Maybe it’s because they’re powerful alpha males in tight pants. Or it’s a fundamental yearning manifested by a fascination with the young, rich, and pretty behaving badly (Paris, Britney et al) and attempts to establish a dynasty in the White House. We never had a chance at royalty after the unfortunate episode with the tea in Boston harbor, and now we’re trying to compensate.
I think it’s quite a reality check for Americans to realize how indifferent the English are about their great families, including the Windsors, unless they provide an excuse for a party or a really good national cry. All that anachronistic pomp and circumstance; all that inbred dullness. Yet the aristocracy still have that promise, even if it’s not fulfilled, of glamor and beauty and being bigger than life; and two hundred years ago they did have more interesting lives and more opportunities than the riff-raff. The rich and beautiful cavorting around Carlton House makes for better escapist reading than, say, trying to find firewood and cooking up the cabbage in the last smear of bacon fat.
So my question is, do you ever feel that we’ve gone overboard with aristos in romance? Does the appearance of yet another young, handsome, single duke make your heart sing or sink? Or do you accept it as part of the fantasy?