1818. In her father’s small research camp in Venezuela’s steamy Orinoco delta, Eden Farraday longs for society balls and, above all, a love match. Her daydreams brighten into hope when a timber crew captained by an Englishman shows up on the river. But England holds painful memories for her father, and the visitor, Jack Knight, is on a secret mission on behalf of Venezuelan revolutionaries. Dr. Farraday’s Australian assistant, too, has other plans for Eden. Her plea to be allowed to sail back home is refused. Desperate, she takes fate into her own hands and stows away on Jack’s ship.
The first four chapters of Gaelen Foley’s His Wicked Kiss take place in the remote jungles of Venezuela, and were a hugely enjoyable part of the book for me. The remarkable setting thrives under Foley’s lush prose, saturating the story with richly detailed atmosphere. The characters have well-rounded personalities that create crackling energy in their interactions. Eden shares the traits of the typical Foley heroine in that she is a supremely beautiful, young innocent, but in the research camp she demonstrates both toughness and competence, charming me with her scientific bent. Unfortunately, the closer she gets to the England she idolizes, however, the more she begins to leave her warmth and independence, her spark, behind.
A great deal of this book is spent aboard the hero’s ship. This is where the relationship between Jack and Eden begins to develop, and they have some lovely scenes together as friendship deepens into more. Nevertheless, I grew a bit restless. Having read a few shipboard stories back to back, I am realising that protracted confinement aboard a seafaring vessel generally fails to engage me beyond the vague interest of novelty plus the small hope that we might dock at an exotic port. Now I know why I never quite could convince myself to settle down and read the by all accounts excellent Patrick O’Brien. I have to admit to skimming at one point.
Ireland, in which some passionate encounters take place before the final arrival in England, is a complete blank – we get to see, smell, taste nothing beyond a castle bedroom. The England of His Wicked Kiss is a generic place restricted to family reunions and a few vaguely sketched society events among the same interiors one plods through in regency after regency. (No wonder the regulars at Almack’s are always described as jaded or yawning.) I looked back at that vivid opening and its promising unpredictability with a wistful sigh. It didn’t help that the last quarter of the book dwelled on resentment and frustrations. I only perked up because of a suspenseful finale.
Based on my reading of five of her romances, Gaelen Foley specializes in over-the-top-fairytale-passion-gone-wild romance. Although this type of storytelling rarely clicks with me, Princess and Lord Of Ice did earn places on my keeper shelves, which is why every now and then I take a cautious peek at Foley’s offerings. His Wicked Kiss has a big plot and brims with the author’s trademark passion. If Eden and Jack had remained in South America or Jamaica (Jack’s home base) I like to think that the book could have joined my two keepers. The epilogue works as a nice nod to what could have been if Foley had kept the story in “the New World”. But that is merely this reader’s dream, and neither here nor there.
Excerpt
(Ballantine Books mass market paperback, 2006, p.46):
“Jack led the way, stalking down the rustic hemp-and-plank boardwalk, which was raised some inches over the forest floor.
Behind them, the blazing tropical sun came back out over the river, burning off the temporary coolness from the rain. The broad leaves above still dripped, however, as they entered the netherworld gloom of the emerald jungle.
The plants and young trees on either side of the walkway threatened to take it over, while countless lianas hung down from the branches above. Ahead, he saw a flicker of movement, pale swishing skirts. His male senses pricked up.
Light footfalls pattered closer, their rhythm vibrating toward him down the planks. A shy silence followed. He searched the greenery. Where was the little imp? Stopping at the lattice of a chest-high fan palm that arced across the path, he saw curious green eyes peeking at him through the pinnate fingers of the palm frond.”
