(16) Georgette Heyer novels

Sometimes you're just in the mood for something light, you know? I don't mean light in the sense of a tofu-veg no-fat stir-fry, though; I mean something more like a frothy, featherweight mousse. It's defiantly frivolous, not in the least a good-for-you thing; but you don't care in the least, because just looking at it before you dip the spoon in, even knowing very well what to expect, brings a sharp anticipation welling up in you, makes your mouth water. And every time you eat one, no matter how often you eat it or how many times you've eaten it, traditional chocolate or maybe an unexpected strawberry or mango, it's every bit as deliciously insubstantial and memorable as you remembered from the last time. And you know that you couldn't live on a diet of it, but you also know that next time you order it from the dessert menu, it will be wonderful. Just exactly what you wanted.

So that's Georgette Heyer. After a recent flurry of correspondence with resonant, I find I'm in the mood again, so I'm ready for a reread. First on the bill of fare is Sylvester, and I don't know where I'm going from there, but I'll be happy from the minute I pick up each book till the moment I put it down again.