Which leads us, of course, to the almighty subject of class difference. This is, of course, a hallmark of Heyer, not just in her historical works but also in her contemporaries, especially in her arguably most challenging outing, 1930’s Barren Corn, in which a well-educated member of London’s rarefied gentry falls into mésalliance with the post-War equivalent of, in Victorian literary terms, a simple country maid, to the misery of all. (Including, it must sadly be admitted, many of the book’s readers.) Here, it manifests in Cicely’s utter disregard for Talbot as a man, or even as a person. To her he is a mere prop to her vanity, a sop to her boredom, and she is utterly astonished that he would presume to think of her as a potential mate, with their stations in life so very different, he a farmer and she a gentleman’s daughter. She takes it for granted that he will know his “place,” and that she could never be in any real danger from him, her “inferior.” Indeed, it is evident she has never felt in real danger from any man, for which we can only envy her.

Talbot, for his part, is assured of his own superiority over her, having misread Cicely’s signals entirely and also somehow believing that even if she had been signalling a romantic interest with her visits and her invitations, she’d consent to have him tell her what he’d “allow” her to do. In the space of a very few paragraphs, Talbot goes from mistaken to menacing, pitiful to predatory, and the shock of this sudden transformation rings so very true that a surge of adrenaline races through you, as your stomach plummets and fear grips.

It is very, very well done.

The very real threat of sexual violence is thrust upon the reader in quite the most dramatic fashion here – even The Black Moth, the publication of which predated this story by a year, and which features as one of its leads a serial abductor and rapist, is not so blatant about the looming dread its heroine faces – and in reaction to it, our independent Cicely comes over all winsome and compliant to the suddenly masterful Richard, whose timely arrival at this hidden away backwater of a cottage could not have been luckier for him, or her, or even Talbot, most probably. Cicely, shuddering in the aftermath of her would-be suitor’s anger and assault, rashly clings to her childhood companion (and cousin – here we have the first of Heyer’s consanguine couples, eventually culminating in The Grand Sophy’s first cousin pairing) as a safety net, as a protector, and meekly accepts his oft-delivered marriage proposal, at last.

It’s understandable, but also kind of lowering, to see Cicely brought so helpless by this encounter. It is maddening to see Richard believe himself validated in his opinion that she is not to be trusted to take care of herself.

Though there are hints that perhaps the old defiant Cicely is still in there somewhere. I actually like to think that she breaks off the engagement a couple of weeks later, and goes off to see the world with the much-maligned Maisie. (I’ll never forgive Richard for being so unnecessarily mean about her, the jerk.) Indeed, this is the one and only Heyer romance that has ever left me hoping that the Happy for Now does not become a Happily Ever After, post-book. Richard – despite his four years serving in World War I, which is very subtly mentioned herein – is clearly a dilettante, and our Cecily needs more from her partner.