I never promised you a rose garden… 
I’m in full research mode these days, thoroughly enjoying digging into books on Bermuda, pirates, book publishing, and politics of the 1790s. But in the process, I’m also uncovering the dirty underbelly of England that our frothy Regencies and Georgian romances tend to ignore.
Until 1807, England’s enormous shipping industry actively engaged in slave trading. And until 1834, they allowed their colonies to own slaves, even though they’d abolished
slavery in England itself in 1772. How considerate of parliament to ban slavery in England so they needn’t look upon the actual suffering, but allow it to continue out of their sight!
From early letters, it’s apparent that many white men originally believed Africans were some intermediate creature between man and monkey, and that they were doing their slaves a kindness by “taking care” of them. In the 1600s, they must have thought the same of West Indian natives and Irishmen, as well, since they enslaved both. But if they were enlightened enough by 1772 to ban slavery in England, then they’d surely realized the error of their ways, just not enough to cut into 
sugar-plantation profits. (link to image--a fascinating paper on slaves in Madeira)
I’ve read a great deal of Irish/English history and the hostility between the two countries (think Israel and Palestine), but I hadn’t realized the English actually made slaves of Irish citizens until I started reading Bermuda history. And since I’m half Irish, I had to grin broadly when I read that Bermuda’s council furiously passed a law banning the buying and 
selling of Irish “under any pretence whatever” after their rebellious imports freely distributed rum to the blacks and started a rebellion. I mean, what on earth did they expect? The God-given right to get drunk and shoot someone has followed the Irish through the centuries.
Ahem, back to the point. I think I had one somewhere.
Ah, yes, Bermuda! I chose Bermuda for my setting because rather than clinging to their slaves, they were desperate to get rid of them. The first slaves arrived via a pirate who bribed the governor for the right to enter the harbor and pick up supplies. After disputing the ownership of the slaves for years, the colony should have known owning human beings would be more than trouble than it was worth. The islands aren’t large enough for plantations. The inhabitants had no interest in crops. The men of Bermuda preferred salt mining, fishing, and privateering to digging in the dirt. They left farming to the old and feeble. Which meant a good part of the time, the inhabitants of Bermuda were starving. And they either had to to take food from the mouths of their families to feed their slaves, or ship the Africans out. So ship them out they did. By the time I’m writing about--the 1790s--many Africans were employed by the privateers plundering the Caribbean.
Now that I’ve unleashed my secret pedantry, let’s get back to the book business… As romance readers, are you ready for a North American based historical? Would you rather hear about pirates than slaves?
Or will a lack of ball gowns and London society cause you to wrinkle your nose and set the book aside? Since I haven’t quite decided myself, I’m open to suggestion. Fire away!