In Amy Jarecki’s The Highland Earl, John Erskine and Evelyn Pierrepont are on opposite sides of the first Jacobite uprising. They’re also husband and wife. In this essay, Jarecki shares how the life of John Erskine, Earl of Mar, inspired her action-packed and emotionally complex new historical romance.

One of my favorite things about writing Scottish romance is weaving historical fact into my books. My editor dubbed my latest release as Mr. and Mrs. Smith meets Outlander, and though the comparison made me laugh, she was pretty close to the truth.

I always like to base my characters on real-life people, and the first Jacobite uprising has a particularly fascinating cast. This was a tumultuous time period in which England was mercilessly squeezing Scotland for taxes, Queen Anne had an almost psychotic fear of popery (Catholics) and nearly half the Kingdom of Great Britain believed in the succession of James Francis Edward Stuart, the son of England’s deposed King James II. These “traitors” were ostracized as Jacobites, from the Latin form of “James.”

In The Highland Earl, I chose John Erskine, the Earl of Mar, as my hero. He was a Scot who served in Queen Anne’s cabinet, holding many positions, including Secretary of State, for Scotland. It’s hard to imagine how difficult it must have been to balance his duty to England with his loyalty to his homeland. He signed a number of controversial documents, his hand forced on some, to keep his beloved country from bankruptcy. Because he had to walk that delicate balance, he was highly criticized by the public and dubbed “Bobbin John.”

Historians have little information about Lady Frances Pierrepont, the woman I chose as the inspiration for my heroine, Evelyn. We know that she was the daughter of the Duke of Kingston-upon-Hull and that her dowry was sizable enough to release Mar from his debts. Sometimes the most fun you have as a writer is getting to fill in the details, so I made my Evelyn a spy sympathetic to the Jacobite cause—something that would put her in direct opposition to her husband, who served Queen Anne. Let the spy games begin. . . .

Inside Alloa Tower: portraits of John Erskine, Earl of Mar, with his son, Thomas, and of Frances (the inspiration for my character Evelyn), Countess of Mar.

During my research, I was fortunate enough to visit the ancestral home of the Earl of Mar, Alloa Tower. There I met with a historian with whom I spoke for hours and learned things about John Erskine I never would have found in a book. His life was tumultuous, and after the period in which The Highland Earl takes place, he became the Stuart prince’s general and led the Jacobites into the Battle of Sherriffmuir. He was also a brilliant architect and engineer. He designed and built an extensive manor onto Alloa Tower (pictured below), but it unfortunately burned down. However, in the picture you can see marks where the manor was added. He also designed and built a canal from his mine to the Firth of Forth to more easily transport his coal. It is fascinating to uncover these tidbits of historical fact and weave them into my stories.

Alloa Tower, side

Alloa Tower, front

I hope you’ll join me on this adventure where fact meets fiction and where lies and deceit nearly ruin a love that will grow to transcend time.

In Minerva Spencer’s Scandalous, missionary Sarah Fisher is rescued by dashing, sensual privateer Martín Bouchard, a former slave who uses his position to liberate other African captives. Here, Spencer shares why the pirate life is so appealing—and lists her five favorite pirate romances.

I have a knack for doing things backward, and writing my first pirate romance novel is a case in point. Instead of doing some reconnaissance to see what kind of pirate books were already out in the world, I just sat down and started writing.

I’d read the most well known of the pirate tales when I was a kid—Treasure Island, Peter Pan and Captain Blood, for example—but I’d never read a pirate romance. I never even knew such a subgenre of romance existed.

It wasn’t until I’d sold my first three books, the beginning of my Outcasts series, that I discovered I’d inadvertently fallen into a sister/brotherhood of sorts: pirate fanatics.

Now, when I say pirates, I’m also including privateers—those ships that sailed under the authority of a government. Martín Bouchard, the hero in my new novel Scandalous, sails under a letter of marque granted by the king of England. Since most privateers operated during a time of war, it’s easy to see how one nation’s privateers were often another country’s pirates.

Pirates and privateers weren’t the only ones who engaged in capturing ships for prize money. The navies of the world also seized enemy vessels and divided the bounty among the crew—sharing out the profits from the captain all the way down to the lowest scrub boy.

Selling a captured ship wasn’t easy. Privateers couldn’t just nail a “Garage Sale” sign on the ship and start selling parts. They had to take their claims before special courts set up for that purpose.

Incidentally, the practice of rewarding a crew with prize money continued well into the 20th century. The last U.S. naval vessel to seize an enemy ship and distribute the bounty among its crew was in 1941!

Whether you like bad boy pirates or you just enjoy nautical tales in general, there are lots of great stories. Since discovering pirate romance, I’ve read every book I could get my hands on.

I’d like to share a list of my favorite novels—just a few I recommend if you are a novice when it comes to romance on the high seas. (It would be difficult to pick a favorite, so I’ll just list them alphabetically by author.) I warn you—once you begin reading pirate romances, it’s hard to stop!

The Rogue Pirate’s Bride by Shana Galen

This pirate romance has the added bonus of the heroine masquerading as a boy.

Beauvallet by Georgette Heyer

This is Heyer’s only pirate novel, and it has a distinct nautical feel while having that same great Heyer banter.

Scandalous Desires by Elizabeth Hoyt

Charming Mickey O’Connor is a pirate to die for. This story packs so much emotional punch, you won’t care that the story never leaves dry land.

The Pirate Lord by Sabrina Jeffries

This is another one-of-a-kind romance—a pirate and his crew capture a ship full of female prisoners bound for New South Wales.

Captured by Beverly Jenkins

I have to admit Dominic is my favorite sort of hero—on land or sea—an intelligent alpha with a mission.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our review of Scandalous.

Joanna Shupe’s latest historical romance series, Uptown Girls, follows three Gilded Age society girls as they find love outside the stifling ballrooms of high-class New York City society. In The Devil of Downtown, Shupe’s conclusion to the series, kindhearted activist Justine Greene falls for a man who would, by all accounts, appear to be her exact opposite: ruthless crime boss Jack Mulligan. But how can an author write such a character without making him too violent or amoral to be a believable love interest, nor defanging him so much that he loses the allure of the forbidden? In this essay, Shupe reveals her secrets.

Why do we love a bad boy?

It’s an age-old question, but one that perhaps a romance reader understands best of all. Many of us have loved stories with a charming rake or a ruthless billionaire.

But how bad is too bad? What about when the hero is a criminal?

All of the books in the Uptown Girls series have featured Gilded Age “bad boys”—men who make their own rules and profit handsomely for it. They each live by their own code of honor and can justify the reasons for their actions . . . both legal and illegal. The Rogue of Fifth Avenue’s Frank Tripp is a slick-talking lawyer who bends the law to fit his needs. Clayton Madden, the dark casino owner in The Prince of Broadway, is out to fleece every man in town with deep pockets.

In The Devil of Downtown, however, I went a step further. The hero, Jack Mulligan, is the criminal kingpin of Gilded Age New York City.

He’s a good guy, I swear. (But not too good. ☺)

“Good” vs. “Bad”
Part of what makes writing a criminal hero easier for me is the Gilded Age itself. Corruption was rampant in late 19th-century New York City. Many of the “good guys” were actually bad—such as the police, judges and politicians. And let’s not forget about the wealthy tycoons who underpaid their workers, used child labor and busted unions every chance they got. There were no rules, no laws, if you had enough money.

As long as you were rich, you could do pretty much whatever you wanted. So, the wealth of each Uptown Girls hero allows him enough power to create his own world, one where he makes the rules.

Using History
Historical research also helped when I was crafting each hero. Jack Mulligan is loosely based on a real-life Gilded Age figure, Paul Kelly. A boxer turned gangster, Kelly founded the Five Points Gang, which absorbed the smaller gangs of the area to become a large organization. He dressed like a dandy, spoke many languages and entertained members of high society at his clubs, and Kelly is widely considered the father of American organized crime. Lucky Luciano, Al Capone and Meyer Lansky are just a few of the men who gained experience within Kelly’s empire.

But there were parts I had to rethink for a modern audience. For example, while the real Paul Kelly owned brothels, this was a line my heroes would not cross. So I had to write in backstories for both Jack and Clayton Madden as to why they avoided the sex trade.

In Jack’s case, he was raised in a brothel and saw the violence sometimes inflicted upon women. It’s well known in his territory that he doesn’t tolerate the mistreatment of women, ever.

Show, Don’t Tell
I struggled with how to show the reader that a dangerous dude is really dangerous, even when he’s the hero. Because you can’t just tell the reader he’s bad, you have to prove it. Yet, the reader still has to like the character and root for him in the end.

It’s a delicate balance.

In fact, early beta readers of The Devil of Downtown told me the story needed more “devil,” that the hero was too nice. So I wrote some scenes where the violence either just occurred or was directed at someone he cared about.

Also, it helps to have another person who is even worse as a foil for the hero. Jack Mulligan has a rival trying to encroach on his territory. So most of Jack’s violence is directed at the book’s antagonist, a man who tries to kill Jack multiple times. In The Prince of Broadway, Clay’s ire is directed at the cops who try to swindle him and the men who try to cheat in his casino.

Gone, Baby Gone
All of the Uptown Girls heroes are head over heels for the heroines from practically the start of the book. This allows the reader to see a tender side, a squishy marshmallow center that contrasts his public badass persona. In a romance, this can help with likability because we need to believe that he’s lovable, that even someone who flirts with danger—or is knee-deep in danger—is worthy of a happily ever after.

He Did It His Way
We’ve all heard the phrase “honor among thieves.” The Uptown Girls heroes all have a very strong sense of what is honorable to them. Frank, the lawyer in The Rogue of Fifth Avenue, can justify anything that helps his client, even if it’s shady. Clayton Madden will never tell a lie, not for any reason.

And Jack Mulligan looks after the people in his neighborhood as if they were his family. Yes, he’s running the biggest criminal enterprise in the city, but he employs thousands. He punishes anyone who hurts women and children. He’s trying to make the Bowery and the Five Points a safer place for families.

So there are some tricks of the author trade that I used in The Devil of Downtown. Hopefully readers will find Jack Mulligan as compelling, sexy and dangerous as I envisioned him in my head.

After taking readers on a dazzling tour of Regency astronomy, naturalism and embroidery in The Lady’s Guide to Celestial Mechanics, Olivia Waite is back with another gloriously nerdy, rigorously researched historical romance. The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows follows printer Agatha Griffin and beekeeper Penelope Flood as they fall in love, against the tumultuous, chaotic backdrop of Britain circa 1820.

In this essay, Waite explains why printing and beekeeping are not only fascinating topics in and of themselves, but also perfectly suited to tell a story of radical love, together.

Bees and people have an ancient relationship. There are cave paintings of honey hunters dating back eight thousand years, before the dawn of anything like modern history. And for nearly as long, people have been seeing in beehives a utopian idea of what human society could be. In newly imperial Rome, Virgil wrote of bees as both valiant warriors and obedient subjects bound in service to their king (as he mistakenly called the queen bee). People saw from very early on that different bees performed different jobs to support the hive as a whole, and this combination of communal good and social stratification made bees a popular symbol for political idealists of nearly every stripe.

When you start thinking of bees as people, you want them to have the best possible home.

So it’s not surprising that during the late 18th and early 19th century—a time chock-full of Western revolutions, uprisings, monarchist backlash and democratic zeal—one of the great goals of science was designing a new and better beehive. Skep hives, round domes woven of straw, had been in common use in Northern Europe for centuries; they were cheap to make and easy to care for. They were not, however, easy for people to get honey out of without killing every bee inside, often using sulphur smoke that tainted the taste of the honey. The killing wasn’t necessarily a problem for many farming folk—after all, people raised cows and pigs and chickens for butchering—but it increasingly became a problem for scientifically minded beekeepers.

After all, if bees are a bit like people, then killing them is a bit like murder.

So while the American colonies and the French political classes were flinging off their monarchist chains (while keeping Black slave labor shackled), there was also an explosion of new hive designs, many of them strange and ambitious and weirdly charming. They were built of wood and glass and metal; they were cylinders or cabinets or jars, or the bold octagonal shape of the Stewarton hive (1819). The Langstroth hive, still used today, would eventually triumph over all these after the middle of the century, but there is something irresistibly earnest about the designs that occupied this transitional era. They’re so hopeful—ideal worlds in miniature, as utopian as the political optimists who were redesigning human societies according to democratic principles (howsoever unequally applied across race, gender and so on). When you start thinking of bees as people, you want them to have the best possible home.

My favorite design by far is the leaf hive, or folio hive, developed by blind Swiss entomologist François Huber. Using observations from his wife, Marie, and servant François Burnens, Huber made several important discoveries about honeybee anatomy, and developed an observation hive with separate rectangular sections that hinged at the back. At the front, the sections could be spread open like the pages of a book.

Reader, I fell in love.

My own relationship to bees began with my great-grandfather, who kept three Langstroth hives on a hill overlooking the sea. There was something mystical in the way he approached the hives in his veiled hat and leather gloves and removed one humming frame at a time, checking for brood and honey. I found bees in children’s books defending the protagonists against witchcraft, and bees as reincarnated human souls in Greek myths. Even nonfiction books full of bee facts gave me that telltale throb of good poetry: bee dances as complex language, their sensitivity to magnetism and electrical charges, the discovery that every worker bee’s sting was also a suicide.

And then I came across Huber and his leaf hive while reading about the history of science for The Lady’s Guide to Celestial Mechanics—and I knew I had to write a lady beekeeper for the sequel set in 1820. Too early for Langstroth, but perfect for a hive that looked like a book full of bees. I paired her with a stubborn printer, a woman and artist who was trying to walk the difficult line between vital political critique and seditious material that could get her imprisoned or worse.

There was plenty for a printer to be seditious about: 1820 was a famously tumultuous year in English social history. King George IV’s animosity for his wife burst into full flower as she returned from Italy demanding to be officially crowned. Rather than share the throne with a woman he loathed, George attempted to divorce her via a Bill of Pains and Penalties. Caroline was essentially put on trial in both in Parliament and the press: Her servants were interrogated, her household surveilled by George’s agents, her every action scrutinized for propriety by people who had reason to wish her the worst.

If I were to sum up the way the English public reacted to this threat against their queen, I could do it in one word: They swarmed.

Everyone who could write put out a pamphlet and the caricatures were passed around and chortled over like today’s best memes.

Letters were written in defense of the queen from cities and towns and trade guilds all over the country, and crowds presented them to her en masse at Brandenburg House. Londoners rioted; soldiers mutinied; angry crowds broke windows in country towns; everyone who could write put out a pamphlet and the caricatures were passed around and chortled over like today’s best memes. Women became part of the public political conversation in larger numbers than ever, despite still being barred from the vote. Some of this agitation was the result of George’s political opposition sensing an opportunity and grabbing onto it with both hands; some of it was sincere patriotism or chivalry in defense of a royal lady.

Despite the fall of Napoleon, despite the failure of the French revolutionary experiment, the English government trembled to its foundations. The divorce Bill passed the House of Lords—but was dropped since it was clear it would never make it out of the Commons, which was thronged with pro-Caroline votes.

The English people celebrated the failure of the Bill as if they’d won a great military victory. Despite the corruption of the government, the power of the landed gentry, the lack of suffrage for women and many men, the people knew their voices had been heard and their collective power felt.

Caroline never was crowned queen. She died painfully of cancer the following summer. Her funeral procession turned into a riot; two men were killed by soldiers. She had been a symbol for the radicals and reformers, but never a supporter of their ideals and push for political change. But in organizing for her cause, the reformers had developed effective tactics to appeal to the public and in print. The next few decades saw the passage of the Great Reform Act and the rise of Chartism and the early cooperative movement, among other advances.

The increasing industrialization of the Victorian era used bees more and more metaphorically, even as beekeeping itself became standardized and a foundation of the agricultural industry. In 1867, caricaturist George Cruikshank—who had drawn many of the Georgian era’s most popular and enduring cartoons—produced a reworked engraving of his British Beehive, which depicted a conservative view of English society, as orderly as any honeybee could wish. Don’t change what’s already perfect, Cruikshank implied. The same year saw the publication of the first volume of Karl Marx’s Capital, which used worker bees to argue that human labor was more than merely physical—that it had an ideal, reflective aspect that created value. People: better than bees, said Marx!

Today, bees as pollinators are vital to global food production—and yet they are increasingly threatened by environmental hazards, climate change and good old-fashioned human theft. It turns out that if we lose bees, we’ll also lose a lot of people. Domestication goes two ways: We can’t be in a historically long-term relationship with another creature and then continue normally if it vanishes.

I’m almost as worried about the bees these days as I am about people. I have to hope the story of this relationship is a romance, that people and bees will manage somehow to live happily ever after, together.

Suzanne Enoch’s Hit Me With Your Best Scot transports romance fans away from glittering ballrooms and polite country lanes and into the exciting and under-explored setting of the Regency-era theater. Enoch shares how she brought to life the backstage romance of actress Persephone Jones and Scottish aristocrat Coll MacTaggert.

In the 50ish books I’ve written, this is the first time I’ve featured an actor or actress as a main character. Having spent most of my writing time in the English Regency and doing the research that goes with that, there were names I’d heard of: Edmund Kean, Joseph Grimaldi, Fanny Abington, Sarah Siddons and, of course, the Drury Lane Theater, the one at Covent Gardens and the famous Lyceum.

For the tale of actress Persephone Jones and her romance with Coll MacTaggert, Lord Glendarril, I didn’t want to use an actual theater, so I invented the St. Genesius, a rival to the royal theater of Drury Lane. (Genesius is the patron saint of actors.) There were a couple of specific things I needed, including a small dressing room for an actress, catwalks galore, a backstage area filled with old props, backdrops and lots of places for a big Highlander to feel claustrophobic. All the backstage antics made using a fictional theater much simpler than trying to adapt the story to a real one.

I love doing research and probably have over 500 books on topics from the history of the lavatory to the scourge of gout, but for this story I needed to add a couple more to my shelves. (Yay, book shopping!) The Time Traveller’s Guide to British Theater: The First Four Hundred Years by Aleks Sierz and Lia Ghilardi gave me a good overview, while Rival Queens: Actresses, Performances, and the Eighteenth-Century British Theater by Felicity Nussbaum gave me lots of specifics—and they both made me jealous of long titles. Oh, and I looked through Roaring Boys: Shakespeare’s Rat Pack by Judith Cook just because I wanted to.

In the course of writing, I’ve discovered that atmosphere is more important than specifics, but it’s also important to have a grasp of the topic so you’re just not flinging words like “blocking” and “downstage” and “stage right” around willy-nilly. That said, it was great fun to invent a close-knit acting troupe, have some theater rivalries and make some hopefully amusing use of “the Scottish play,” including one actor who refuses to say “Macbeth” even when the name appears in the text of the play.

I chose Macbeth as the play being performed during the course of the book because my hero, Coll, happens to be Scottish, and because of the supposed bad luck that frequently accompanies the performance of that particular play. That allowed me to keep the characters guessing over whether the mishaps that keep befalling Persephone Jones are simply because of the play, or if something more sinister is at work. Plus, all the male actors could be envious of how very fine Coll looked in a kilt.

There’s lots more to Hit Me With Your Best Scot than the theater, of course—including a cat named Hades, picnics in the park, fires, a masquerade ball, a lost heiress and a viscount who has 28 days to find a bride or he loses his fortune. The entire book was so fun to write, and I’m kind of wishing I’d given the MacTaggert family more than three Highlander brothers so I could keep writing in this warm, wild, witty world.

Author photo by Dinamariephotography.com

A dashing spy! A spinster determined to cause a scandal! Estranged childhood friends-to-lovers! Emily Sullivan’s debut historical romance, A Rogue to Remember, practically begs for a screen adaptation. So who better to give happily ever after fans a list of criminally underrated costume dramas?

My lifelong love of the costume drama began during childhood sleepovers at my grandma’s house where we would watch episodes of Masterpiece on PBS or movies she had either rented from the library or taped off the TV. These were usually British adaptations of various 19th century novels and I couldn’t get enough of the lavish settings, the period clothing, the crisp accents and the melodramatic storylines. I wanted my life to be filled with intrigue, forbidden romance and lots of longing glances. Instead, I’ve grown into a happily married and, perhaps, slightly boring adult who prefers their drama to be on the page or screen. And in times such as these, I’ve also come to value the comfort provided by a good Happily Ever After. However, there is a limit to the number of times one can watch Mr. Darcy’s terrible proposal or submit to yet another adaptation of Jane Eyre. So in that vein, here are a few underrated gems that combine some of my favorite elements of a good costume drama along with the promise of a HEA.

Gentleman Jack (2019)
Suranne Jones is absolutely mesmerizing in this HBO show based on the diaries of 19th century British landowner and LGBTQ+ trailblazer Anne Lister that everyone should be screaming about. Lister is a commanding presence as she stalks around Yorkshire in her top hat and tailcoat, refusing to conform to social norms and ruffling feathers wherever she goes, which makes the tender romance that develops between her and shy neighbor Ann Walker a particularly compelling example of opposites attract.

Vanity Fair (2018)
If you enjoyed the modern musical cues and eye-catching costumes of "Bridgerton," check out the most recent adaptation of William Makepeace Thackeray’s classic novel which features songs from Kate Bush and The Cure to score the story of the social climbing but oh-so-entertaining Becky Sharp. While Miss Sharp is far too cynical to ever truly fall in love, the slow burn secondary romance between Amelia Sedley (played by “Bridgerton” actor Claudia Jessie) and William Dobbin (Johnny Flynn, the star of 2020's Emma) that unfurls over years will please romance lovers seeking a more traditional HEA.

Desperate Romantics (2009)
This BBC series follows the burgeoning careers and tumultuous love lives of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, a group of radical painters who sought to challenge the stodgy Victorian art world. It also focuses on the real-life—and often scandalous—romances between Dante Gabriel Rosetti and model Elizabeth Siddons, and John Stuart Mills and the unhappily married Effie Gray. Rosetti is played to rakish perfection by a young Aidan Turner, perhaps best known for his shirtless scythe-wieding in “Poldark.”

Death Comes to Pemberley (2011)
Ok, so you’ve watched both major adaptions of Pride and Prejudice dozens of times and have strong opinions on the Firth vs. McFadden debate. But have you seen Mr. Darcy played by a super grumpy Matthew Rhys trying to solve a murder? If not, let me introduce you to this enjoyable miniseries based on the book by beloved British mystery writer P.D. James. It takes place several years after the events of Austen’s novel and gives viewers a window into the lives of Darcy and Elizabeth, who are happily married until Lydia and Wickham show up and cause trouble.

Read our interview with P.D. James about Death Comes to Pemberley.

North and South (2004)
Some may quibble with this entry being labeled as “underrated” given its cult-like status. But until Richard Armitage growling “Look back at me” is as well-known as the Darcy hand-flex, I contend that this miniseries based on Elizabeth Gaskell’s 1854 novel about a young woman moving to northern England and learning the importance of workers’ rights deserves more attention. It also features a borderline torturous slow burn romance that is entirely worth enduring for one of the best onscreen kisses I’ve ever seen.

Regency romances with diverse casts such as Netflix’s “Bridgerton” may be perceived as merely a laudable fantasy, but the reality is that the time period was far less lily-white than many historical romances acknowledge. Daniel Thackery, the titular nobleman in Vanessa Riley’s An Earl, the Girl, and a Toddler, is Black, and was inspired by real people of color who were elevated to similar positions by the prince regent, George IV. In this essay, Riley explores the many fascinating layers of Daniel’s experience as a Black aristocrat.

In 1982, cartoonist Bob Thaves wrote a memorable line in his “Frank and Ernst” syndicated strip: “Sure he [Fred Astaire] was great, but don't forget that Ginger Rogers did everything he did, backwards . . . and in high heels.”

It’s a sexist quote humorously offered to disclose what we don’t often talk about, the fact that two wonderfully attired peers whirl about a ballroom floor, spinning with that look of falling in love—shimmering eyes, bated breath—but the world doesn’t see them as equals.

The melanated set did exist in this world of finery built on exquisite manners and wealth from colonization, where gossip could spread from an impertinent look.

When writing people of color in the aristocracy, I think of Thaves’ quote. The melanated set did exist in this world of finery built on exquisite manners and wealth from colonization, where gossip could spread from an impertinent look. One could be vilified for being on the wrong balcony with the wrong person or getting caught falling in love with the wrong peer at the wrong time.

Imagine a couple dancing to a reel composed by a famous violinist. The couple is touching, lovingly in each other's arms, spinning around a leased, luxurious ballroom. Thousands of scenes from books may have entered your head, but did any include the renowned Black musician George Bridgetower or the rich rooms of the well-connected Black proprietor Jack Beef?

Now make the couple interracial, or Black, or Asian, or LGBTQ+ or with a visible disability. Whether we want to admit it or not, the story changes. Different sensibilities come into our well-conditioned, biased minds. We can’t help it. We’re born that way.

In An Earl, the Girl, and a Toddler, Daniel Thackery is one of the prince regent's favorites. It is a fact that Prinny elevated exceptional people of color, investing in their careers and allowing them access to his social world. It is also a fact that wealthy people of color attended balls, held balls and were outfitted in all the trappings money could buy.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our review of An Earl, the Girl, and a Toddler.

We originally met Daniel, now Lord Ashbrook, as a reserved barrister and nephew to the Widow’s Grace mastermind Lady Shrewsbury in A Duke, the Lady, and a Baby. In An Earl, the Girl, and a Toddler the second book of the Rogues and Remarkable Women series, we see him moving in all his responsibilities. He’s a widowed single dad. He’s trying to keep his aunt and her women out of jail. He works in the prince regent's courts. His hands are full, but he deals with the imperfect world as it is.

Daniel must contend with those who don’t like his ascension. He must ignore the glares of some who don’t want him at the balls daring to dance with a member of the ton. He must share the chalked floor with those who refuse to acknowledge his humanity and hope his ratafia is watery.

Things as simple as making sure his cuffs are pressed and his cravat is perfectly tied feed into his anxiety. He understands that are people waiting for the slightest appearance of wrong to allow that niggling feeling, that suspicious notion of his character and motives, to convict him in their minds.

Guilty.

They will cheer if he’s scandalized. For some of his peers, it’s wrong for Daniel to be here, to be anywhere, to breathe.

And our hero knows this. He’s trying to build a better world for his little girl. He has hope. Breathe.

Did I mention the ones who love him? He’s an earl, right? Daniel is not a victim. He is a man who is a party to a system built for men. He has money and power within a patriarchy that rewards power.

Daniel is smart. He’ll not do life alone. He refuses to be one speck of color on a snowy canvas. He has good friends who share his ethnicity, his interests or both. They help him laugh and remember that he’s bright and loved. They’ll help him pick out his dancing slippers with an inch of Regency heel.

I’ve given you a glimpse of some of the things I think about when I write about people of color intersecting with the aristocracy. By acknowledging the knee-jerk discomfort that may arise from seeing Black characters in these roles while still surrounding the characters in the joy of being who they are and loving the skin they bring to the ballrooms, the world expands.

In this context, we learn about people and enjoy differing perspectives without the othering or painful narratives long associated with history and Black people and people of color. That’s a ballroom all can visit for a celebration of dance, dexterity and killer shoes.

Fairy tale adaptations are always popular with romance readers, but Charis Michaels’ new historical romance series has a particularly clever twist. While each Awakened by a Kiss book is inspired by a classic story, the characters are based on supporting characters such as Snow White’s huntsman and Cinderella’s stepsisters. Isobel Tinker, the spunky, take-no-prisoners heroine of Michaels’ latest romance, When You Wish Upon a Duke, is (of course) inspired by Tinkerbell.

If you’re in search of more enchantment after reading Michaels’ latest love story, here are five more fairy tale-inspired romances with the author’s stamp of approval.

Little known-fact: I used to work at Disney World. And not as a disgruntled teenager or Orlando local. I actively pursued a job at the Most Magical Place during my junior year in college. I forsook serious internships to drive four states away and join the Disney “cast.” Wearing a Mickey name badge and black leather Reeboks, I pointed tourists in the direction of Space Mountain. The experience did not disappoint; I left Florida at the end of the summer in a happy swirl of chlorine and pixie dust.

Perhaps the natural next step was to write historical romance. Romances are, in many ways, fairy tales for adults. My current series, Awakened by a Kiss, is dripping in pixie dust. The trilogy explores “whatever-happened-to” sideline characters from classic tales like Snow White, Cinderella and Peter Pan. The first book, A Duchess a Day, follows up on the Huntsman from Snow White. The third book, If the Duke Fits, will give the happily-ever-after treatment to a stepsister from Cinderella. But perhaps the book I’m most excited about is my current release, When You Wish Upon a Duke.

The heroine, Miss Isobel Tinker, is inspired by Tinkerbell from Peter Pan. After a chaotic youth spent cavorting around Europe, Miss Tinker has sworn off two things: travel and men. She works as a clerk in a travel agency and vows never to leave her safe, reliable life in London. (Best-laid plans.) When a dashing duke strides into the shop and makes an offer she cannot refuse, Miss Tinker is compelled to dredge up her latent language skills and serve as his translator. Hilarity, adventure and passion ensue, with pirates and geothermal pools and that oh-so-important happily ever after.

Fairy tale themes in popular fiction have enriched and captivated readers for decades. To help celebrate the release of When You Wish Upon a Duke, I give you five novels that take inspiration from the words, “Once upon a time . . .”

The Beast of Beswick by Amelia Howard

If you love a beastly aristocrat in need of redemption, look no further than this "Beauty and the Beast"-inspired Regency.

One Plus One by Jojo Moyes

This contemporary romance combines Moyes’ beautiful writing with the timeless tale of a maid who falls in love with a prince of a rich guy.

The Devil’s Own Duke by Lenora Bell

Another Cinderella story, this is a reverse fairy tale. The hero is a working-class Cinderella and he comes up from the streets to marry a duke’s daughter. (This one’s not out until September 28, so preorder it now!)

Out of Character by Annabeth Albert

While not inspired by a specific fairy tale, this contemporary romance features a prince and frog wizard (in costume!). Friends-to-lovers takes center stage here, with a magical backdrop of cosplay and fantasy gaming.

Once Upon a Tower by Eloisa James

Few authors revisit a fairy tale like Eloisa James. Her Fairy Tales series spans multiple books, each one more magical than the next. My favorite is the Rapunzel-inspired Once Upon a Tower. The magic begins with the gorgeous cover and the story inside carries you away.

In Joanna Shupe’s latest romance novel, A Scandalous Deal, aspiring architect Eva Hyde has found the perfect project to establish her reputation—a glittering, luxurious hotel in New York City. But her attraction to her employer, powerful businessman Phillip Mansfield, threatens to expose her identity and ruin her carefully laid plans. Shupe’s the Four Hundred series are some of the best new books set in the Gilded Age, and follow English noblewomen as they discover the intoxicating freedom and powerful men of turn-of-the-century America.

The Gilded Age might not be as popular a time period as the Regency and Victorian eras in historical romance, but it’s been a steady subgenre for years, offering readers a less restrictive, even more ridiculously opulent setting than the ballrooms of English high society. In this guest post, Shupe told us which five books she recommends for fans of the period.

Opulence. Innovation. Corruption. America’s Gilded Age had all this and much more. I have always been fascinated by this era because it is fraught with tension and conflict—perfect for romance stories! Here are five of my favorite novels set in Gilded Age New York.

The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton

What happens when you fall in love with a scandalous divorcée when duty and conformity are your entire world? This is the question Newland Archer must face when he meets the beautiful Countess Olenska in old New York. Wharton’s writing is divine and a true window into the high society of Mrs. Astor’s time. (When you are done with the book, go watch the Daniel Day-Lewis movie adaptation. That carriage scene . . . swoon!)

Lions and Lace by Meagan McKinney

When her wealthy family is ruined, Alana Van Alan is left on the doorstep of the man responsible, ruthless financier Trevor Sheridan, also known as the Predator. Sheridan’s Irish ancestry makes him think a Knickerbocker princess like Alana could never truly love him. The story gives some insight into the prejudices of the time, and the high society world building is outstanding. Warning, this is an old-school romance—but it’s one of my desert island keepers.

Deadly Vows by Brenda Joyce

Francesca Cahill is an amateur sleuth and socialite in Old New York and she’s about to marry Calder Hart—or is she? When she gets caught up in the hunt to find a scandalous painting, her future and her relationship are suddenly threatened. This is the final book in Joyce’s Deadly mystery series. While this one was my favorite, do yourself a favor and start at the beginning of the series (Deadly Love) because each book is fantastic.

Destiny’s Captive by Beverly Jenkins

Pilar Banderas is a Cuban rebel and she needs to steal a ship. Unfortunately for Noah Yates, his ship is the one she chooses. When he wakes up from being kidnapped, he’s tied to a bed (yes!), his ship is already at sea and he vows revenge on the pirate. This story is pure delicious fun from start to finish, with a feisty heroine and unique locations like Cuba, Florida and California. When Noah called Pilar “mi pequeña pirata,” I dropped dead from the feels. This book is a must-read for anyone who loves a sword-wielding heroine.

Duchess by Design by Maya Rodale

A desperate duke comes to Gilded Age New York to marry an American heiress and save his family. Instead, he falls for a spunky-but-definitely-poor seamstress. This is the first in Rodale’s Gilded Age Girls Club series and it isn’t available until October 23, but I was lucky enough to read an early copy. The story is delightful, with plenty of Rodale’s signature witty dialogue and clever details. I devoured this American twist on the familiar duke trope.