Oh, that’s an easy one: To Dream of Snow by Rosalind Laker. She’s an author I have enjoyed many times in the past (I read tons of her back in the mid-Nineties, in high school), but I thought this novel was dreck. It’s unfortunate, because it made me feel simultaneously betrayed and pitying. It was formulaic and dull, and chock full of poor editing. Poor La Laker.
“But Schatz!” you might say. “What about Mademoiselle Boleyn?” While it’s true that I had some harsh things to say about Mademoiselle Boleyn by Robin Maxwell, there was a lot of good in it, too, and most importantly, it was a passionate book, one written by an author who felt she had something to say, something to show readers–and that shows in the book despite its flaws. Whereas To Dream of Snow felt phoned in. No one enjoys feeling patronized.