There's Always Room for Crumpets

Robyn:

What I’m reading now: Liz Carlyle’s historical No True Gentleman. Good so far. Spunky widow? Check. Dark broody hero? Double check. (I loves them lost souls.) Dangerous mystery to solve? Check.

I like the fact that our widow, Lady Catherine Wodeway, was actually happy with her first husband. He wasn’t an abusive jerk, nor was he a friend for whom she had no passion. He was a good guy that she loved. Our hero, Maximilian de Rohan, doesn’t pass social status muster with her family at first; a policeman who’s turned his back on his title, his blood is actually bluer than hers. As befits all good heroines, she doesn’t care. As the two get closer to both each other and the bad guy, two villain flunkies beat the living snot out of Max. Bruised, pummeled, with broken ribs, he nonetheless cannot control his need for Catherine. Which leads me to- *insert fanfare*

This week’s Most Improbable Situation:

~Incapacitated Tea and Crumpets~

There are sickbed scenes in many, many romances. Generally, I don’t mind them. After all, it is a good way for the reluctant partner to reorder his or her priorities, and finally figure out what we the readers have known all along: you’re in love, stupid!

But someone please tell me how the partner who has been shot/stabbed/beaten/trampled/thrown off a cliff/stricken with exotic disease can, upon seeing their true love, ignore the pain and suffering enough to indulge in Tea and Crumpets? Looooong drawn out sessions of Tea and Crumpets?

I have been married for 18 years. I adore my husband. But I must be a wienie. When I’m sick, the only thing I want from him is tea and silence. Leave the cup on my nightstand, dear, and GET OUT. And keep the kids and the dog from coming in here. And turn the T.V. down. And turn the phone off. And read my mind and come running when I need a refill.

Passion is the last thing on my mind, I assure you. But not this hero! Max, even after having been beaten to a pitiful pulp, says, “Honey, I’m not worried that you jumping on my broken ribs might puncture a lung. I needs me some Crumpets, now!” Catherine proceeds to give him the, uh, ride of his life, during which he sits up several times. Not an Abs of Steel crunch workout, precisely, but you get the idea. And he is unaware of the pain because he’s been anaesthetized by love!

Come on. He wouldn’t be howling in ecstasy, he’d be howling in agony. I know romance heroes are stoic and strong, but I also know that most sick or injured men are total babies. You can’t convince me he wouldn’t be emitting the death rattle of the wildebeest and demanding that Lady Catherine go fetch him tea and painkillers. And keep the servants and his grandmother out. And tell his employer he’s not coming in. And fluff his pillow just so. And rearrange his blanket. And wipe his brow. And…