Lily is one of a small class of books that I thought absolutely outrageous when I read them, yet which lingered in my memory so compellingly, they actually became prime favorites. It’s a very over the top, old skool, bodice rippery type of romance (though not the kind in which the heroine is raped or has sex with other men, which tends to be where I personally draw the line, bodice ripper-wise.) It’s the sort of romance that either has you wanting to stomp on the hero’s face or clutching your stomach in vicarious agony over how cruel he is, or perhaps both. Which of course provides a wonderful catharsis when he gets his and, eventually they both get each other. Whether you love or hate it -- or perhaps both -- you probably won’t forget it.
