Oh, Lady Maggie. I had such high hopes for you. You, the daughter of a courtesan, the bastard child of an earl/duke/lord/marquis, have been accepted by your stepmother as her own. Your sisters and brothers love you. You are independent, intellingent, and strong. You can read, you understand the financial papers, you invest your own money, and you own your own home, complete with servants. You're not too terribly skinny, you're taller than is fashionable, and you have fire-engine red hair, the mark, as we all know, of a true trollop. And Benjamin wants you. Shirtless, hot, half-naked on the cover Lord Benjamin wants you. And he wants you because you're smart and independent and all of the things girls aren't supposed to be.
And Mags, honey, you really had me, for about three-quarters of the book. I was totally on your side. Even when you had to lie to Ben about the whole half-sister-who-may-or-may-
not-be-turning-into-a-hooker thing. Even when you told Ben you didn't want to have sex with him (which, dear GOD that had to have been difficult). Even when you agreed to be pretend engaged so that your reputation wouldn't be sullied after some nosy old lady caught you with your hand in Ben's pants in the garden.
But then, stupid Grace had to go and ruin it all by making you have to turn to hot, shirtless Benjamin to save the day.
In the end, you couldn't solve the problem on your own. You needed Benjamin and his cousin (way to set up for a sequel, Grace, I have to give you props there) to help you rescue your half-sister.
And that just really, really, really pissed me off.