Culture
15 Queer Historical Romance Books to Dive Into the Genre
Writing a list of queer historical romances feels half like writing a manifesto and half like writing a eulogy. Here are the love stories we created; here are our voices and hopes and desires, when we were still allowed to openly name them. Queer literary history has never been simple — even the parts of it I’ve personally lived through have contained incredible transformations — but what frightens me are the people who want to make tragedy the central queer experience again.
When I get in this mood, I turn to queer historical romance. Seeing queer people build their own happiness brick by brick no matter what the world thinks of them nourishes something in me.
So I’ve listed some of my favorites for you here, stretching from the ancient worlds of A.J. Demas all the way to 20th-century New York City. I offer you centuries of L.G.B.T.Q. romance, of stories that defy tragedy and laugh in the face of shame, of people successfully claiming joy — as is their right.
This is one of the greatest one-two punches in all of queer romance: a pair of hopeful yet heartbreaking books about men falling in love in postwar, pre-Stonewall New York. In the first, the scrappy Italian American reporter Nick falls for Andy, the earnest, hapless son of a press mogul. In the second, Mark, a journalist, is reeling from the loss of his beloved partner when he’s assigned to shadow Eddie, a flailing, failing pro baseball player. These books make me laugh, they make me cry, and they make me yearn for a million books just like them. I cannot think of any higher superlative.
The Exposition Universelle provides the backdrop for Herrera’s Belle Époque trilogy of determined heroines and the titled partners they bedevil. This second volume in the series features a Caribbean heiress, Manuela, who has only a few short weeks to enjoy herself among the women of Paris before she marries a man of her parents’ choosing. But then she meets Cora, a countess with a wicked mind and financial smarts, who offers her a much more tempting future — if only Manuela is bold enough to seize it. This novel reimagines the intense relationship between Philip II of France and Richard the Lionheart, one of England’s most famous medieval monarchs (and a queer icon for centuries). Is it basically “The Lion in Winter” fan fiction with a love story between two difficult, warlike kings? Yes. Is it a marvelous read filled with royal angst, an Eleanor of Aquitaine cameo and lines of pure poetry? Also yes.
With so many bluestocking heroines in upper-class historical romance, it’s easy to forget how many restrictions there were on reading and literature for most British people during the early 19th century. Here, Trent offers us a clock mender whose friend is facing sedition charges as part of a crackdown on political reading clubs, and a housemaid whose testimony might exonerate her. It’s a sweet, sensitive vision of two people finding their way to happiness in a hostile time, despite their lack of wealth or station.
And now, for a different take on the late 18th century, we have a murderous, pistols-blazing, provocative, bi-for-bi romance between a countess who’s just shot her awful husband and the thief who’s blackmailing her about it. Falling in love via letters is one thing; falling in love via extortion letters is quite another. Filled with top-tier romance shenanigans, this book is by turns hilarious and heartbreaking — a Sebastian specialty.
In a small room, every Wednesday, a radical printer and bookseller named Silas Mason meets a highborn Tory gentleman — and offers him some of the roughest sex in Regency London. They’ve been meeting for a year, but it’s only when Silas’s bookshop is raided that his lover’s name becomes known to him. Dominic Frey is a member of the oppressive class and everything Silas should despise — but now their mutual discretion is all that’s keeping them from punishment for their crimes of passion. Rich with political undercurrents and personal drama, this second volume in Charles’s much-loved Society of Gentlemen series stands out for both its political history and its high-octane kink.
I love it when people in historical romances have interesting jobs, and so does Ottoman. This book, set in 19th-century New York City, showcases a gentle, low-stakes romance between a bisexual quilt maker and the trans silversmith who hires her to turn his old clothing into a memorial quilt. The novel is a quiet masterpiece of tone, and the way that each character’s artistic skill plays into their growing feelings is a joy to behold. There is a moment in this stunning novella where one character looks at the other and thinks, “Every act of gravity and time made beauty in nature — except when it happened to human women” — and then proceeds to list every last beloved detail of a seven-decade-old body in all its specificity and imperfection. Set in late-19th-century England, this short book casts a long shadow: redefining beauty and usefulness, putting two older women at the center of a love story and punishing terrible men with the consequences they so richly deserve. A perfect book.
The interwar era of the early 20th century saw flourishing queer subcultures bloom in many places — most famously Paris, but not even the staid manor houses of England were entirely exempt. In this sweet romance, a quiet English girl meets a bold, brash American bombshell in town for her sister’s wedding. Soon all bets are off and all futures are possible.
Gray explores the complexity of queer expression in different eras in this time-travel romance between a 1960s college student and the Civil War soldier he wakes from an enchanted hundred-year sleep. Russell, our soldier, is accustomed to casual affection between men — hand-holding, cuddling — that Caleb, in the 20th century, finds painfully revealing of queerness, and which might even be dangerous in a bigoted small town. A reflection on how history shapes our experience and expression, and a charming fairy tale of a romance, all in one witty package.
Polyamorous characters are still comparatively rare, even in queer romance, so gems like this one are worth celebrating. The Honorable Aubrey Fanshawe has a perfectly acceptable sexual arrangement with a lord and lady of his acquaintance. He shouldn’t also be taking up with a servant like Lucien Saxby, especially since Lucien supplements his valet’s income by writing scurrilous gossip pieces for a scandal-hungry press. But once begun, the affair is irresistible. The threads of debt, power, passion, negotiation and compromise that our two leads weave together are as delicate and lovely as a spider’s web in winter.
On a famously gay island, during the height of the AIDS pandemic, something evil stalks a young man, and only the powers of a disco-dance coven of queer witches can save him — if he even wants to be saved. This is the kind of heartfelt, messy, weird novel you find on the shelves of a beachside cabin because your uncle left it there 20 years ago. It perfectly makes a case for the necessity of hope, no matter how bleak the world may feel. An unusual romance, and not only on account of its Cold War setting, this book starts as the American F.B.I. agent Daniel and the Soviet spy Gennady are forced into a road trip across the Midwest. Gennady has been ordered to seduce his American counterpart, but finds he can’t betray Daniel entirely — and as the years go by and politics transform the world, the men struggle to suppress all they once meant to one another. It’s a happy ending three decades in the making.
Ancient Greece and Rome were in many ways more open about queer relationships than later eras would be. But those later eras did much to muddy the historical waters, and this setting now comes with a hefty load of baggage. Demas avoids any and all misconceptions in “Sword Dance,” which features an injured imperial soldier turned quartermaster, a eunuch slave from a conquered nation and a house full of philosophy students up to no good. I came for the queer romance, but I stayed for the sudden turn into ancient-world spy thriller and murder mystery.
Give me a pair of heartfelt romances that will make me laugh and cry
We Could Be So Good
You Should Be So Lucky by Cat SebastianImmerse me in the dazzle and drama of Belle Époque Paris
An Island Princess Starts a Scandal by Adriana Herrera
How about some ‘Lion in Winter’ fan fic?
Solomon’s Crown by Natasha Siegel
I want a sweet Regency
Sixpenny Octavo by Annick Trent
I’d like a laugh-out-loud love story with a body count
The Perfect Crimes of Marian Hayes by Cat Sebastian
Give me a mix of mystery and high-octane kink
A Seditious Affair by K.J. Charles
I want a gentle trans historical
The Craft of Love by EE Ottoman
I like love stories that center older women
Mrs. Martin’s Incomparable Adventure by Courtney Milan
I want a shy-English-girl-meets-bold-American tale
How to Talk to Nice English Girls by Gretchen Evans
How about a time-travel romance?
The Sleeping Soldier by Aster Glenn Gray
Give me upstairs-downstairs polyamory drama
Behind These Doors by Jude Lucens
You had me at “coven of queer witches”
Disco Witches of Fire Island by Blair Fell
How about an enemies-to-lovers novel with Cold War spies?
Honeytrap by Aster Glenn Gray
Give me suspense and romance in the ancient world
Sword Dance by A.J. Demas
Culture
Book Review: ‘Permanence,’ by Sophie Mackintosh
PERMANENCE, by Sophie Mackintosh
Sophie Mackintosh’s novels are always speculative in some way, with either the author or her characters forging a world governed by its own logic and rules. In their boldness and their ability to convey the violence of patriarchy, they recall the work of Jacqueline Harpman — not only the cherished “I Who Have Never Known Men,” but also “Orlanda,” her wild riff on Virginia Woolf’s “Orlando.”
Like Harpman, Mackintosh has a spare and confident hand. Her work is sometimes described as dreamlike; certainly, its contours are sketched with rapidity and confidence and relatively little detail. Her prose operates according to the same principle, at once lyrical and precise, like this from her second novel, “Blue Ticket”: “On the ground was a dead rabbit, disemboweled. Still fresh, the dark loops of its insides glistening like jam.”
When Mackintosh writes about masculine power, she does so in a way that articulates both its seductions and its terrors. Her newest novel, “Permanence,” is less explicitly concerned with the structure of patriarchy, but it has the same erotic charge as her earlier work, the same preoccupation with social prohibitions and the thrill that comes from breaking them.
Like “Blue Ticket,” “Permanence” turns on a highly pronounced binary. In “Blue Ticket,” adolescent girls are issued either a blue or white ticket on the day of their first period. A white ticket denotes a future of marriage and children, a blue ticket one of work — even, it seems, a career. The divide is stark and self-evidently faulty, its coarseness an expression of the brutalizing regime the characters are trapped in.
“Permanence” features a similar opposition, neatly delineated. Clara and Francis are conducting an illicit affair. One morning, they wake up in an alternate reality where they are openly living together. The novel shuttles between these two worlds, one ordinary and familiar, the other a curdled paradise for adulterers.
The thinness of this “city of impermanence” — “fluid, cohesive and yet disparate” — emerges at once. The sky is “uncannily blue,” the newspaper bears no date, the edge of the city is marked by “a slick ring of water, as far as the eye could see.”
Still, a boundary cannot keep the other world from seeping in. Initially, elegantly, this is a problem in the structure of desire. Having been provided the life they dreamed of, in which their longing for each other is fully met, Clara and Francis begin to experience, to their uneasy surprise, boredom and discontent.
Without absence, the intensity of their desire for each other wanes. They even begin, or at least Francis does, to long for the relief of their ordinary life: “Another day ahead of them of petting, giggling, lying around. It seemed insubstantial suddenly, though only the day before he had felt he could do it forever.”
Soon enough, it becomes clear that the problem between Francis and Clara doesn’t lie in the outside impediments of the world they live in, but in their relationship itself. Francis remains troublingly himself — a married father of a small child, reluctant to leave his family, however much he is in love with Clara: “He did love her, and he did want to be with her. … But he already had reality elsewhere, reality which he sometimes felt trapped by, he would admit, but which he could not truly imagine cutting loose.”
“Permanence” might seem like an outlier in the current array of articles and books about open marriages and polyamory, and at first glance the line of distinction between the two worlds, much like the division between blue and white tickets, seems almost old-fashioned. But as Mackintosh persuasively illustrates, the familiar emotions of jealousy, infatuation and eventually indifference — these persist and can flourish in any relationship, however free of prohibition.
“You want this,” Clara tells herself, and then, “You no longer want this,” as it occurs to her that “maybe it was in absence that they loved each other best, and most honestly.”
In her work, Mackintosh devises scenarios that are bold and almost aggressively simplified. But her terrain is complexity and contradiction, and in her hands these oppositions twist and turn in on themselves.
It’s hardly a surprise when the central character in “Blue Ticket” decides to eschew her designation and have a child, declaring, “True and false were no longer opposing binaries. My body was speaking to me in a language I had not heard before.” Nor is it especially startling when discontent chases Clara and Francis from one world to the other, unraveling their relationship.
What is more disquieting is the surreptitious ease with which Mackintosh’s speculative worlds start to align with our own, allowing the reader to see how so many of the old prohibitions and conventions — around choice, around marriage — remain, somehow, firmly in place.
That moment of recognition, in a landscape that is startlingly alien, is the source of Mackintosh’s power as a writer.
PERMANENCE | By Sophie Mackintosh | Avid Reader Press | 240 pp. | $28
Culture
Poetry Challenge Day 2: Love, How It Works and What It Means
Maybe you woke up this morning haunted by the first four lines of W.H. Auden’s “The More Loving One” — or tickled by its tongue-in-cheek handling of existential dread. (Not ringing any bells? Click here to begin the Poetry Challenge).
This is a love poem. Perhaps that seems like an obvious thing to say about a poem with “Loving” in its title, but there isn’t much romance in the opening stanza.
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
Ada Limón, poet
Nonetheless, the poem soon makes clear that love is very much on its mind.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
David Sedaris, writer
The polished informality gives the impression of a decidedly cerebral speaker — someone who’s looking at love philosophically, thinking about how it works and what it means.
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Reginald Dwayne Betts, poet
Musing this way — arguing in this fashion — he stands in a long line of playful, thoughtful poetic lovers going back at least to the 16th century. He sounds a bit like Christopher Marlowe’s passionate shepherd:
Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.
Auden’s poem, like Marlowe’s, is written in four-beat lines:
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
Josh Radnor, actor
And it features strong end rhymes:
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Samantha Harvey, writer
These tetrameter couplets represent a long-established poetic love language. Not too serious or sappy, but with room for both earnestness and whimsy. And even for professions of the opposite of love, as in this nursery rhyme, adapted from a 17th-century epigram:
I do not like thee, Doctor Fell
The reason why I cannot tell.
But this I know and know full well
I do not like thee, Doctor Fell.
There is some of this anti-love spirit in Auden’s poem too, but it mainly follows a general rule of love poetry: The person speaking is usually the more loving one.
This makes sense. To write a poem requires effort, art, inspiration. To speak in verse is to tease, to cajole, to seduce, all actions that suggest an excess of desire. That’s why it’s conventional to refer to the “I” in a poem like this as the Lover and the “you” as the Beloved. The line “Let the more loving one be me” could summarize a lot of the love poetry of the last few thousand years.
But who, in this case, is the beloved? This isn’t a poem to the stars, but about them. Or maybe a poem that uses the stars as a conceit and our complicated feelings about them as a screen for other difficult emotions.
What the stars have to do with love is a tricky question. The answer may just be that the poem assumes a relationship and then plays with the implications of its assumption.
This kind of play also has a long history. Since love is both abstract and susceptible to cliché, poets are eager to liken it to everything else under the sun: birds, bees, planets, stars, the movement of the tides and the cycle of the seasons. Andrew Marvell’s “Definition of Love,” from the 1600s, wraps its ardor in math:
As lines, so loves oblique may well
Themselves in every angle greet;
But ours so truly parallel,
Though infinite, can never meet.
The literary term for this is wit. The formidable 18th-century English wordsmith Samuel Johnson defined a type of wit as “a combination of dissimilar images, or discovery of occult resemblances in things apparently unlike.” “The most heterogeneous ideas are yoked by violence together,” he wrote; that kind of conceptual discord defines “The More Loving One.”
The second stanza is, when you think about it, a perfect non sequitur. A hypothetical, general question is asked:
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
Mary Roach, writer
The answer is a personal declaration that is moving because it doesn’t seem to apply only or primarily to stars:
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Tim Egan, writer
Does this disjunction make it easier or harder to remember? Either way, these couplets start to reveal just how curious this poem is. We might find ourselves curious about who wrote them, and whom he might have loved. Tomorrow we’ll get to know Auden and his work a little better.
Play a game to learn it by heart. Need more practice? Listen to Ada Limón, Matthew McConaughey, W.H. Auden and others recite our poem.
Question 1/6
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
Tap a word above to fill in the highlighted blank.
Your task today: Learn the second stanza!
Let’s start with the first couplet in this stanza. Fill in the rhyming words.
Ready for another round? Try your hand at the 2025 Poetry Challenge.
Edited by Gregory Cowles, Alicia DeSantis and Nick Donofrio. Additional editing by Emily Eakin,
Joumana Khatib, Emma Lumeij and Miguel Salazar. Design and development by Umi Syam. Additional
game design by Eden Weingart. Video editing by Meg Felling. Photo editing by Erica Ackerberg.
Illustration art direction by Tala Safie.
Illustrations by Daniel Barreto.
Text and audio recording of “The More Loving One,” by W.H. Auden, copyright © by the Estate of
W.H. Auden. Reprinted by permission of Curtis Brown, Ltd. Photograph accompanying Auden recording
from Imagno/Getty Images.
Culture
What America’s Main Characters Tell Us
Literature
Oedipa Maas from ‘The Crying of Lot 49’ (1966) by Thomas Pynchon
“The unforgettable, cartoonish protagonist of this unusually short novel is a California housewife accidentally turned private investigator and literary interpreter, and the mystery she’s attempting to solve — or, more specifically, the conspiracy she stumbles upon — is nothing less than capitalism itself,” says Ngai, 54. “As Oedipa traces connections between various crackpots, the novel highlights the peculiarly asocial sociality of postwar U.S. society, which gets figured as a network of alienations.”
Sula Peace from ‘Sula’ (1973) by Toni Morrison
“Sula arguably begins to disappear as soon as she’s introduced — despite the fact that the novel bears her name. Other characters die quickly, or are noticeably flat. This raises the politically charged question of who gets to ‘develop’ or be a protagonist in American novels and who doesn’t. The novel’s unusual character system is part of its meditation on anti-Black racism and historical violence.”
The speaker of ‘Lunch Poems’ (1964) by Frank O’Hara
“Lyric poems are fundamentally different from narrative fiction in part because they have speakers as opposed to narrators. Perhaps it’s a stretch to nominate the speaker of ‘Lunch Poems’ as a main character, but this book changed things by highlighting the centrality of queer counterpublics to U.S. culture as a whole, and by exploring the joys and risks of everyday intimacy with strangers therein.”
This interview has been edited and condensed.
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