But, like all things English, for instance, the English language, all the rules of the Regency had their exceptions.
So while there were countless rules about just about everything, there were always exceptions – this creates a very dynamic situation, where virtually every case has to be considered on its merits. If a lady walks down a street alone, is this reprehensible, or perfectly acceptable? It depends on the street, on the lady, her age and station in life, her clothing, who was potentially watching, on the time of day—and on a host of other variables.
While such a rigid but exceedingly variable social structure imposes and requires a great deal of care to be exercised by the author, it simultaneously presents untold opportunities for all sorts of situations guaranteed to a) bring our hero and heroine together, b) put them in circumstances where they have to act, or are impelled to act demonstrating their characters and c) to create satisfyingly exciting scenarios through which they move as their love develops and evolves into a grand passion.
Where, you ask, do the exciting scenarios come from?
Ah—that's the other side of the Regency that makes it so beloved of romance authors. For beneath the glitter and glamor of the ton's balls, behind the elegance and wealth of the upper classes and their indolent and hedonistic lifestyles, England was changing dramatically. It would never be the same again. The Regency was one of those rare times in history when an old order was being put aside, superseded, by a new order—but it all happened peaceably.
The Regency was a time of social revolution, culminating in the Great Reform Bill of 1832. This extended voting rights to the majority of adult males and restructured representation in Parliament in the most sweeping social reform of the century. It changed Britain forever.
And its seeds were sown and nurtured during the Regency.
It is beyond the scope of this short essay to go into the depth and breadth of the social changes, but the interested reader will find no better source than J
.B. Priestley's The Prince of Pleasure.
Suffice to say there was an awful lot happening during the Regency. And it happened against a backdrop of war, victory, an extravagant Prince Regent, a fabulously wealthy and powerful elite, an emerging middle class and an upper echelon of society who could waltz while the cannons rolled past. Indeed, as Priestley intimates, throughout the Regency there was a sense of waltzing while London burned—of living on the edge of great upheaval—of living through times that were rapidly and fundamentally changing, when the very ground of society shifted— of living life to the limits, as if there was no tomorrow.
All of this resonates with the here and now—and is, I believe, deep down, one of the reasons the Regency continues to fascinate—because, from nearly two hundred years' distance, it holds up a mirror to our lives today.
— Stephanie Laurens
The Hero As Pursuer
IF there is any unifying concept in the romances I have written, this is it. My critique partner noticed years ago that every one of my heroes want their heroine the instant they set eyes on her. Want her sexually, that is. This fact is simply a reflection of my experience of how the male of the species reacts on seeing a desirable female. It's not logic that rears its head.
I didn't intend to specifically create books on this theme—it simply happened—but looking back over all the romances I've had published, plus the works in various stages of production, I have to admit that “the hero as pursuer” is a feature of every last one. And very likely will be in all the ones to come.
Why? Because I write Regency-era historicals, and all my heroes are a certain type of man. They are powerful men in all senses of the word—physically and mentally, socially and sexually. They see—they want—they take. Which means all my heroines must be a certain sort of woman, meaning the sort of woman strong enough to stand up to, and wring concessions from, that type of man.
To my mind, a strong, more-than-alpha hero necessitates an equally strong heroine—if she's not sufficiently confident in herself, she'll never be a convincing match for the hero. If she wasn't willful and headstrong and far too independent, the hero would probably lose interest within a few weeks. It's the very fact that she doesn't simply fall in with his masterful plans, but digs in her pretty heels and refuses to tamely play by his rules—because she argues, sticks her nose in the air, haughtily dismisses him, and (worst of all) dares to walk away from him—that forces the hero to focus his attention on her sufficiently to let Cupid slip under his guard and mount a sneak attack.
Unwittingly, the heroine becomes the first and only woman who has, in his adult life, forced the hero to really look at her. Consider her. Think about what she is thinking, what she feels, how she reacts in various situations. Because he's looking, albeit with a view to conquest, he sees her character, and all the admirable, and sometimes vulnerable, aspects of her—which fascinates him even more. Her hoity behavior powerfully prods his possessive instincts, while her vulnerabilities call forth his innate protectiveness. He is, after all, a warrior whose civilized mask is but wafer-thin. For him, possessiveness and protectiveness are the outward expressions of love. But without the need to focus on the heroine, which need is brought about by the heroine's character, there is little opportunity for this type of hero to fall victim to love.
He's far too canny, guards his heart far too well, to be an easy conquest—it needs a very strong woman to distract him enough for love to weave its spell.
I should perhaps emphasize that my heroes never fall in love with my heroines at first sight. They fall in lust at first sight, something quite different. The distinction is important—especially in the heroes' minds—because lust is something they can immediately and openly admit to, while falling in love is something they will move heaven and earth to avoid admitting, even when they finally wake up to the fact that this is what has occurred.
Because the setting is Regency England, and my heroines are all indisputably ladies, and my heroes, despite their rakish tendencies, equally indisputably gentlemen, then marriage quickly becomes the hero's object, that being the only way he can legitimately get the heroine into his bed. And keep her there. His and only his. His mind, at the beginning of the story, is pretty much one-track.
All my heroes are over-the-top arrogant, domineering, too-handsome-for-their-own-good rakes, too old and too experienced to be anything but deeply cynical of the notion of love, especially within marriage. They've slept with too many married ladies for that. So when they wake up one day and discover that—dear God!—they have fallen victim themselves and fallen in love with their wife/betrothed/intended/neighbor/ward/whatever, this, to them, makes them hideously vulnerable, a situation they instinctively hide.
But accepting the fact that they love the heroine, and admitting it, acknowledging it, at least to the heroine, is a battle all my heroes must wage and win. All strong men, they are required to become—challenged to become—even stronger, strong enough to admit they love.
My heroines, of course, help them overcome their little problem by ensuring they can't slide around it, or ignore it, or... Regardless of whether they have already been steamrollered into marriage, or have managed to hold the hero off thus far, my heroines demand their due. They are not going to admit that they love the hero, that they would treasure his love and would never betray it, not until the damned man realizes and acknowledges that he loves them.
Of course, the slight difficulty there is that, until he does admit it, she cannot be 100% certain that she's read him aright and that he does, in fact, love her.
Which leaves me, the author, with all manner of tangled emotional webs to exploit.
I love working with the “hero as pursuer” theme because it plays to two of the most basic, enduring fantasies of women—that of being the object of pursuit by a dominant male, and that of seeing that same dominant male bend the knee to love—for her.
It also incorporates one of the all-time biggest difficulties strong men face—that of accepting love and the accompanying vulnerability.
It's also my favorite theme because it creates natural opportunities and strong motivation for the heroine to take the initiative, to wrest the direction of the relationship from the otherwise all-powerful hero, who is equally strongly motivated to keep the reins in his hands. I adore refereeing the tug-of-war that usually ensues. And I have to admit that I love to see dominant, arrogant, overbearing males, not just stymied, but close to helpless at the hands of supposedly weak females—females empowered by only one thing: love.
Basically, I'm a sucker for any story that demonstrates the power of love. For me, “the hero as pursuer” in the Regency does it every time.