In the late 1970s, when my interests changed from horses to boys, I discovered my first romance book. I don’t recall the title, but the story featured a grey-eyed, red-headed virgin heroine who was brutally deflowered by a nearby Lord. Yes, there was bodice ripping, fainting and, in the end, true love. Of course, the sex was tame. We were given a few lines of purple prose (I think his “manhood” was mentioned once) and little else. But more distressing than the lack of sex was the heroine. She was, well, wimpy. In subsequent “bodice rippers” the heroines weren’t much different.