Backlist Review: The Duke and I by Julia Quinn
Photo by Shannon Ferguson on Unsplash
Synopsis:
In the ballrooms and drawing rooms of Regency London, rules abound. From their earliest days, children of aristocrats learn how to address an earl and curtsy before a prince—while other dictates of the ton are unspoken, yet universally understood. A proper duke should be imperious and aloof. A young, marriageable lady should be amiable…but not too amiable.
Daphne Bridgerton has always failed at the latter. The fourth of eight siblings in her close-knit family, she has formed friendships with the most eligible young men in London. Everyone likes Daphne for her kindness and wit. But no one truly desires her. She is simply too deuced honest for that, too unwilling to play the romantic games that captivate gentlemen.
Amiability is not a characteristic shared by Simon Basset, Duke of Hastings. Recently returned to England from abroad, he intends to shun both marriage and society—just as his callous father shunned Simon throughout his painful childhood. Yet an encounter with his best friend’s sister offers another option. If Daphne agrees to a fake courtship, Simon can deter the mamas who parade their daughters before him. Daphne, meanwhile, will see her prospects and her reputation soar.
The plan works like a charm—at first. But amid the glittering, gossipy, cutthroat world of London’s elite, there is only one certainty: Love ignores every rule…
Content Warning: spousal rape.
There’s a lot going on here, and it’s not all good.
This book was a colossal disappointment, especially since I really liked the Netflix series. The biggest letdown was that it had the potential to be so much better. Julia Quinn knows how to write; I was genuinely engaged in the story for about the first hundred pages. The banter between Daphne and Simon was so good, I actually found myself laughing out loud, which is rare for me. And I absolutely adored the creation of Lady Whistledown. But the further I got, the harder it became for me to ignore what I didn’t like.
First of all, Quinn seems to know how to write only one kind of male character. Daphne has four brothers—something she likes to remind everyone of every five minutes. Her three older brothers are Anthony, Benedict, and Colin. They’re all virtually indistinguishable from one another. They’re hunky rakes (this is Quinn’s favorite word. Do not start a drinking game, you will surely die); they don’t want to get married; they’re terrible to their sisters, and they love to make wry, sarcastic comments from the side of a ballroom. The Duke of Hastings is also a hunky womanizer who violently opposes the idea of marriage, is terrible to Daphne, and loves to make wry, sarcastic comments from the side of a ballroom.
And Daphne? Well, as my friend says, she exudes major “not like other girls syndrome.” For anyone unfamiliar with this tired trope, it’s exactly what it sounds like. The heroine isn’t like the other annoying, catty women who are incredibly shallow and have no chill. No she’s different. There’s a lot to unpack with this, but I’ll stick to the main issue: It pits women against each other. It’s not enough to be conventionally attractive, women have to make sure they’re sufficiently scornful of what constitutes a “normal” woman in order to be worthy of male attention or love.
This is a book written by a woman to appeal to women’s fantasies, yet there is an unfathomable amount of women hating women going on between the pages. I understand that in the Regency era, women were literally competing with one another to find a husband, but Quinn doesn’t really dive into that. Instead, it’s a very shallow approach. She pushes Daphne into the role of the “cool girl,” the one that men can really talk to because she isn’t so silly.
Hell, if my whole life was spent learning how to catch a husband—the only way to achieve financial and social security—I expect I’d be a little silly too.
By far the most shocking thing in the book was when Daphne realizes that Simon tricked her into believing that he was physically unable to have children. It takes her an embarrassingly long time to figure out that when they have sex, he’s pulling out so she can’t get pregnant. This is because Simon doesn’t want to have kids because he hates his father—I don’t have the mental energy to unpack why this is flimsy at best. Anyway, I agree that Simon should have definitely been honest with Daphne from the very beginning. Especially because he knows that Daphne wants lots of children. But good Lord, what Daphne does after learning this is absolutely, mind-blowingly stupid.
The night they have their argument, Simon gets pissing drunk, and comes home. Daphne helps his pathetic ass into bed, where he promptly passes out. And then I had to read this garbage paragraph:
“Daphne felt the strangest, most intoxicating surge of power. He was in her control, she realized. He was asleep, and probably still more than a little bit drunk, and she could do whatever she wanted with him. She could have whatever she wanted.”
Excuse me while I vomit.
She proceeds to start touching him, you know, sexually, which of course wakes him up. She climbs on top of him and starts screwing him, all while making sure he can’t pull out. Simon realizes this about a second before he climaxes, and Daphne literally holds him down when he tries to move. You know, so she can have a baby.
And this is supposed to be a romance novel?
Simon was drunk, therefore incapable of giving consent, and when he realized what was happening, he tried to stop it, but Daphne wouldn’t let him. Just because he’s a man doesn’t mean it wasn’t rape. Just because he finished doesn’t mean it wasn’t rape. Obviously, the rules of consent were incredibly opaque in the 1800s, but I’m holding this book to modern sensibilities because it was written in 2000.
And what’s even crazier is that at no point in the novel is Daphne ever held accountable for what she did. No one ever blames her. In fact, her brothers are one step away from literally murdering her husband when they think he left her. Then Simon freaking apologizes to Daphne, and they frolic away in wedded bliss.
This book is trash.
Don’t get me wrong, I love romance novels, especially a good historical romance. What I don’t like is when authors create dysfunctional, toxic relationships, and peddle it to readers as a sweeping romance.
Netflix’s Bridgerton, while not perfect, is vastly superior to the book. But if you’re really hungry for some Regency romance, I’d say read some Jane Austen instead.