father is a better provider than a poor one, and in romantic fantasies, as well as life, money is preferable to insolvency. The classic formula tends to show the hero as a man at the peak of his powers, having conquered every aspect of life, with only family eluding him. His idealisation requires he be bestowed with desirable qualities such as determination, passion, muscle definition, intelligence, head hair, detail orientation, creativity and time management skills, all needed in the successful pursuit of a mate and, possibly coincidentally, suitable for a captain of industry. However, for a publisher to constantly value material assets so highly, while carefully ignoring poverty, greed and the harmful effects of capitalism, must surely strike readers as incongruous. Is it really necessary for love stories to argue wealth as a cornerstone of happiness?

Romances are typically centred on a heroine being courted by a hero. Occasionally we see a reversal, if the heroine can know what she wants while remaining likeable. Mostly, however, lovers are pulled together against their wills by cosmic destiny and the sheer overwhelming force of physical beauty. This dissolves characters of credibility, but it does give credence to Mills & Boon's prevailing philosophy that love matters most and transcends colour, creed, politics and religion. Love is the reason for humanity's being and relatively important in its continued survival. Bearing this in mind, should art concerning love be ridiculed to the degree it is? Harlequin’s attitude towards its product undermines the objectives of Secrets Uncovered to improve quality. Writing guides and blog posts merely serve to encourage and inspire new writers to flood the market with more manuscripts and sate the public's desire for more of the same. Big sellers such as Fifty Shades and Twilight do not appear to challenge any notions that readers are tired of Mills & Boon and want better writing, more original structures or rounded characters.

Whether Mills & Boon works as propaganda is not as important a concern as the obvious problem of them continually failing as fiction. The alpha hero and virginal heroine archetypes are restrictive both socially and in terms of narrative. The limitations on plot and character keep authors from expanding the possibilities of form. Intent is immaterial, and not a valid counter-argument for novelists claiming their work is apolitical. The refusal to question and explore social concerns is an implicit endorsement of the world as it is. Authors straddle motivations ranging from ignorance to contentment, claiming that now feminism has allowed for marriage, motherhood and romance novels to be choices the movement has achieved as much as it needs to. The genre may desire to be escapist fantasy, far-removed from reality and thus disconnected from political struggle, but this is a convenient and misguided rationalisation. The refusal to engage with progressive thinking can be seen as willful blindness to injustice or a preference for indecent stories of female subjugation dressed up as idealistic fairytales and sold to women as harmless entertainment. The amount of damage done is debatable. After all, the argument over violence in movies seems unlikely to be satisfactorily resolved. While the effect on readers is tricky to prove the intention of the publishers is curious, especially given the unique nature of Mills & Boon as genre authorities.

“That fight to change the world had become an uphill battle”

In the United States the largely inconsequential television channel ABC has begun airing Mistresses, a faithful remake of a British show of the same name. Nothing more than a melodramatic recreation of Sex and the City with soap opera histrionics neither show deserves anything other than the most customary appraisal. Reviewing the latest interpretation with half an eye on their fond memories of the original, The Guardian Newspaper responded accurately, dismissing it as, 'Clichéd tosh.' Why? 'Everyone is hateful, self-obsessed and has stupid hair.' The reviewer, Julia Raeside, is possibly correct on at least several of those points, but why has Mistresses US failed to capture the magic of Mistresses UK? After all, the programmes are ostensibly identical. When the critics came to the lauded British version Kathryn Flett of the Guardian Newspaper called the characters, 'two-dimensional,' and John Crace of the Guardian Newspaper called the plotlines, 'absurd.' How has the move to somewhere sunny blown this direct translation so laughably off course? Summing up the original, Crace wrote, 'The whole point of Mistresses lay in its glossy, drossy pointlessness,' but he meant this as a compliment.

Mistresses US is shallow, dumbed-down, gaudy and decadent. Such adjectives could have worked in the show's favour had the makers been wise enough to aim low. The series concerns mistresses of varied kinds, yet as far as female representations go women do not emerge positively. The main characters are poorly-drawn and hugely unlikeable despite some commendable career success, positions of social authority and expensive outfits. Their chief interest, with the business world conquered, is men, despite the occasional distractions of lesbianism and murder. What follows on from the predictable set-up is a disappointing mass of nothingness that fails to establish theme or even a consistent tone. The aspirational wealth is repugnant and more than a little obscene given the emotional ugliness of the heroines. Only the token black female is not directly responsible for her downfall, but this appears to have had more to do with political correctness than narrative counter-balance. In a bid to write strong women the leads have been loaded with flaws, culminating in lying, cheating, infidelity and assisting suicide. This does not make them sympathetic, but well-written characters needn't be. They must at the very least be engaging and worth following. Yet once the writers failed to achieve this they turned to desperate twists and lazy outside antagonism as alternative means to maintain ratings.

Showrunner Rina Mimoun has welcomed the guilty pleasure tag, but explained, ‘Hopefully we're a grounded, relatable drama that has a lot of fun to it.’ Hoping did not make it so, as Mistresses never comes close to representing true life or recognisable situations, offering only kitsch value to add to its vapidity and softcore nudity. A sudden lurch into earnestness did for the BBC original as it reached its latter seasons because guilty pleasures lose their pleasurability when the illicit thrill of being caught watching them is lost to an attempted upturn in quality. Still, was Mistresses UK a true guilty pleasure, as many critics contended? How could it be when the makers showed self-awareness of their gratuity and silliness? Mistresses US, on the other hand, is so misguided it could be described as a guilty pleasure due to the fact that if you enjoy it you are guilty of something. The term itself is something of a misnomer as audiences are supposed to delight in what they watch on television. While Mistresses UK had the intelligence to dose their ridiculousness with a knowing sense of irony their counterparts across the pond have produced a risible imitation that cannot be enjoyed for the purposes intended.

This somehow leads us onto the always appropriate topic of Mills & Boon. There is no more lucrative a genre in publishing than romance, with sales weighing it at a mighty $1.4 billion annually. While the most popular by an impressive distance romance remains the least critically and culturally respected of genres. The animosity runs so deep that scholars have accused such novels of turning its easily manipulated fans into passive consumers. Therefore the success of romance is not a reason to celebrate, but rather to speculate on the emotional and intellectual deficiencies of its readers. While vicious and potentially upsetting for anyone easily manipulated, this critique is as myopic and superficial as much of the work it attacks. In her book, A Natural History of the Romance Novel, Bewildered Heart favourite Pamela Regis argues that this viewpoint refuses to offer a true definition of the romance novel and fails to discuss the nature and scope of the genre. While Regis sets out to prove the personal, historical and societal value of romance fiction there is an alternative opinion of less significance that no one seems foolish enough to touch upon, and that is the guilty pleasure, depending on what people mean when they talk about them.

The MIRA imprint might suggest that Harlequin has moved part of its business model upmarket, but the majority of the company's output is decidedly unambitious. Mills & Boon and their stable of authors have always struggled to wear the guilty pleasure badge with the strange sense of honour that might accompany it. For their fans, being spotted with a romance novel brings tinges of embarrassment and not necessarily as a result of the poor prose and amateurish characterisation. The mortification stems from the personal assumptions others make towards Mills & Boon readers. Yet what does this, in turn, say about the publisher? Are they cynical exploiters of the vulnerable, are they no more intelligent than their customers, or are they merely sating the public's desire, which appears to be growing in the wake of Twilight and Fifty Shades? What is so wrong with being a guilty pleasure? Why can't the producers of such things embrace their position? After all, EL James seems more embarrassed by her sales than by her novels. The romance genre offers its astounding worldwide success as proof of its method. Their identity as the manufacturers of harmful, lowest common denominator drivel may never be challenged by the company itself, but do they ever want to be taken seriously as something more than just a thriving business?

If an audience wrongly believes that watching shows about the sex lives of fictional women is something they should feel embarrassed about then the intentional trashiness of Mistresses masks these feelings by focusing on the indulgence of Schadenfreude and brainless entertainment. If Mistresses was thoughtful, profound and tasteful then critics would have a greater issue to scruntinize, assuming such a series would find a channel, let alone an audience. The same question cannot be asked of reading literature, perhaps the most noble of all hobbies besides drawing Hugh Jackman. Still, devouring romance fiction is seen as a shameful past-time unsuitable for public conversation, even though everyone seems to be doing it. Yet is this a form of suppression against women, or is this a similar situation that met the Sex and the City movies, the mere demand for better material? Would thoughtful, profound, tasteful romance sell as strongly? Is the inherent cheesiness of Mills & Boon part of its appeal? Do readers enjoy them with a sense of knowing irony, revelling in the tawdry drama, tacky euphemisms and pig-headed characters? The pages and pages of writing guides such as Secrets Uncovered suggests Harlequin is intent on moving away from the inadvertent joys of their novels, but in doing they risk alienating readers and Bewildered Hearts the world over.

“Sophie nearly snorted her coffee”

MIRA, Harlequin's respectable cousin of an imprint, has found cross-over success by side-stepping the conventional trappings of the Mills & Boon formula. Hip, young writers including Victoria Fox and Caren Lissner have found their novels published under geography-based titles such as Wind Chime Point and Temptation Island, thus falling on the less embarrassing end of the embarrassing romance title spectrum. Of equal importance their covers do not necessarily feature models in softcore clinches to an exotic backdrop of a photo studio. As if to further the distance between potential correlations MIRA has its own website full of the pretense that while other romantic options are available they can be found somewhere else, and that somewhere else isn't nearly as debonair and fashionable as the home of The Case of the Diffident Dom and So Tough to Tame. Over at Harlequin's virtual abode an aspiring author will be hard-pressed to find any helpful guidelines for joining the MIRA stable of novelists. The most similar-sounding alternative Bewildered Heart has managed to unearth in the matter of seconds it took to complete a thorough search was SuperRomance, which bears an uncanny resemblance to MIRA by also being a meaningless, invented word.

Increasingly there seems little discernible difference between each of Mills & Boon's series of subgenres, especially now the online market has blossomed and a growing audience wishes to be seen as unique. Nocturne Cravings, Loved-Inspired Suspense and African-American may possibly be self-explanatory, but what of SuperRomance? 'Our stories are big romance novels filled with intense relationships, real life drama and the kinds of unexpected events that change women's lives forever!' Don't be fooled by a handful of those statements which are clearly untrue and several of the others which are consistent with every book the company releases. The key word used was big. Indeed, SuperRomance is defined by its length, averaging an eye-watering 85,000 words. Most romances struggle to justify between fifty and sixty thousand words, dragging out a misunderstanding across four chapters to meet a contractual obligation, so how are SuperAuthors supposed to bulk out their flimsy plots to such an extent? Are there certain key elements that might help extend that flagging second act for an additional one hundred pages?

'A strong central romance that's big in scope and believable in execution. There can be a secondary romance and subplots.' Secrets Uncovered revealed that supporting characters and less important tribulations served as a distraction from the main business of getting it on, but when an extra thirty thousand words have been demanded this kind of thinking is more of a hindrance. The opportunity to explore theme through juxtaposition and female subjugation through a part-time job allows for a richer, more credible landscape, offering deeper internal conflicts and greater emotional resonance to the core relationship. With time SuperCharacters and SuperLocations can be introduced carefully with skilful nuance, and it is for this reason, probably more than all the others, that SuperRomance is all the more critically disappointing. 'High emotional stakes. The characters' goals mean something to them, might force them to make difficult choices and might be in conflict with the romance.' While these aren't necessarily sentences in the traditional sense they are perhaps worthy of examination. If Romance is itself an imprint, and oddly enough it doesn't appear to be, then SuperRomance ups the ante, heightening the drama and introducing truly difficult dilemmas that require sacrifice and compromise. This would suggest that Harlequin has finally published proper novels with satisfying stories, even though the evidence points to the same tired, trite tales with a bunch of tacked on scenes involving a younger sister falling for a rebel.

Next, 'The hero and heroine should work for their happily ever after so give them obstacles and complications that need to be resolved.' This is certainly perceptive, because without events and things to talk about the courtship will last half a page and the author will need to find eighty-four thousand and seven hundred synonyms for happy before their book is finished. Once they have found means to temporarily keep their superhero and superheroine apart how will the impediments be fixed? 'Resolve issues by moving them to the next logical step, but don't wrap everything up in a neat bow!' Surely a SuperRomance isn't super without SuperHeteronormativism and what's more super than tidiness and gift-wrapping? Apparently no one knows, because the guidelines move on without further explanation. With an acknowledged desire for realistic settings, real life dramas, complexity, character depth and believable reactions to larger than life incidents, Harlequin has taken a deliberate step away from the fairytale fantasies of their other series. With this in mind, the idealised endings of old have no place in novels where people struggle for love and question what they want from life.

From there we learn that, 'Tone can vary from the light-hearted to the deeply emotional, from family sagas to light suspense.' This has all the fogginess Mills & Boon is famed for, as if with a hundred different styles of story no one considered separating them on the grounds of mood or genre. At least any tension beyond fleeting appears to have been ruled out, as action adventures with a hint of romance are published by just about everyone else. Nevertheless, there is plenty between family saga and light suspense on the scale of excitement, even though it seems tricky to figure out exactly what the scale would look like. Finally there's the vital inclusion of the wider worldview and, 'a sense of community. Paint a larger picture of the characters' lives by showing their relationships with family and friends, social lives and work.' The previously considered worthless qualities of description and entertainment have a home at SuperRomance. Whereas in the cut-throat corporate office of Modern, the hospital corridors of Medical™ and the idyllic small-towns of Special Moments here an author can explore details outside the staring and emotional-stupidity that amounts to loving in the Harlequin canon.

Crucially, therefore, authors are left with one question to ponder over their post-lunch cocktails. Why write for any series other than SuperRomance, besides the obvious reason of laziness? The task of dreaming up thirty-thousand more words will put off many, but the narrative benefits surely outweigh the negatives of further typing. These imprints appear to offer all the usual expectations of a Harlequin romance only with increased appeal, writing quality and likeability. There seems no reason as to why this is impossible with a less taxing word count, but perhaps the publisher has learned that what works for its rivals might also work for them. MIRA does away with the standard tricks of classic Mills & Boon, and instead positions itself as a publisher of run-of-the-mill chick-lit and bonkbusters. However, this only leads Harlequin away from the corner of the romance industry it invented and continues to monopolise. While the company broadens its appeal and audience there remains the threat of identity loss. This can only be good when the product Mills & Boon floods into the world on a monthly basis is so tired and underwhelming, but their move into longer, contemporary fare inspired by the most popular romance fiction of their competitors can hardly be seen as progress, but rather another sideways step in a history of sideways steps.

“Feeling like a voyeur, he drank in every detail of her private quarters”

In a world built on rationality and sturdy logic there are few questions more beguiling and worthy of journalism as why a new generation of women are reading bonkbusters. Before we answer a conundrum that has been plaguing no one for as long as no one can remember we should begin with a handful of other, perhaps more pertinent, queries, including what are bonkbusters, are a younger generation actually reading them and how can aspiring authors with an eye for a Zeitgeist cash in on this trend before everyone else notices? Thankfully for all concerned the Daily Telegraph's own Louisa Peacock has us covered, as she uses the release of one book to examine a cultural phenomenon that may not exist. Why does this serve as an excuse for a Bewildered Heart post, besides to obvious need to post anything? It is because the author in question, Victoria Fox, is a rare breed of Mills & Boon employee, having broken out of her publisher's homogeneity, through the Mira imprint, to become a household name, depending on the popularity of saucy romantic fiction in that particular household.

British broadcaster Sue Limb may have invented the etymologically-inaccurate term, Bonkbuster in 1989, although sources vary. The neologism has been defined as, 'a type of popular novel characterised by frequent explicit sexual encounters,' but such fiction has been available and successful for decades. Recently, however, publishers have attempted to reach a more youthful demographic, in a bid to escape the genre's stereotypical bored housewife caricature and the negative connotations this produces. Harlequin's desire to subvert conventional opinions of its brand has seen the company embrace the technological advances of digital formats, but this would never have been enough without a change in content. For a publishing house with a series named Modern Mills & Boon has always had to fight against accusations of unfashionable conservatism, as well as more troubling associations with misogyny and the glorification of rape and violence against women. However, these are lazy criticisms given the time that has passed and all the new glaring flaws that continue to undermine the genre.

The surest way to appeal to the twenty-something market is through contracting twenty-something authors to tell the stories they would want to hear. Victoria Fox published her third novel this year at the tender age of twenty-nine. Her career has gained momentum following the success of 2012's Temptation Island, the story of actresses, models and teenage tearaways at a secret holiday destination for the world’s sexiest elite. Like her forerunners, Shirley Conran, Jackie Collins and Judith Krantz to name but three, Fox aspires to write female characters living in a man's world but finding ways to triumph without ever threatening the social status quo. She has found a formula that works, loosely basing each of her books on real-life celebrities, tapping into her generation's predilection for gossip, sex and larger-than-life dramas. Fox's tendency to write sex scenes from the male point of view saw early novels rejected, but she has remained largely committed to playing with such expectations. 'I don't see why it should have to be the model we've got at the moment,' she explains in regards to the erotic content of her novels, but this could apply equally to all the areas of romance fiction she is seeking to update. Victoria Fox is just one of a fresh crop of authors and readers hoping to erode the stylistic and narrative trappings that have held Harlequin back for so long.

For Fox the obvious challenge of working for Mills & Boon involved updating the tropes of the bonkbuster for the lives of modern women. 'I needed to have an alpha male, but I didn't want this alpha-ness to be defined by the fact he was subjugating a woman.' In order to retain the raw sexual appeal of a handsome, yet arrogant, hero and keeping him seductively masculine while dropping the female persecution, Fox has endeavoured to surround her lead couple with secondary characters, presumably much to the disapproval of Secrets Uncovered, her editor, employers and fans. Despite their possible protestations doing this has allowed Fox to portray her hero as a dominant, rugged force by populating the protagonist's world with balding failures and receding chauvinists. Without the heroine to playfully oppress he has to make do with everyone else, but by doing this Fox hasn't so much subverted the rules as done away with them entirely. Has Mira broken with tradition because the standard Mills & Boon format is not conducive to quality story-telling and current gender roles, or has the publisher discovered a niche in the genre with new and innovative ways in which to handle fictional romance incompetently? Awards and success are proof of little, yet Fox has won acclaim for her novels, suggesting her publisher is moving in an improved direction, following years lost in a country estate built on repression all the while running in circles, tripping over shoelaces and knocking into furniture.

Although the title of Peacock's article implied big questions would be dealt with, her interview with Fox amounts to a superficial conversation with an author on a book tour. Mills & Boon's move into the failed subgenre of Chick-Lit has been long and well-documented. The bonkbuster term should only be attached to the likes of Fifty Shades of Grey and Platinum by Jo Rees, the break out successes that find cultural cache beyond their intended market. Why are a new generation of women drawn to bonkbusters, asked the Daily Telegraph's Louisa Peacock, before failing to then ask the one woman who might know. Fox at least understands why she writes them and has an idea about who her fans are. 'I'd say my average reader is of a similar age to me, someone in their twenties, interested in celebrity culture and who wants an entertaining beach read.' Despite there being fewer young people able to afford a holiday on real sand nothing has changed in regards to undemanding paperbacks and Mira shows its parent company’s keen business acumen rather than any motivation to regenerate its image with novels exciting, shocking, juicy and politically-correct.

“Most women would trade their soul for the chance to don a title and the crown jewels”

What with all that has been happening these last jam-packed months Bewildered Heart almost forgot there was the second in a Special Moments Two-in-One to read. After the misanthropic joy of Once Upon a Wedding what would its complimentary companion offer to counter-balance the romance, comedy, self-employment and bourgeois-bashing of Stacy Connelly's modern fairytale? Would there be dark dramas and the glorification of consumerism, or would Nancy Robards Thompson fail to subvert convention with a contrived tale of secret identities to the backdrop of resplendent luxury? With a title such as Accidental Princess that is anybody's guess, but now, with the initial three chapters stared at and understood, Bewildered Heart can ascertain in which direction the life of one struggling single mother is headed. Why are there are so many accidental princesses wandering the world of romance fiction nowadays? Is it because there are so many intentional princes without brides?

Where more suitable to learn such answers to such questions than with the potted history of a fictional royal family from a fictional island that kind of exists. In the world of Thompson's cursory research St. Michel is an independent Mediterranean island overseen by the powerful, albeit fictional, King Bertrand. Decades ago his eldest daughter had fallen for the glamorous, albeit fictional, rock star Nick Morrison. Facing scandal Bertrand had forced Princess Sylvie to give birth to her baby in a fictional country not dissimilar to France named France, before sending the child away to the United States to grow up in obscurity. Shortly thereafter, Sylvie and Nick had attempted a family reconciliation only to perish in a plane crash. Later Princess Celine died in a road accident and her brother, Prince Thibault, lost his life in a diving disaster further hence. Now, in whichever fictional year the novel takes place in, Prince Antoine, wife Leanna, children and assorted guards have met their fates in a tragic fire. For the somehow still employed head of security Luc Lejardin either the House of Founteneau is cursed or an ageing procrastinator has been murdering the King's offspring until none remained.

Meanwhile, in a small town in North Carolina Sophie Baldwin has taken her office's Dress Down Friday to heart by going to work as a jar of mustard. What with her costume and irritable daughter Savannah to worry about it is no surprise Sophie turns up twenty minutes late for her Social Services desk job. While her completely reasonable boss takes these numerous breaches of contract with patient good humour Sophie is stunned by the bitchiness of her superior. After suggesting a subplot involving Laura Hastings that may well be forgotten about Sophie is called home by her frantic daughter with news of a French invasion. When she arrives she discovers a very handsome foreigner on her doorstep, the spitting image, in fact, of actor Oliver Martinez, because Thompson finds describing things tiresome. There Sophie hears the news that every women longs to hear, that she is the secret love child of an European royal dynasty and must be whisked away to a life of idle indulgence, castles, sea, sun and serfs.

Sensing what sounds like an elaborate and breathlessly well-executed confidence trick Sophie dismisses her so-called parents and the suited bodyguards to panic over finding her fourteen year-old daughter in bed with a tattooed ruffian nicknamed Tick. With problems piling up and only one possible way to solve her every problem in a matter of seconds, Sophie finds the time to ponder how her life became so complicated. As with the majority of divorced single parents, Her Highness was once married and without child. Once Savannah was born the marriage grew apart and one day Frank left for the sunny climes of California and the sun-kissed charms of teenage girls. This may have been the point where Sophie's self-esteem plummeted and she began to closely resemble store-brand condiments. Nevertheless, as infamous ladies man and observant noticer of things Luc Lejardin notices observantly, Sophie Baldwin remains a luminously attractive women with a quite splendid chin. How or why this is possible due to the ravages of time, stress and seasoning, however, is kept mysterious, due to Thompson's insistence that writing about stuff distracts from endless recalling of back-story.

Forward momentum is threatened when Sophie refuses to drop her responsibilities and abscond to an island that her education tells her does not exist. This rejection of regal duties forces King Bertrand himself to fly all the way from nowhere to a private airport near Washington D.C. in a desperate bid to keep the world's media from questioning his unexpected visit. Somewhat presumptuously this is where Chapter Three concludes, leaving the reader with the barest understanding of character motivations and story development and only the slightest inclination to begin Chapter Four. As contemporary twists on classic fairytale tropes go, Accidental Princess is certainly an improvement on the faux-Cinderella generics of Once Upon a Wedding. Sophie Baldwin is portrayed as an unlikely woman for picturebook romance, having been cast aside by one husband, dismissed by her daughter, criticised at work and constantly mocked by herself as a frumpy, pale imitation of her youthful loveliness. Only an idealised Gallic Adonis seems to have the ability to see through all visible evidence to the sexually alluring creature lurking beneath.

There are a handful of minor obstacles for the couple to overcome before they can rule a fictional country, however, yet most of these troubles can be fixed through vocabulary-updating. Savannah's ungrateful attitude and worrying misstep of scantily-clad bed-sharing were resolved during a mother daughter heart-to-heart discussion Thompson decided against writing. Still, any additional fears of Savannah and Tick's blossoming romance can be handled by a stepdad well-versed in gunplay and martial arts. The overwhelming concern, at least for Luc, is his own family's reputation, destroyed by his late father's scheming second wife. How could a man tasked with protecting a family, now mostly dead, who bears the disgraced and hard to pronounce Lejardin name marry into the House of Founteneau? Naturally, this conundrum can be solved by all parties acting reasonably, but in the land of Mills & Boon it usually requires two hundred pages of shoe-shuffling and sex before this decision is reached. Most importantly, of course, there is the small matter of a serial killer on the loose, who takes up to ten years to meticulously orchestrate fatal mishaps? In eight years time might Sophie and Savannah board a train, switch on a kettle or light a cigarette in a seemingly well-ventilated room and could Luc forgive himself for their untimely demises as easily as he shrugged off the others?

Much will depend on how Thompson wishes to play with the tropes of the genre. The damsel-in-distress and protector romance is something of a worn-out archetype, and the predictable introduction of single parent with troubled child expected of Special Moments does little to reinvigorate the formula. There are possibilities for originality, not least Sophie's commitment to her country, work and family, and thus a rejection of patriarchal pressure to submit to the princess fantasy. Do the glimpses of Mary Matthews, Mr. Carlo and Laura suggest an alternative direction for the novel? Will Luc prove a true twenty-first century hero by staying in North Carolina and fighting for the woman he loves on her terms? This is plausible, but highly unlikely for a book entitled Accidental Princess, just as it appeared improbable that Once Upon a Wedding would end with Kelsey prioritising her business over a dreamy man wearing jeans. No doubt circumstance and luck will allow Sophie to achieve all of her most fantastical dreams without sacrifice, as all heroines should, thus fulfilling the publisher's mantra that what makes Mills & Boon successful is what makes story-telling amateurish.