Shh!

Please don’t tell him.

Because, you see, I’ve done a Very Bad Thing. I invited Lord Ben Doreé, the hero of In the Arms of a Marquess (in stores tomorrow yay!!!), to visit the ballroom today. But I did so under false pretenses. I told him that Octavia Pierce would be here. And you see, he has… well, he has Very Strong Feelings for her, shall we say? Quite, quite strong. For like, actually, Years.

(I don’t know why I’m emphasizing with capitals, unless it’s that I’m Really Nervous. Must be my Catholic Upbringing, because I’m a terribly guilty liar, I tell you.)

In the Arms of a Marquess (August 30, 2011)

In any case, I lied to Ben. But I had to do it. I couldn’t resist, and anyway he’s got this whole Secret Identity thing going where people in society don’t know the power he really holds, beyond his noble title, so he won’t be able to throw stones at me for one little fib, right? (But I babble.) The reason I invited him here is to use him as An Example (again with the capitals). And you see if he knew that, he wouldn’t come.

For what am I using him as an example, you ask? Well, we all know how Lady B admires a fine gam. And I’m really in complete agreement with her on that, although sometimes when a gentleman wears trousers it’s tough to actually get a sense of precise shape and size. You know? Breeches are easier to see the real lay o’ the land, if you understand my meaning (which of course you all do, how lovely).

In any case, the thing is, there are all sorts of other Parts of a Gentleman that I… um… appreciate. I’m guessing you ladies do too? So I got to thinking, we’ve been tiptoeing around it for weeks here — mentioning a firm jaw on one hero, the broad shoulders of another — without ever coming right out and detailing matters thoroughly.

But I am a woman of True Dedication when charged with A Task. And the Task with which I have charged myself today is an Important One. And here is a lady who will help me!

Good evening, Lady B.

All right, Miss Ashe. I’m here in this corner behind my largest potted palm, though I don’t see Miss Darby.

I think she’s with the mistresses tonight.

Do tell me what is this amusement you have planned for my guests? I hope it won’t drive that poor Miss Seaton back into the cupboard.

A lady must always have Proper Tools when she is setting about an Important Task.

Oh, no, my lady. It’s likely to do just the opposite for all the young ladies in the house. (I whip out an easel and big black Sharpie marker and scribble at the top of the easel: THE ANATOMY OF A GENTLEMAN.) Voila!

(Lady B blanches) Good heavens! (She leans forward, lifting her lorgnette to her clever eye.) Interesting.

That blanch was just for show, wasn’t it? You love this.

Don’t be insolent, gel. Now what will you do next?

Well I’ve invited two other people who don’t typically come to balls. There is one of them now, right on time. Hello, Ben.

BEN: (bows elegantly to Lady B, glances about) “An impressive crush, my lady.”

I know you don’t care for the whole public appearance thing, Ben. Oh, there’s my other guest. Hi, Mr. Singh.

BEN: My valet?

Yes. Wait! Everybody, did you see that? The way Ben lifted his brow? We really need to rhapsodize more often about gentlemen’s brows. I mean, a brow can be so very expressive and really appealing. Which is precisely my point.

LADY B: You’ve brought a turban-wearing manservant into my ballroom, Miss Ashe.

Scandalous, isn’t it? I knew you wouldn’t mind.

BEN: Your point is to rhapsodize about my brows in the presence of my valet and hostess?

No. Er- Kind of.

SINGH: His brows are quite distinguished, black and straight.

Aren’t they? So let’s get on with things. My lady and Mr. Singh, I’d like you to use Ben here as a model, as it were, to show us the finer points of a gentleman’s anatomy.

LADY B: (crack of laughter)

BEN: You what?!

SINGH: (bowing deeply) Yes, mum. We should begin with my lord’s enviable physique.

Of course. But which part of it in particular?

LADY B: His long, muscular legs.

I sort of suspected you’d say that. And it’s as good a place to begin as any. (I draw a pair of legs on the paper on the easel. Ben is staring at me open-eyed, but he’s way too gentlemanly to say anything. I’m hoping.)

SINGH: Then, mum, I would recommend next detailing the width of my lord’s shoulders, which his tailor needn’t enhance with buckram padding.

Great. (I draw a set of yummy broad shoulders) And in between?

BEN: In between is lunacy. (he bows) Lady B, I must beg your—

 

LADY B: Young man, remain right where you are or I shan’t tell you where I’ve hidden that gel with the apricot hair and freckles across her nose.

SINGH: Then there is the breadth of my lord’s chest.

(scribbling) He’s sort of on the lean side of very muscular, rather than bulky, and tall of course. And his arms? A gentleman’s arms are, after all, enormously important to an authoress of romance.

SINGH: A tailor’s dream, mum.

Mm hm. (mumbling) An amorous lady’s, too.

LADY B: (looking shrewd) Amorous ladies expect hands.

(drawing) Elegant, strong, long-fingered. Ben occasionally plays the piano, you know.

LADY B: Excellent. Pianists’ hands are capable of all sorts of maneuvers.

Precisely.

BEN: I also jump through flaming hoops at command. (fisting his pianists’ hands) This is unendurable. I am not an exhibit at a menagerie.

Of course you aren’t. But you are helping us with a Very Important Project and I’m really grateful. Let’s move upward, Mr. Sing.

SINGH: My lord’s jaw, nose and brow combine to create a felicitous arrangement.

Most felicitous. (drawing) A little unusual for an Englishman, of course.

SINGH: That would be due to his unusual parentage, mum.

LADY B: And the bronze hue of his skin, I daresay, not to mention those marvelously languid black eyes.

SINGH: And as you see, my lady, I have cut the black hair in an arrangement that compliments—

BEN: Enough.

It’s like the entire ballroom has gone silent, though really it’s only this place behind the palm. I can still hear Gaelen’s heroes talking about the Warrior Spirit over there, after all.

Um, Ben? Could you bear with me for just one more second before giving me that Dangerous Man Glowering With Threat thing you’ve got going on there? See, I was just getting to the crucial wrap-up question that I was going to ask Lady B’s guests: What part of a gentleman’s anatomy do ladies notice first?

LADY B: (snorts)

(She really did. She just snorted. I kid you not.)

BEN: A gentleman’s attributes are as nothing compared to the charms of a lady. You must instead ask which aspect of a lady’s appearance she hopes a gentleman will first notice.

I must? (the Sharpie is kind of quivering between my fingers. I wrote him dangerous, but I’ve never been the actual recipient of his displeasure. oh, gosh.)

BEN: You must.

(Wait just a minute here. I’m so not going to be intimidated by my own character) Pretty deftly shifting the focus from you, aren’t you? (But now I’m feeling guilty again) I knew you’d hate this.

BEN: Of course you knew.

I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist.

BEN: (gives me a slight smile) Ladies rarely can. (bows to Lady B, offers Mr. Singh another lifted brow, and walks away)

LADY B: (looking after him, his legs in particular) Positively delectable.

Octavia certainly thinks so. It’s been years since they- er- met, but she’s never been able to forget him. Is she really here?

LADY B: I expect her shortly. She is a wonderfully frank gel. I’m looking forward to hearing more about that billiards table incident.

(snort, this time from me.) But really that’s too bad she’ll just have missed him. I suppose it’s best, though, since they haven’t seen one another in seven years and I’ve already got that scene all worked out in the book. Since it’s on shelves in bookstores tomorrow, I don’t really want to go messing with their first reunion, you know? It’s pretty intense as is.

LADY B: (with a kind of sly look) Authoresses… Charming.

(turning to Mr. Singh) She’s always like this.

SINGH: With great power, mum, comes great responsibility.

Tell me you did not just quote Spider Man.

Example of my drawing skills

SINGH: Learned it from my lord, mum.

I daresay. I do daresay.

So ladies, at the advice of my Hero with a Secret Identity, I’m flipping the easel chart to a fresh piece of paper and I’m going to draw you (with apologies in advance for the stick-figure quality). What is your feature you wish a gentleman would notice first? Your best, your most prominent, your most valued? One random commenter will get an autographed copy of In the Arms of a Marquess.

A final note: I hope you’ll join me and Tessa Dare in September for Ovarian Cancer Awareness Month, in spreading the word about the whispering signs and symptoms of Ovarian Cancer. Avon Books will donate 25 cents from the sale of seven new titles (including In the Arms of a Marquess and Tessa’s A Night to Surrender) up to $50,000 for research and support programs for women suffering from this stealthy disease. Please help us K.I.S.S. and Teal!

My Burgundy Club series features a group of Regency era rare book collectors. My first, unconnected, romance, Never Resist Temptation, also had a bookish inspiration: cookbooks. The story features (off stage) Antonin Carême, the most celebrated French chef of the Regency era. Though by no means the first famous cookery writer, he was the first to parlay a career as a chef into one as a bestselling author of cookbooks. Carême’s clients included Napoleon, the Bourbon kings, the Tsar of Russia, Talleyrand and the Prince Regent. He began as a pastry chef and was famous for his extraordinaires, elaborate sugar and pastry creations that were intended not to be eaten but to decorate banquet tables. That tradition continues to this day; there’s a fascinating documentary called Kings of Pastry (available on Netflix)  about a modern day competition for such food sculptures.

Illustration from a 1549 Italian work. Is that a rat at front right? Send in the health inspectors!

The oldest known cookbook is a Roman work by Apicius, first printed in 1498. The recipes are mostly lists of ingredients with few indications of quantities or cooking methods. This is quite common in early cookbooks. Writers assumed that their readers already knew how to cook and could figure out an exact recipe from a description of the dish. The first printed cookbook (in 1474) was De honesta voluptate et valetudine(“On honest pleasure and health”) written by the Vatican librarian, Bartolomeo Platina. (Why do I suspect he didn’t do a whole lot of cooking himself?)

This 1655 work on pastry has been attributed to La Varenne, another famous French chef. These cooks have a distinctly Dutch look about them, not surprising since the book was printed in Amsterdam. The woman seems to be preparing a game pie.

Many works followed, mostly from France and Italy, often with fascinating illustrations giving us a view into those old kitchens. The vast majority of these authors were men, reflecting the male domination of the cooking profession in Europe. The English, on the other hand happily hired female cooks and the most popular English cookbooks of the eighteenth century were written by women like Hannah Glasse, Elizabeth Moxon, and Eliza Smith.  (I own a facsimile edition of Smith’s The Compleat Housewife and refer to it often when I need a menu for my characters.)

The New Book of Cookery by Elizabeth Price, 1780. I love how elegantly dressed these cooks are. Makes me think of Donna Reed vacuuming in a poofy skirt and high heels.

As with most books, colonial Americans relied on English imports or reprints of English works. The first real American cookbook, including native ingredients like corn, was Amelia Simmons’s American Cookery, printed in Hartford, Connecticut in 1798.

A fun, and very American, type of cookbook is the charity compilation. You know them, collections of recipes by members of a church or other civic organization. Examples date back to the nineteenth century. Vegetarian recipes go back a long way, too. John Smith’s Fruits and Farinacea. The Proper Food of Man dates to 1845. And I would love to read Laura Holloway’s The Buddhist Diet-Book, published in New York in 1886.

Back in France (1814), men in tight pants rule the kitchen.

I own too many cookbooks. At one point I got rid of several boxes of them, but I just counted and I still have about 80 on my shelves. The oldest is a 1912 edition of Mrs. Beaton’s Household Management, a tome the size of a cinder block. I frequently use the classics: Elizabeth David, Julia Child, and Marcella Hazen. I love the new Joy of Cooking and I have some international favorites: Penelope Casas book on Paella; Claudia Roden’s The New Book of Middle Eastern Food; Madhur Jaffrey’s World Vegetarian; and Art of Indian Cuisine by Rocky Mohan, a wonderful book I picked up on a remainder table.

What are your favorite cookbooks, old or new? I’m sure you can tell me a few more I can’t live without.

I’ve torn my hem.

Well, “tear” is a bit euphemistic. The problem with my hem is less of a tear and more of a massive, unbearable gash in the green satin. This is why I can’t have nice things.

In the last month, I’ve discovered that I’m utterly useless at a ball. In fact, when I received Lady B’s invitation, I very nearly turned it down, knowing that precisely this kind of thing would happen. Torn hem, ratafia dumped down the back of Wellington’s coat, accidentally speaking my mind, it’s all entirely possible when I’m in attendance.

So, to be completely honest, I was pretty happy when Lady B peered meaningfully at my hem, trailing hopelessly along behind me, and pointed in the direction of the ladies’ salon. Salvation! Entering, I find myself a too-dainty chair in the corner of the miraculously empty room, and perch nervously while considering my next course of action.

My feet are killing me. The shoes are gorgeous…but painful. I will never learn that particular lesson. I’m cursing sadistic footwear designers when I realize I’m no longer alone.

There’s a girl standing just inside a door I hadn’t noticed, wide-eyed. It takes me a moment to realize that her surprise has nothing to do with my being there, and a great deal to do with my being foul-mouthed. I smile, trying to impress upon her that I was not, in fact, raised by wolves (indeed, I was raised by a rather proper English mother, who would be *horrified* to hear her youngest child cursing like a sailor).

“Hi!” I say, brightly.

She does not seem convinced. She dips a curtsy and looks away, rushing to a nearby table where a lovely carved ebony box sits. She opens the box and busies herself with the contents.

“I’m Sarah.”

She casts a look over her shoulder that telegraphs shock more than anything else. “Miss,” she says, turning away again before she lifts a spool of green thread from the box and says, “May I help you with your hem?”

“You don’t have to stand on ceremony with me,” I say, feeling more than a little bit uncomfortable as she crouches at my feet. “If you give me the thread, I can repair it. I took Home Ec. in the 9th Grade. Mrs. Iacobucci would be thrilled that I finally have a chance to use my knowledge of seamstressing.”

The young woman squints up at me, as though I am speaking in another language. Of course, I am speaking in another language. She doesn’t know what Home Ec is. Or the 9th Grade. And Home Ec. Teachers from Lincoln, Rhode Island, well…

I hurry to repair my verbal damage. “Mrs. Iacobucci is a rather talented seamstress where I come from. She’s Italian.”

Understanding flashes in the young lady’s eyes. “Italians are very well thought of as modistes, I hear.”

“Oh yes. And other projects as well…This one taught me how to sew a stuffed S.”

The maid blinks.

I soldier on. “It’s quite difficult, you know. An S is one long curve.”

Now she clearly thinks I’m mad. “Yes, ma’am.” She turns back to my hem and begins to sew.

I lean my chin on my hand and watch for a bit. This girl is a pro. “What’s your name?”

She blushes. “Maggie, ma’am.”

I could do without the ma’am, frankly, but I let it slide. “It’s nice to meet you, Maggie.” She sews. I press on. “How many of these do you repair on a given night?”

She looks up at me, clearly surprised that I’m taking an interest in her. After all, no one takes interest in the maids in ladies’ salons. Except writers, I think. Writers know that maids in ladies’ salons know EVERYTHING.

“Thirty. Sometimes more.”

“Impressive.” Her needle is lightning fast, gleaming in the candlelight. I watch for a little longer, then, “So, what’s the wildest thing you’ve ever witnessed in here?”

She keeps sewing. “Oh, I’m sure I don’t know.”

I lower my voice. “I heard the Duchess of Leighton and Lady Davis had a great row here once. Did you witness it?”

“That wasn’t here. It was at Dolby House.”

She hasn’t looked up from her work, but I know I have her. I feign surprise. “Oh, was it? I could have sworn it was here. Wasn’t Albert involved?”

She shakes her head. “Not here. It was…” she lowers her voice to a whisper, “the betrothal ball.”

“The duke and duchess’s betrothal ball?”

“No!” This girl loves gossip. Just as all great ladies’ maids should. Her needle pauses. She looks up at me, excitement in her eyes. “The first betrothal ball.”

Now, I know about this one. But I wonder how much *she* knows about this one. I lean forward. “Tell me.”

“I wouldn’t like to speak out of turn…”

“Oh, please do…after all, what else are we to do? It would be rude for us not to talk, don’t you think?”

“Welllll,” she draws out the syllable, clearly trying to figure out if I’m going to run to Lady B and tattle. Which, of course, I’m not. Because I get much of my information from ladies’ maids. I can’t have them all talking about how untrustworthy I am. I’m Woodward to their Deepthroat. We have a mutual agreement.

“Go on.”

“The Duke was betrothed to Lady Penelope Marbury before he married the duchess.”

“What happened?”

“I heard…” I lean forward as her voice lowers. “I heard the duke and duchess have a remarkable love match…and there wasn’t much that Lady Penelope could do to stop it once it had begun. Poor dear…” she trails off, focusing on a particularly shabby part of the tear in my skirt. “She couldn’t have expected it.”

“Do you think Lady Penelope loved Leighton?”

“I couldn’t say. But for her sake, I hope not. After all, there’s only one thing worse than a betrothal broken in scandal…”

“What’s that?”

“A betrothal to someone you care for broken in scandal.”

Sage words from the young seamstress.

“So what happened to Lady Penelope?” I press.

The little seamstress frowns and turns back to her work. “She’s a spinster.”

She says the word like it’s the worst kind of secret. The kind you don’t talk about, even in ladies’ salons. “No one came along after Leighton?”

“A broken engagement is a bit more of a scandal than most of these nobs can handle, it seems. She’s well-and-truly on the shelf.”

I sit back in my chair as she finishes the repair. She’s really quite good with the needle. And with the gossip.

“Thank you, Maggie.”

She blushes. People don’t thank servants in the Regency. It’s one of the horrid truths that I like to pretend is no truth at all. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“What if I paid you for the service in a bit of gossip?” Her brows rise and I see that she can’t resist. “Lady Penelope is about to topple off her shelf.”

Maggie’s eyes go wide. “Really?”

“Oh yes.” This, I know. “You mark my words. Come February, Lady Penelope Marbury will be a spinster no longer.”

“Cor!” She says, a smile lighting her face. “Wait until the others hear that!”

I stand, wincing as I’m reminded of my devastatingly painful shoe situation. “You didn’t hear it from me, of course.”

She shakes her head. “Certainly not.”

It’s official. Lady B’s ladies’ salon is top notch.

**

So…tell us…what’s the strangest thing that you’ve ever overheard in a ladies’ salon (or a ladies’ room)?

(For the introductory notes on the ladies attending today’s improper salon at Lady B’s, please visit.)

In which Sabrina Darby introduces historical personages of dubious repute to Lady Beaufetheringstone:

Comtesse d’Agoult: Je ne veux pas m’asseoir dans une salle avec une femme si commune comme cette putain Plessis.


Lady B: Comtesse, there are impressionable animals present!


*Squawk* Putain *Squawk*

Panicking! We’ve only just made introductions and there’s trouble. I completely forgot that Franz Liszt had an affair with Marie Duplessis after Marie D’Agoult.

Marie Duplessis (coughing) Pauvre perroquet. Qui est cette femme vulgaire?

(Albert flies around Marie D’Agoult)
*squawk* vulgar woman! *squawk*

We’ve adjourned to the music room at the rear of the first floor, overlooking the garden and mews beyond as befitting such a gathering as this. Four of my guests have arrived but Mme de Montespan and Marie Walewska are simply staring at Comtesse d’Agoult as she rages and swats at Albert.

And as there’s nothing more certain to anger Lady B–indeed color is already staining her cheeks–I quickly intercede and tempt Albert away with a lobster patty.

Lady B: Well done, Miss Darby. Now, why did that wretched woman call her Plessis. Did you not say her name was Duplessis?

Comtesse D’Agoult: Diable!–

And as I am finding it difficult to follow the argument in French, cue Romance book translation.

Comtesse D’Agoult: –that aristocratic “Du” before her name is as false as her affection for Liszt. But pah, she is welcome to him.


Marie Duplessis: (coughing into her handkerchief and with every cough I admit I’m a bit worried about developing an equally consumptive hack…) Your novel Nelida, is a poor excuse for literature. I assure you, Comtesse, that penning such vicious words about an ex-lover is not the way to get him back. I am well-regarded by all of my past lovers.

Comtesse D’Agoult: (in a fine fury now, indeed I am tempted to remove all the china and porcelein from the room) As if you would know. I’m surprised you can even read!

Sabrina: Ladies! Please. Comtesse d’Agoult, sit down and have some tea.

We all stare at the comtesse, waiting on held breath to see what she’ll do.

She sniffs, takes the cup of tea that Mme. De Montespan hands her. She sits down.

Crisis averted.

It’s only after Marie D’Agoult sits down and takes a sip that I realize I should have warned her away from tea. After all, the French Marquise is well-known for her facility with poisons and the black arts.

But she’s still breathing, so…

Marie Walewska: This is most unseemly. Miss Darby, do you mean to say that you have invited me to a tête-à-tête with courtesans?

Oh no.

Lady B: (narrowing her eyes) I’m not entirely certain what to make of a lady who was sleeping with the enemy.

I did invite Marie Walewska for her connection to Napoleon.

Marie Walewska: I assure you, Lady Beaufetheringstone, if my country were not in such dire peril, I would never have graced the Emperor’s bed.


Lady B: Ah.


*squawk* Never! *squawk*


Lady B: Well, as you have, tell me, is Napoleon Bonaparte truly small in stature?


Marie Walewska: (shocked) You embarrass me, madam. (pause) He was as quick as his temper. (pause) And I thank God for that.


Lady B: Finally, a bit of gossip! I was expecting far more scandal from a room full of courtesans.


Comtesse D’Agoult: (glaring at Marie Duplessis, who is coughing again) There is only one courtesan in the room of whom I am aware. Only one very common lady.


Lady B: Miss Darby, I was under the impression that all of these women are mistresses. If I merely wanted to talk to noblewomen of loose morals, I could easily have done so in the ballroom amongst our own society.

Sabrina: I believe we have come up against the fine distinction between courtesan and mistress.

Mme. De Montespan: To be a mistress is a calling. I was Chief Mistress of Louis XIV. My pedigree is impeccable.


The Butler: (intones) Nell Gwyn.

At the door, in a pose more suited for the stage, demanding all eyes study her from head to toe, stands The Fifth Mistress that I’ve invited to the soiree, on the suggestion of Miss Dare.

*Squawk* Oranges! *Squawk*


Lady B: That name sounds familiar.


Madame de Montespan: So that is the renowned Nell Gwyn, comedienne, mistress to the English king, and self proclaimed, Protestant wh-


Lady B: (interrupting quickly while covering Albert’s ears) No, Madame, I assure you, she is not one of the monarch’s paramours.

Sabrina: Actually, Lady B, she was. Only she was mistress to Charles II. For Mme. de Montespan, she would have been a contemporary.

Lady B: Ah yes, that is how I know the name. Albert is cryptic but correct. She started out selling oranges.


Nell Gwyn: No need to talk about me as if I weren’t in the room. Who are you? Are we putting on a performance? I’ve never seen such a motley array of clothing.


Marie D’Agoult: (with a sniff) Another commoner. And aiming for a king. I am not so mercenary in love. To inspire a man to artistic greatness, That is what I long for. A higher calling, a ––


Marie Duplessis: I never try to inspire a man. I simply do.


Nell Gwyn: What a bunch of cows. There is an art to being a mistress, especially a royal one. And I assure you, while Love is all well and good, and my King most certainly loves me, any woman who doesn’t recognize the importance of material good is either a liar or a (redacted by Sabrina) fool.


Lady B: Do not repeat that, Albert.


Mme. de Montespan: (taking charge) A royal mistress must be a general in the battlefield of love.


Lady B: I find that true in the ballroom as well. Young ladies these days can’t hang around the sidelines and wait to be chosen. Strategy is everything and I should know.


*Squawk* Charge! *Squawk*

Lady B keeps hinting about her past. I’m very curious.

Lady B: Well, as this is to be an informative and improving afternoon, perhaps some of my guests have questions for these women?

Yes, ask questions! Please help us avert disaster and keep these ladies occupied!

In the little over a month that Lady B has so graciously opened her ballroom to us, the dear lady has shown remarkable forbearance. Between shameless (and nameless) flirts, incorrigible warriors, a near naked woman taking advantage of a near naked man, and even a veiled threat on Albert’s life, she’s shown her incredible sense of humor and breeding.

I simply hope that after today and Monday, she doesn’t decide that having a gaggle of authors (do authors come in gaggles?) is far too much trouble. You see, I’ve invited mistresses to her parlour.

It’s a bit of a surprise. Mistresses and courtesans have always held a particular fascination for me and after Lady B read about the fictional house of ill repute that I created, she wanted to know how I had any knowledge of the matter. I explained that I’d researched the subject quite extensively. Really, it’s very dense reading. So I’ve invited a few of the more intriguing mistresses from history that represent the wide variety of mistresses and courtesans.

Presenting, my guests for Monday:

The Celebrated Mistress:

A lady has not truly arrived until she has been immortalized by an artist whether in paint, marble or print. Sir Joshua Reynolds found Kitty Fisher a perfect subject for their art, but one woman’s charm, beauty and air of tragedy inspired not only visual art, but also a book, an opera, and several movies: Marie Duplessis.

The Political Mistress:

In France, the role of Mistress to the King was so accepted that there was even a position. Several brilliant ladies held the place of Chief Mistress over the centuries, influencing their respective monarchs and gaining enemies along the way. But one of these women was known for her scheming as well, for her willingness to go to any lengths to get her way: Françoise Athénaïs de Rochechouart de Mortemart, marquise of Montespan, mistress to King Louis XIV of France.

The Literary Mistress:

These women were the epitome of the phrase “write what you know.” And while such famous courtesans as Harriette Wilson and Cora Pearl traded on their conquests by publishing their memoirs, one mistress wrote a roman á clef of her affair out of revenge. Falling slightly more into the lover than mistress camp, nonetheless Marie d’Agoult had been mistress to that rock star of the 19th century, Franz Liszt, for four years before he left her for another. She penned Nelida several years later.

The Virtuous Mistress:

There is no one path from girlhood to mistress, but for some women that path is particularly arduous. Especially when the urgings of her peers run counter to the teachings of her faith. Marie Walewska caught the eye of the Napoleon Buonaparte and though she at first resisted, realized that perhaps in the privacy of the bedchamber she could influence him to spare her much abused homeland. In that respect she verges on being a political mistress as she lay back and thought of Poland.

Then, there is the––

Oh no! I have been informed that my fifth guest will unfortunately be detained. Perhaps one of our lovely visitors would be kind enough as to suggest a suitable replacement?

Psst! Hello, dear ladies! What a pleasure to see you again. Oh–the reason I am whispering is because my gentleman friends who made such a row brawling in the ballroom a couple of weeks ago (so embarrassing) are just over there, making their apologies to Lady B.

I know what you’re thinking. They already said they were sorry, right? Well, it wasn’t MY idea to make them apologize again. I’ve dealt with them enough to know that boys will be boys, if you know what I mean.

Their wives, however, were not prepared to be so lenient on them. The ladies insisted that their husbands come back and privately make amends on a quiet afternoon like this when Lady B. was not hosting a crush. Truthfully, some of the wives were worried Her Ladyship might have us all blackballed from Society—you know she never forgets a slight. So here we are. Gracious, they’re laying it on rather thick…

 Glancing over, we see Lady Beaufetheringstone looking rather nonplused, surrounded by a contrite band of tall handsome men, both Knight brothers and Inferno Club spies, all on their best behavior. Lord Alec Knight presents Lady B. with a lavish bouquet, while Max, the wicked Marquess of Rotherstone, bends to press a gallant kiss to her knuckles.

See what I mean? The poor *deprived * fellows, if you know what I mean. By now, they’re each willing to do whatever it takes to get back into his lady’s, shall we say, good graces.

<Squawk!>

 Good day, Albert. I’m glad to see your tail feather is growing back nice and straight after that unfortunate accident in the fracas. 

 Uh-oh…dear friend, you must excuse me! Damien and Lucien are approaching Her Ladyship. I’d better go be ready to soothe any newly ruffled feathers, myself. Hopefully ward off any new disasters… Be right back…Or perhaps you should come with me? Lady B is rather terrifying when she’s cross. Oh, thank you , thank you for the moral support! Let’s go. Act natural. Smiles, everyone, smiles!

 Lady B (fretfully): All is forgiven, of course, but honestly, one is mystified at how gentlemen of your quality can get so out of control.

Lucien: (stepping forward with a bow) It’s the testosterone, my lady

 Gaelen: Zounds!

 Lady B: I see. Testosterone…is this some new liquor the rakehells are drinking in the clubs of St. James?

 Gaelen: Ahem, something like that, Your Ladyship! I’m sure the gentlemen don’t wish to take up any more of your time–

 Damien: We didn’t mean to start any trouble, Lady Beaufetheringstone. It’s just, well, it’s not easy going about in everyday Society when a man is so pumped full of warrior spirit.

 Lady B: I beg your pardon!

<Squawk!>

Gaelen: Crikey.

 Nodding, the heroes glance around at each other sympathetically.

 Lady B: What ever are they talking about, Miss Foley?

 Gaelen: (Gulp. Then, glaring at Damien for bringing it up. I tried to tell the men earlier, a Hostess of Lady B’s grandeur has no interest in such things.) I’m afraid, Your Ladyship, that the Colonel is referring to a phenomenon these fellows swear by, called Warrior Spirit. But pay them no mind. You will not find it a topic suitable for ladies–

 Lady B: No? Then I must certainly know more.

Alec: That’s the spirit, ol’ girl. 

Albert’s not taking any chances, hearing such talk. He flies up to safety, perching on the scrolly bits atop the nearest column.

 Lady B: (eyebrow raised) So, is it this ‘warrior spirit’ you speak of, that causes you fellow to behave so abominably from time to time?

 Gaelen: (trying desperately to intervene): Mainly, courage, to the best of my understanding….Situational awareness. Er, it’s quite complex, with many layers. We wouldn’t wish to bore you, but the thing is, you see, these warrior types think quite differently than we ladies do, ma’am, generally speaking.

Lucien: Nice pun.

Gaelen: Thanks. I mean, it’s possible for a lady to incorporate a certain degree of warrior spirit of her own in her nature, (and certainly, a must for any writer). 

Rohan (muttering under his breath): Well, you can’t be a hero without it. Though I’ve seen some try.

 Lady B: Details, please. What does it involve?

Alec gets ready to hand her the smelling salts, just in case.

Arthur Wellesley, 1st Duke of Wellington, affectionately called "Old Nosey" by his men

Damien folds his hands behind him. Now he’s in his element, just like training troops: Well, first and foremost, you’ve got to want to win. At any cost. Just ask Old Nosey.

 <Squawk! Wellington! Iron Duke! Squawk!>

 Gaelen: Very good, Albert. The picture of warrior spirit, and Irish-born, too. I’m just sayin’.

Damien: First you must determine if the fight is really worth it. If the cause is just. It usually comes down to defending those who can’t defend themselves.

 Max: Right. Once you’ve determined that, then your first blow should be as devastating as possible, if not lethal. “Attack the attack.” No point trifling around with warning shots and whatnot. That only prolongs the unpleasantness, and in general, most warriors prefer to live, though death is a constant possibility.

 Alec: Smelling salts, my lady?

 Lady B: No, thank you, dear boy.

 Gaelen: Don’t put them away just yet…

 Rohan: It’s true the constant presence of the Grim Reaper does affect one in rather odd ways.

 Gaelen: You would know.

 Rohan: Regardless, once you’ve made up your mind to fight, you carry out your duty no matter the personal cost.

 Lady B’s face turns the grimmest I’ve ever seen it. She nods sagely. I have heard stories of certain noble officers in our wars having their legs blown off and still proceeding to command their troops from the wounded cot, until the action is settled and reinforcements have arrived.

 Damien: Just so, madam. THAT is warrior spirit.

Jordan speaks up, the Order’s code expert: But it isn’t all physical. Far from it. Warrior Spirit requires mental acuity, as well. Strategy is essential. All of life is a chess game. A warrior seeks to stay three moves ahead of his opponent.

Robert: One also wants wide knowledge in as many arts and sciences and diverse areas of human endeavor as can be gained. It’s important to be what I believe they call a Renaissance man. This is why I persist in my music.

 Max: The art of deception is also key, when it comes to adding brains to brawn A warrior must disguise his true intentions from the enemy, while seeking to perceive the foe’s next move before he makes it.

 Lucien (nodding): That’s why it’s important to be a student of human nature. Learn how to size people up–know their strengths and weaknesses, predict what they might do.

 Lady B: So, a warrior must be a philosopher and an artist, as well as a brute, eh? Rather a tall order. 

Damien: That’s why there are so few of us. It is true, though. The intuitive side of the warrior is as important as battle prowess. Like the Crusaders of old, a wise warrior balances training techniques and fight-craft with times of quiet contemplation.

Jordan: This touches upon the moral dimension of the warrior spirit. I think you’ll find, ma’am, that all warriors have very definite views of good versus evil.

 Gaelen: Not that we always live up to these ideals in our personal lives as well as we ought, ahem.

 <Squawk!>

 Rohan: True. Like when someone gives you a girl for a gift on a cold winter’s night. . . er, never mind. But a simple understanding of good and evil helps us to discern when a cause is just or not. Slick or even learnéd talk can’t magically turn wrong into right. Deception is for the enemy, as Max mentioned, but a warrior deceives himself at his own peril.

 Lady B (covering a yawn): Fascinating.

Gaelen: Oh, dear. Gentlemen! I believe Her Ladyship has a dinner party to prepare for. We really should be going.

 They make their bows and I herd them out.

 Damien: What are you scowling for, O Creator Goddess?

 Gaelen: Don’t start with that again.

They all have a good chuckle at my expense. Cads.

…Not everyone cares about things like warrior spirit or what it takes to do the things you do! Lady B’s eyes were glazing over!

 Alec: I thought that’s because she was fantasizing about me!

 Gaelen: Very droll, Alec.

 Alec: Perhaps these ladies here would like to continue our discussion, while we all take a stroll around the Serpentine together.

 Gaelen: Very well, I’ll ask them….

Dear Ladies, it seems the gentlemen would like to know what YOU think of warrior spirit. How important it is in a romance hero? Can a hero be an Alpha Male without it? And have you heard tales of it in real life?

 Lucien: Here’s another question…. Can it be taught, or is it strictly inborn?

 Robert: And on what sorts of occasions might a female employ the warrior spirit in her everyday life?

 Gaelen: Yes, maybe these Alpha Heroes can teach us something about living our own lives with more of a Guts & Glory attitude…. The whole topic of Warrior Spirit was on my mind on the way from my weekly martial arts lesson yesterday. We’re learning some serious self-defense techniques that could actually kill someone…it’s kind of thrilling to gain that kind of skill, but it certainly makes you think. So I’m actually rather glad that Damien brought it up…It’s a topic I would like to learn more about, too, so please share your thoughts! Especially any of you with military connections, as the warrior spirit is so important in the armed forces. Heck, it even applies to law enforcement and possibly football–!

 And while you’re mulling it over–and please do have a crack at any of our questions above or share your own views on the topic–have a look at this adorable vid of some wee ones developing their Warrior Spirit…nobody will ever mess with them on the playground (bullies or pervs alike). Enjoy!

Watch Little Kenpo Kids video! PLEASE “OPEN IN NEW WINDOW” on your browser. (**I couldn’t figure out the trick of how to make it do that automatically on WordPress, sorry! Don’t want you to go see the vid and forget to come back to us! Thx for bearing with the technically challenged, lol…xo Gaelen**)

Since I am the guest judge on Project Runway I have to send someone home. Dear me, how sad.  Unlike the Patronesses of a certain establishment that shall remain nameless, I like to welcome all to my Ballroom. It gives me no pleasure to send an unfortunate young lady home without any supper.

<squawk> I’ll give her a lobster patty <squawk>

K. Evening Dress, 1812

Darling Albert, always so kind. First the happy news. None of these costumes are, to put it kindly, in the height of good taste,  but there is one that garnered several qualified plaudits. I liked it myself, though I recommend the young lady add peacock gloves,  trim a foot or two off her feather …

<squawk>

The young lady, Albert, not you. …trim her feather and acquire a fichu. On second thoughts that might be a pity. Dressed as she is she will be much in demand among the Bachelors in The Ballroom.  Without more ado, I grant Lady K an invitation to the next ball.

[Lady K blushes, curtsies, and leaves for the supper room on the arm of a handsome but tortured duke]

Now for the Bottom Three. Ladies A, C, and H. Please come to the runway. Oh, dear me, what a tragic waste of ingenuity and cloth has gone into these ensembles.

A. Walking Dress, 1809

C. Evening Dress, 1811

H. Carriage Dress 1816

Lady A. Your garment is more suitable for a Church Synod than a ballroom and a young lady does not wish to appear bearded unless she is an attraction at a fair.

Lady C. Your hat looks like a coal scuttle and the yellow finger marks on your bosom just won’t do.

Lady H. When selecting trimmings at the haberdasher’s there’s no need to purchase the entire contents of the shop. Leave some for the other ladies.

And now to announce the …. what’s that Miranda? [Miranda whispers]. Miranda tells me the costume with the most votes for the Auf  is Lady A. [Miranda whispers again]. She also tells me that by Project Runway tradition the audience never agrees with result, but gains a good deal of pleasure excoriating the judges on the Twitter and around something called a water cooler. I trust no one will have the ill breeding to excoriate me, but I always like to observe local custom. Therefore…Lady H,  Please leave the runway.

Albert, your German is excellent. You say it.
<squawk> Auf Wiedersehn <squawk>

A. Walking Dress, 1809

Lady B: Who is hosting the ball today? Let me consult my diary. Hmm. Miss Neville. If she doesn’t arrive in five minutes I shall send a footman round to Lady Sarah MacLean for an emergency appearance. She is never late.

<squawk> No lobster patties for Miranda <squawk>

[Miranda rushes in, sticking pins into her hair]. I’m here, I’m here. So sorry Lady B. I’ve been busy with revisions.

Lady B: The other ladies manage to perform their hostess duties and finish their books. Look at Lady Sarah. She has four books to write but she’s always on time. I have a mind to give her all your dates. I suppose you’ve been wasting time reading indecent novels again.

B. Pelisse Dress of Autumn, 1810

Miranda: No, really, I haven’t. I’ve been working hard. [Lady B raises an eyebrow] All right, I admit it. I was catching up with Project Runway on television.

Lady B: Television? Project Runway? Pray, explain yourself.

Miranda: Err… [considers, and discards, the notion of explaining television to Lady B] Project Runway is a competition for fashion designers.

Lady B: Do you mean seamstresses?

Miranda: I suppose so, though many of them are men.

Lady B: Male seamstresses! How very novel. What form does this competition take?

Miranda: Each week, the seamstresses have to make a look – er create an ensemble – according to certain rules. For example, they might have to design a bathing costume, or a uniform for an airline stewardess.

Lady B: What’s that?

C. Evening Dress, 1811

Miranda: [Muttters] This is harder than I thought. [to Lady B] A sort of female footman.

Lady B: Female servants could wear livery, but they wouldn’t be able to show their legs.

Miranda: You’d be surprised.

Lady B: And do these seamstresses have access to the best silk warehouses?

Miranda: When they are lucky they get to go to Mood, an excellent establishment. But sometimes they have to make the clothing out of very odd materials, such as they might find at a greengrocer or a stationer’s, or, most recently, a shop for pet supplies.

<squawk>

It’s all right Albert. They weren’t allowed to touch the animals.

Lady B:  How are these gowns displayed?

Miranda: The designers fit them on models – very beautiful girls.

D. Evening Dress, 1812

Lady B: You shock me, Miranda. Since many of these “designers” are men, it sounds most improper.

Miranda: It’s all right, Lady B. The majority of them are not interested in women that way, if you know what I mean.

Lady B: I do. My cousin’s sister-in-law’s niece married William Beckford, but we don’t talk about it.

Miranda: Besides, most of the models are much taller than the male designers, well over six feet tall.

Lady B: Good heavens! Giantesses. It must take a good deal of cloth to cover them.

Miranda: No, they are all very thin.

Lady B:  Emaciated giantesses. Poor dears, we must invite them here and feed them some supper.
<squawk> Not the lobster patties <squawk>

E. Evening Dress, 1812

Miranda: Once the designers have completed their looks, the models display them in front of the judges. The best gown is named the winner. The one deemed the worst dressed is sent home.

Lady B: Sounds like rather like Almack’s. Who are these judges?

Miranda: You’ve got something there, Lady B. The judge bear a distinct resemblance to the Patronesses. Fraulein Heidi Klum could be Princess Esterhazy. Señora Nina Garcia has much in common with Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, and Mr. Michael Kors is a dead wringer for Lady Jersey, if she were male and had a suntan.

Lady B: Almack’s! No wonder the poor dears are starving! There’s never anything worth eating there.

F. Morning Dress, 1812

Miranda: [Aside] Almack’s refreshments, the Regency equivalent of Diet Coke and cigarettes.

Lady B: Do the seamstresses have any assistants? It’s quite difficult to make a gown in one day.

Miranda: They do it alone, but they have advice from Mr. Tim Gunn, who’s a bit like Mr. Brummell, only much nicer.

Lady B: Miranda! You’re blushing.

Miranda: I must confess, Lady B, I have quite the tendre for Mr. Gunn. Unfortunately he isn’t interested in ladies, either.

Lady B: It all sounds very interesting. I’d like to be a judge myself.

Miranda: They have a guest judge every week. Sometimes an established seamstress, sometimes an actress, and sometimes a socialite … er a member of the ton.

Lady B: Splendid. Arrange it for me Miranda. I wish to be a judge on Project Runway. And darling Albert shall help me. He has exquisite taste and always knows what goes best with my peacock gloves.

G. Walking Dress, 1816

And so, ladies and gentlemen, I bring you Regency Project Runway. Candice Hern (check out her wonderful traditional Regencies, now reissued as ebooks), whose website is a fabulous resource for Regency history and artifacts, was kind enough to scan some particular outrageous examples from her collection of fashion plates. For non PR watchers, the judges on the show usually chose a top three and a bottom three. If you can pick a worthy winner from this lot, good luck. I invite you to nominate the three worst, and your candidate for being Aufed (For the uninitiated, a reference to Heidi Klum’s traditional Auf Wiedersehn to the loser). Scathing comments, another Project Runway tradition, are encouraged. (Also, I’m dying to hear who you think is going to win this year’s competition. Anya? Anthony? Oliver?)

Lady B, with the help of our commenters, will deliver the Auf  on Wednesday.

H. Carriage Dress 1816

I. Carriage Costume, 1816

J. Court Dress 1820

K. Evening Dress, 1812

This time last year, I was in England.  In Sussex, specifically, researching for my new Spindle Cove series.  Now, Spindle Cove is a fictional village, but I knew I wanted it to have a tea shop.  Therefore, I considered it my professional duty to take tea in as many Sussex tea shops as possible.  It was a tough job, but it had to be done.

Now, when one is preparing for one’s first trip to England, one is often urged to have “a cream tea.”  However, one is rarely told exactly what a “cream tea” is.  If one is like me, she might naively imagine this to be some sort of creamy tea beverage, not unlike a chai latte from Starbucks.

But no!  A cream tea is so much more than a beverage.  It’s a whole meal.   (At least, I made meals of them.)

Cream Tea at the Royal Pavilion

Behold, my first cream tea, served to me in the Royal Pavilion Tea Room in Brighton (once the Prince Regent’s own residence).  A traditional cream tea includes:

• A pot of strong, fragrant brewed tea, with lumps of sugar and a jug of cream
• A scone, plain or studded with fruit
• Jam
• And–the cream tea’s raison d’etre–freshly churned cream, which is that pot of yellowish stuff.

In taste and consistency, the cream is like a slightly sweet, spreadable, very rich butter.  You often hear of Devonshire cream, but because I was in Sussex, this was local Sussex cream.  Perhaps the “best cream” bragging rights are a subject of hot debate, not unlike college football rivalries?

Whatever it’s called, wherever it’s from – it is heavenly.  And sinful.  And addictive.

See, this cream tea was my gateway drug.  Soon, in the course of my assiduous survey of Sussex tea shops–for research purposes, mind–I was moving on to “full tea.”   Which looks like this:

Tea at The Fletcher

This might possibly be the best meal I’ve ever had.  All the cream tea components are there – pot of tea, scone, jam, cream.  Plus four salmon-cucumber tea sandwiches AND a slice of the most delicious cake on the planet.  I think the flavor was toffee walnut cranberry…?  I don’t recall, but it was simply amazing.  I walked five miles after eating this meal (that’s a crazy story for another day), and still didn’t feel hungry in the least.  I hope you are suitably impressed by my dedication to research.

And I consumed it all in The Fletcher, a tea shop in Rye that was once the home of John Fletcher, a Elizabethan playwright and contemporary of Shakespeare.  The building is over four hundred years old–delightfully slanted and sagging and creaky when you walk across the floor.

Plaque at the Fletcher, with one of his plays

This is not The Fletcher, but a standing Rye house from about the same era. The door is about 4-1/2 feet tall!

These were the doors of the restrooms. Aren’t they wonderful?

The painted doors of the restrooms at the Fletcher

Sigh.  The things I do for research.  But enough about me.

What’s your perfect cuppa on a weekend morning?  Tea? Coffee? Chocolate?  Do you take your beverage of choice straight up, or do you doctor it up with soy milk, orgeat syrup, and a dusting of nutmeg?  Do you favor egg-and-cress sandwiches, or cucumber-salmon?  Fruited scones or plain? 

Also –  what similarly dire, unpleasant tasks can I take on in the name of research?  I think perhaps I need to write about Regency massage therapy. 

Today, we’re launching a new feature of The Ballroom Blog…Parlor Games! Every few weeks we’ll host a fun survey or quiz or game related to romance. All six of us (and Lady B!) will chat in comments, and it will be all the fun of a Regency house party on a rainy evening.

I’m beginning with an oldie but a goodie…ten either/or questions on romance! Those of you who are readers of my blog will know that for the launch of Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke’s Heart, I hosted a few dozen of my favorite authors for Eleven Questions, where I forced them to pick between popular romance archetypes and tropes. We had a great time…and if you have a chance, you should head over and read some of the AMAZING replies (including Tessa, Miranda & Katharine!)

But why only torture romance writers? Readers should have to choose as well!

So, for our first Parlor Game, I give you, Ten Questions, romance style! Once you’ve made your selections, please join us in comments to tell us why you made the choices you made…and which ones gave you real trouble!

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