Let’s face it, most all these historical romances are utterly and completely ridiculous:
Husbands coming back from the dead; long-lost heirs and heiresses; forged wills; bad-but-actually-good pirates and crime lords; kidnapped children and heroines; murdering psychopaths always on the loose (apparently England has a disproportionate number of crazies); frequent cases of amnesia and/or mistaken identity; an unbelievable lack of the ability to communicate or c lear up Big Misunderstandings (they desperately need to learn the “when you did ____, it made me feel ____” statement); thousands of hero-material noblemen running around England and almost every single one of them drop-dead-gorgeous, in their late 20s / early 30s, single, and of course just waiting for that one special woman who will completely transform their lives and their hearts when they fall in love with her; heroines we (almost always) love and can relate to, who just happen to often be wallflowers, plain janes, poor relations, unusual or odd, bluestockings, bullied by some dastardly person(s), running from some dastardly secret(s), etc.; man whores (a.k.a rakes and rogues) who for some reason all become perfect and 100%-faithful husbands once they meet said heroines; widows who in dramatically large numbers are still virgins so that when the love of their life comes along he can luckily be the first (and only) one she does the mattress dance with; romances between g overnesses / companions / maids / street urchins / secretaries and the lord of the house; good characters whom we’re rooting for always managing to stay alive while the bad ones we hate always die or are in some way dramatically publicly humiliated and ostracized; oh, and of course, the most unlikely thing of all: **always**, without fail, a HEA ending.
Yeah … sorry, what part of any of that sounded remotely realistic? None! … Which is why we read them :-).