Barbara Cartland wrote in excess of 200 novels. These are the kind of thing that give romance a bad name. Having read one at the age of about twelve, I steadfastly refused to pick up another until a couple of days ago, when a batch arrived to flesh out the "trash" section of the second-hand bookshop I'm opening.
They have titles like A Very Naughty Angel and The Duchess Disappears. The cover 'art' has all clearly been done by the same illustrator and features wide-eyed maidens looking adoringly up at square-jawed noblemen.
The back covers have a picture of the Dame herself, in silk, feathers and tiara (doubtless she thought being the step-grandmother of Diana, Princess of Wales entitled her to wear a crown) perched on a chaise longe between two flower bearing gilt cherubs and beside a long-haired pooch.
I sat down to flick through a couple, and quickly discovered that the covers were, in fact, the best thing about them. Inevitably, they feature a pure, unspoiled heroine, and an arrogant, but incredibly handsome and wealthy hero. The plots, if one can dignify them with the name, revolve around overcoming obstacles so that true love can win through (the obstacles in question in two of the three I glanced at, being murderous women hopelessly in love with the hero and prepared to do anything to keep him from our heroine's clutches).
As if that wasn't bad enough, the dialogue is wooden and stilted, and always, the heroine ... speaks in a ... kind ... of hesitant... breathiness with ... elipses scattered ... throughout every ... sentence she ... speaks... though the pauses don't fall ... naturally... but at ... random.
Avoid these books, if you value your sanity.