Allow me to pay homage to the writing style of this book. 
 Finished the book. I sigh. Twisted my head. Arched my back like a mewling kitten towards its mother, hungry, afraid, an innocent newcomer in this cruel, cold world. My head ached. An unbelievable pain like a knife to the head, hilt broken like a katana sword struck by a bullet, in a fight between a samurai and a cowboy. I sat up. The chair let out a squeak, the noise of an newborn mouse. How can I describe the pain. The suffering! The eternal twilight of the endless night. The soul-sucking misery. The mind-numbing boredom worse than any kind of liquid nitrogen reaching 0 Kelvin. O hapless imagery! O destruction of the English language. How I beseech thee, book, to stop thus! 
 Ok, I'm done. I hurt myself writing that. 
 Do you like descriptions? No, I mean, do you really like descriptions? Do you like overwrought metaphors and a criminal use of adjectives? If you do, then dang diddly if this book isn't written just for you! 
 I read my fair share of bodice rippers. Books in which a love scene is dragged out in excrutiating minutiae and flowery language so flowery you could choke on the scent (see what I did there? Har har har). I have rarely read a love scene so overblown and contrived as the --honestly, I don't know what to call it -- thing at the beginning of this book. 
 And that's just the beginning. To sum it up: the writing is atrocious (to me, who knows, you might like it), the plot is convoluted and barely detectable between the clusterfuckery of purple prose. 
 Reader, I abandoned this book.