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
Finding Wisdom in a Poem by Wendy Cope
Where do you turn when you need advice? A chatbot? A life coach? A wise and trusted friend?
How about a poet? Poets may not be famous for making the best life choices, but because they subject the mess of human existence to the discipline of language, they can be as helpful as any therapist or mentor.
Good poets know the rules and when to break them, which is something they can teach the rest of us.
To wit:
Giving advice is a peculiar literary undertaking. It flourishes in certain popular genres — graduation speeches, newspaper columns, country and western songs and poems like this one — but what, in these contexts, is it really for?
I’m thinking of situations when you don’t urgently need help but nonetheless enjoy reading answers to questions you may not have thought to ask. What interests you isn’t the content of the advice — you could get all the life hacks you want from A.I. — so much as the voice of the person dispensing it.
Wendy Cope is an English poet, born in 1945, who has been a fixture of her country’s literary scene since the 1980s. More recently, her short, buoyant poem “The Orange” has been widely memed online, bringing her to the attention of new readers beyond Britain.
Cope favors rhyme, meter, brisk jokes and tart aperçus. She addresses romance, friendship and the petty absurdities of modern life with disarming good humor. The last line of “The Orange” is “I love you. I’m glad I exist.” Somehow she makes it the opposite of cringe.
This isn’t the kind of poetry you would describe as “confessional.” And yet …
Question 1/7
Stop, if the car is going “clunk”
Or if the sun has made you blind.
Don’t answer e–mails when you’re drunk.
Tap a word above to fill in the highlighted blank.Want to learn this poem by heart? We’ll help.
Fill in the missing words below. You can always refer to the reading by A.O. Scott and full
text above.Let’s start with the first stanza.
Culture
Can You Match the Places These Authors Lived With Settings in Their Books?
A strong sense of place can deeply influence a story, and in some cases, the setting can even feel like a character itself. This week’s literary geography quiz highlights places where authors were born (or lived) that later became locations in their books. To play, just make your selection in the multiple-choice list and the correct answer will be revealed. At the end of the quiz, you’ll find links to the works if you’d like to do further reading.
Culture
Book Review: ‘America, U.S.A.,’ by Eddie S. Glaude Jr.
AMERICA, U.S.A.: How Race Shadows the Nation’s Anniversaries, by Eddie S. Glaude Jr.
For those of us in the national memory-keeping business, anniversaries hold near-totemic power. Satisfyingly round units of time, ideally bearing fancy, Latin-derived names, serve as the overburdened pegs on which to hang think pieces and museum exhibits, revisionist documentaries and maudlin public ceremonies. The arbitrary nature of such occasions is precisely what gives them their charge, inviting us to set aside complacency and submit to a comprehensive check-in.
In his new book, “America, U.S.A.,” Eddie S. Glaude Jr. presents an intriguing variation on the genre, seeing the country’s 250th birthday as an anniversary of anniversaries: 50 years since the malaise-ridden, schlock-heavy Bicentennial. A century since the subdued Prohibition-era Sesquicentennial. A century and a half since telegraphed reports of George Armstrong Custer’s defeat by the Lakota and Cheyenne at Little Bighorn rudely interrupted the Gilded Age Republic’s 100th birthday party.
If an anniversary offers a snapshot of a moment, the core of Glaude’s book is an old-timey photo album, a collection of notable episodes from earlier national reckonings, long-ago glances in the mirror. An estimable scholar of Black history, politics and religion at Princeton — best known for “Begin Again,” his 2020 meditation on James Baldwin’s relevance for our times — Glaude focuses, as his subtitle puts it, on “how race shadows the nation’s anniversaries.”
Such celebrations, he contends, have never really been the moments for honest self-reflection they are often advertised to be. Instead, the nation usually shatters the mirror, refusing to accept what it prefers not to see. “American anniversaries are often moments to turn a blind eye to the evils of the past and the present,” Glaude writes, “to suppress the fact of America’s divided soul.”
It’s a clever concept, and, needless to say, perfectly timed. Last year, Glaude notes, the Trump administration executed a hostile takeover of the government’s studiously bipartisan 250th anniversary planning. It is now preparing a program that is certain to conceal more than it reveals about the country ostensibly being celebrated.
Glaude, in no mood for celebration, argues that such omissions and evasions also defined commemorations in the past. In 1875, Frederick Douglass predicted “one grand Centennial hosannah of peace and good will to all the white race of this country.” He was right: The nation reached 100 years old at a crucial moment in the post-Civil War fight over racial equality, with white Northerners ready to give up on Southern Reconstruction. The occasion would help the once-warring sections to reunite around a shared commitment to white supremacy. On May 10, 1876, at the opening of the Centennial Exposition in Philadelphia, the police tried to bar Douglass from the grandstand, until a white politician vouched for him.
The 150th anniversary came soon after a resurgent Ku Klux Klan successfully pushed for a restrictive immigration law aimed at keeping America a “Nordic” nation. At the lavishly funded, lightly attended celebrations in Philadelphia, Black veterans of World War I were excluded from marching in the opening parade. A writer with The Associated Negro Press wondered “what was in the breast of those black men who fought to make America safe for Democracy and on Monday stood on the sidelines, forgotten, as the Nordic strode by in all his vain pride.”
By 1976, when the nation marked its Bicentennial, the violence of the ’60s had destroyed any semblance of consensus. Vietnam and Watergate had eroded trust in the government. The commission initially tasked with organizing the anniversary was disbanded amid reports of corruption. Corporations filled the vacuum, Glaude explains, with “star-spangled whoopee cushions; patriotic toilet seats; Liberty hamburgers; red, white and blue beer cans.” The author, around 8 years old at the time, dimly remembers donning a pair of tricolor trousers.
A half-century later, Glaude is refreshingly honest about the depths of his despair. “I do not love America, and never have, especially now,” he writes in one of the more startling opening sentences I’ve read in some time. He dismisses this year’s Semiquincentennial as reaching back “to a storybook America that requires either the banishment of Black people from view or the reduction of our role in the country’s history, so as to affirm America’s ongoing quest to be a more perfect union.”
Undoubtedly true. But Trump doesn’t own the country, at least not yet, nor the 250th anniversary of one of the most radically liberatory and confusingly contradictory events in world history — an inspiration, as Glaude shows, even to critical observers of the American experiment, like Douglass. Far from the revanchist MAGA-palooza in Washington, I suspect this summer’s unasked-for invitation to national soul-searching may surprise us yet.
Despite his despair, Glaude concludes that “the past still offers resources for us to freedom-dream.” So, too, does this book.
AMERICA, U.S.A.: How Race Shadows the Nation’s Anniversaries | By Eddie S. Glaude Jr. | Crown | 270 pp. | $31
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