Once upon a time in the far distant past, I announced to my colleagues at work that I was leaving the job to pursue a PhD in history. Most of them stared blankly. But one of them grasped my hands and, eyes lit with excitement, wished me all the joy that could be had in my new endeavor.

I needn’t explain to you lovelies her reaction. It was my other colleagues, the Blank Stare colleagues, for whom I felt a little sad.

So I asked one of them what he thought of history. His reply: an endless series of dates to be memorized. To him, for example, the year 910 did not mean the conquest of a patch of coastland by a potent Viking warlord who then (wisely) made his bows to a Frankish king, setting on its eventual path a contest between Continent and Island that would last hundreds of years and shape the world that you and I read and write about every day. To my colleague the year 910 only meant ten extra minutes of cramming for the exam that he could’ve otherwise spent drinking with his buddies.

I didn’t blame him. Dates mean nothing in the absence of the stories that give them life.

My motto: History always in service to the story.

That said, keeping track of time is obviously crucial to a historian and writer of historical fiction. But it can be tricky, especially when the chronology includes multiple players and storylines. This past year while writing my new Falcon Club series I learned how tricky it is indeed. You see, when I wrote Captured by a Rogue Lord, several minor characters from that book each told me they expected me to write their stories too. And I was to make those stories part of my next series. Naturally I replied, “Of course! You’re the bosses!”

New Life Maxim: Never blithely promise my characters anything. Except HEA’s, of course. And lots of steamy sex.

But I had promised, and secretly I couldn’t wait to write those stories. So, because my Falcon Club and Rogues of the Sea series take place simultaneously, I broke out the time-keeping devices.

Chronologies come first. Like all historians and authors of historical fiction, I have shelves and shelves of Books O’ History. From these I’ve devised a spreadsheet of all the Important Dates and Other Stuff relevant to my stories. Woven into this timeline are the major life events of all my heroes and heroines. It is a mammoth document, and wicked cool. (Sometimes I just sit and stare at it, smiling kind of dopey-like.)

Calendars come next. I believe I once before mentioned my abiding appreciation [Ed. note: "appreciation" is a gigantically understated euphemism] for Men of the Sea, as well as my tendency to wallpaper my office with historical ship calendars. Not long ago I was trying to work out an overlapping chronology having to do with a sea journey in How To Be a Proper Lady. When I finally managed to figure it out — by scribbling notes all over one of my old ship calendars — I cheered like a castaway who’s just spotted a sail on the horizon.

Then there are other historical resources that are less time keeping devices and more story-enhancing devices — resources that allow an author to spend far too much of her own time online in the wee hours. For instance, when I wished to entwine the hero and heroine of When a Scot Loves a Lady in an embrace in a garden a few nights after Christmas 1816, I went to NASA’s 6000-year-long listing of the phases of the moon to discover that yes indeed the inconstant moon would have been bright enough to cast my Scot’s sculpted profile in a silvery light.

But however addictive these sorts of resources are for a historian who happens to love dates and other details like that, in the end it’s all about the story. The adventure of humanity defies the Blank Stare, and it’s a heck of a lot more fun.

Have you ever read Umberto Eco’s brilliant mystery novel, Foucault’s Pendulum? It’s about modern publishing and medieval Templars and creativity and arrogance and addiction and insanity. Mostly it’s about time, that pendulum swinging eternally without concern for the Earth rotating beneath it, and the wild, unfettered storytelling that emerges from history but cannot be corralled or bridled, and certainly not tamed. I teach a course on medieval Christianity in modern film and fiction, and I always assign this book, because it is at once inspiring and humbling. Time is not ours to control or confine. For when we attempt to do so, therein lies madness. And I think, perhaps, that is a good thing to remember on New Year’s Eve.

After this year spent wrestling with timelines and chronologies (happily, given all the steamy sex and HEA’s), I’m going to read Foucault’s Pendulum again starting tomorrow. How about you? What book will you begin the New Year with? An old favorite or a new book you’ve been dying to read? Or if you’re in a frisky New Year’s Eve kind of mood, can you suggest a suggestive caption for the Foucault Pendulum image above?

Dear Ladies, I am so excited to announce that all the gentlemen (ahem) of the Inferno Club are here today to help me celebrate the release of MY RUTHLESS PRINCE.

Drake, Lord Westwood: Please don’t make a fuss. I’d really you rather not–

Max, Lord Rotherstone: Don’t fret, old boy. I’ll do the talking for you if you like. Please forgive our friend. He’s still recovering, you know, from–his ordeal.

Drake: I’m fine. Really. 

Rohan, Duke of Warrington: At least he’s not mumbling to himself today. That’s a marked improvement.

Max: Leave him alone, you rotter. He’s done more for our cause than all the rest of us put together. Now, then, my dear author, what was it you wanted to ask us? (Elbowing Drake while mumbling as aside: Tell her how honored you are that she wrote the story of your exploits. They like it when you compliment them, these artsy types with their fragile egos.)

Drake: But I’m not honored! I wish she would’ve left me alone, left the whole thing in the past. Maybe better if it were forgotten.

 

Max: Nonsense! Then no one would know what glory you deserve!

Drake gives him a longsuffering stare.  

Max: What, you don’t care about glory anymore? It used to matter a lot to you.

Drake (dropping into a wingchair with a sigh): I just want to go the bloody hell home.

Max: Too bad, you’ve got to do the junket. It’s Release Week, man! You worked hard for this–you’ve earned this! Now, snap out of it!

Drake: Grrr. Right. So, what’s all this, then? (Under his breath -) Meddling woman.

Gaelen: Well, I don’t mean to put you on the spot -

Drake: Whyever not? You tortured me every other way in that damned book.

Max: Honestly.

Gaelen: It’s all right. Drake and I have been through a lot together over the past year. Actually, Drake, my dear, after all the life-or-death decisions you men have had to make, all the times you’ve basically saved the world from those evil Prometheans–

Max (waving his hands frantically while trying to be discreet): Psst! No! Don’t mention them, whatever you do!

Drake leaps to his feet. pulls out pistol and unsheathes his sword (yes, right in the Ballroom): Prometheans?! Where? Show yourselves, you dogs of hell, and I will destroy you!!

Max (hand over eyes) : Now you’ve done it.

Rohan (going over to calm him down): Easy, there, fellow. No Prometheans here. They’re gone.

Jordan: I daresay. Should we call for Emily?

Beau: I think they’ve got him under control.

Rohan: Don’t worry, mate, I don’t think we’re not going to have to worry about the Prometheans for a long, long time. You saw to that, remember?

Drake: Ohh…right. Damn. Do you have anything to drink here?

Gaelen beckons to the terrified footman, who leaps to fetch hard liquor for our warriors friends before they get riled up again.

Max (to Gaelen): You’re not going to want to mention that again. 

Gaelen: I noticed. All I wanted to ask you gentlemen is what you think the New Year might hold for you? Now that the gravest danger has passed, that is. You see, in my world, people make New Year’s Resolutions. Sort of…goals they wish to achieve or new habits they want to create. Since Drake did such a fine job of ridding the world of ::them:: I was wondering, what’s next for each of you? 

Drake (cautiously putting his weapons back away, but still scanning the room): Mainly to catch up my sleep. Haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in about a year. No plans or goals, really. I’ve done what I wished to accomplish, now I’m just happy to be alive. Now that I’ve done my duty, I think I’ll just retire to the quiet of the countryside with Emily. She talks of starting a falconry center for injured birds of prey. She is so good at healing wounded wild creatures…

Gaelen: Hmm. That sounds like it will be very relaxing for you. Good. Lord Rotherstone?

Max: No quiet life for me. When all of this is said and done, I’ve got a mind to head off on an expedition to the Holy Land. Hire a team of scientists, scholars, archeologists… see if we can’t dig up some more old scrolls. Who knows what secrets might still be hidden in the sands? Daphne insists on tagging along if I go, which gives me heart palpitations. The desert’s no place for a lady, but on the other hand, it’d be no fun without her.  

Gaelen: How exciting! Do keep me abreast of your plans, my lord. Your Grace? 

Rohan: Now, don’t any of you lot laugh or I’ll put you through a wall. But at my lady’s insistence, we are calling in some strange former “plumbers” (whatever that is) – known as Ghost Hunters. I’m told they have the specialized equipment to investigate the Gray Lady. I’ve had enough strange sightings and odd noises in the middle of the night! It’s time to find out who or what exactly is haunting Kilburn Castle. Let’s hope it’s merely one of my ancestors.

Gaelen: Oh, dear. So you’re call in Jason and Grant, are you? Well, I’m sure they’ll get to the bottom of it.

Rohan shrugs.

Gaelen: Lord Falconridge, what are your plans for the new year?

Jordan: Funny you should ask, my dear. Truth is, I’ve give this a lot of thought, and decided it’s time somebody did something about all this gambling in the ton. I’ve decided to start a gamblers anonymous group for all of Prinny’s once-rich gambling friends.

Gaelen: Really? Gamblers’ Anonymous in Regency London?

 

Jordan: Believe me, I played whist with that group of madmen on a few occasions. I know how they are, bankrupting themselves left and right. The need is dire.

Gaelen: Good luck with that. What about you, my adorable Lord Beauchamp?

Beau: Ahh, I’ve got only two goals in mind. One – man the fort until these lads have cleaned up all the loose ends following Drake’s mission. And two…something must be done about Carissa Portland.

Gaelen: Why is he suddenly staring into space?

Beau: That maddening little minx. I don’t trust her.

Gaelen: Really!

Beau: Mm-hmm. I think she’s hiding something. And believe you me, I intend to get to the bottom of it.

Jordan (with a droll look): That poor gel. What exactly do you think she might be hiding, Beauchamp? 

Max: Clearly not the fact that she thinks he’s an idiot.

Beau: No. She’s quite open about that, the haughty little shrew. Did you see what she did when I asked her to dance?

Jordan: She laughed at you, tossed her head, and walked away. Priceless.

Beau: On the contrary, IT DOESN’T MAKE SENSE. No female has ever responded to me that way before in my life. There’s something wrong with her. I think that little redhead may be the devil.

Gaelen: Oh, dear…change of subject, please? Anyone?

Rohan: Tell us your New Year’s Resolutions, madam scribbler. What’s next for you?

Gaelen: I just hope to continue finding heroes like yourselves, whose exploits I can capture with my pen.  And lose ten pounds. This, too, is de rigeur in my world, Your Grace.

Ladies, care to share your New Year’s Resolutions? I love New Year’s…making new plans and goals and putting dreams into action. For me, I want to write 1500 words a day this year, earn my purple belt in kenpo, and take a trip to Europe in June. What about you? Any thoughts? 

[PS: If anyone wants to read Chapter 1 of My Ruthless Prince, it's posted now at www.gaelenfoley.com. I'm so excited, it just went on sale on Tuesday! More info about the Inferno Club series concept and each of the individual stories is available on my website, as well, under Novels>Inferno Club. Enjoy!]

Thank you all for spending a part of your Boxing Day’s with us! We are thrilled to announce the six winners of the Boxing Day giveaway! Please check your email for a message from me, asking for your mailing address.

Here’s to a fabulous 2012!

Laura DeLeon
Diane P. Diamond
Michaella
Maria Acosta
Jane Silhouette
KimmyL

Tis the day after Christmas and all through the ballroom,
Not an author is stirring…books and packages loom.
Empty boxes are strewn round the gilt and the glitter, 
And no one seems interested in being more than a sitter.

Miranda and Sarah enter with care,
Trying not to make noise – last night was a bear.
Turkey and roast beef, puddings and pie,
Hot toddies and wine…here’s mud in yer eye! 

Katharine curled up on a chaise, eating cookies,
With Sabrina and Tessa—all three reading bookies.
Gaelen is brainstorming, stroking pretty green feathers,
The entire scene reads like an outtake from Heathers. 

The newcomers head for a nearby chair,
Ready to call for two cups of dog’s hair,
When Lady B enters, chipper and clean,
Rosy cheeked and outfitted in hunting cloak green.

Lady B: Authoresses! Do you plan to laze about all day?

There is a collective groan from the six.

Lady B raises that eyebrow of hers: I beg your pardon?

Sarah: There isn’t seriously going to be a ball today, is there? I don’t think I can face it.

Miranda: Can’t be. It’s a bank holiday.

Lady B: A what?

Sabrina: They probably don’t have those yet, either.

Sarah: Very likely not…remember…what’s his name from Dickens? He had to work on Christmas. Day after, too. Jacob Marley?

Tessa: That was the ghost.

Sarah: Right. Well whoever. The peg-leg kid’s dad.

Gaelen: Tiny Tim.

Sarah: Right. Him.

Katharine: I don’t think he had a peg leg.

Sarah: Really? What was it?

Katharine: I think he was just small.

Tessa: Either way, I think you mean Bob Cratchit.

Miranda: Unfortunate name, that.

Sarah: Totally. Not a good hero name at all.

Gaelen: I like Jacob Marley, though. That’s a good one.

There is a murmur of agreement from the authoresses.

Sabrina: Was Scrooge a banker?

Sarah: Something like that.

Sabrina: Huh.

Miranda: Well, take that with a grain of salt. She also thought Tiny Tim had a peg leg.

Sarah: Are you absolutely sure he doesn’t?

Katharine: Yes.

Sarah: Well, you’re the pirate expert.

Katharine: Exactly.

Gaelen: I think it’s just a crutch.

Sarah: Oh…hmmm. I guess that would make sense.

Lady B: What are you six talking about?

In fairness, we had gone off on a rather long and bizarre tangent…particularly bizarre if you were living in 18wheneverLadyBlives and you hadn’t even heard of Ebeneezer Scrooge.

<squawk!> Bah Humbug! <squawk!>

Sabrina, narrowing her gaze on Albert: That bird knows more about the future than he lets on.

Lady B’s voice rises: Authoresses! I must insist you cease this prattle!

Miranda, hand to temple: Not so loud, please, Lady B.

Lady B’s eyebrow goes again: Are you overhung, Miss Neville?

Miranda: Not at all.

Lady B looks to the others: And the rest of you? Are you feeling in some way incapacitated this morning? I cannot imagine it being the case, as you are all here, collapsed about my ballroom like Christmas wrapping.

Sarah: That is an excellent simile, my lady.

Lady B’s tone turns cool: You are not the only clever ones in the room, Miss MacLean.

Sarah: Of course not! I never meant…

Lady B: Never mind. You’re all coming out with me.

They return their attention to their estimable hostess.

Katharine, cookie halfway to her mouth: I beg your pardon?

Lady B: What you need…

Miranda: Oh, no.

Lady B: …is some fresh air.

Sarah closes her eyes for a moment, then looks to Miranda: What is happening right now?

Miranda: It’s Boxing Day.

Sarah: Right. The day after Christmas. A bank holiday for everyone but what’s his name.

Katharine: Bob Cratchitt.

Lady B: What a hideous name.

<squawk> Once more, with feeling! <squawk!>

Sarah: Isn’t it a day to recover from…festivities? You know, sit around and…eat  more? And read the books one received as presents? And catalog the rest of your loot?

Miranda: Unless you have a Horribly Bracing British Mother.

Sarah: I have a British Mother.

Miranda: Be thankful she’s not Horribly Bracing.

Lady B: Do pay attention! What you need is some fresh air. Foxhunting, pheasant shooting, or just a nice long walk through the mud.

Miranda, gives Sarah a knowing look.

Sarah: Ah. I see.

Miranda: Now, it’s true that a few hours away from one’s loved ones can be an excellent thing. One year we had a chimney fire on Boxing Day and apologized abjectly to the firemen for taking them away from their families during the holiday. They cheerfully told us they appreciated a Boxing Day call because it got them out of the house. December 26th is also the Feast of Stephen.

Sarah: That I knew. SHAMELESS PLUG: St. Stephen’s plays a rather important role in my February book, A Rogue By Any Other Name. There is caroling.

Miranda: Good King Wenceslas Looked Out?

Sarah: Precisely.

Miranda: I love that carol because you get to sing in a squeaky voice for the page and down in your boots for the king.

Sarah: I love the scene in Love Actually when the Prime Minister’s security guard belts it out and shocks everyone.

Miranda: Less cheerfully, it’s the day St. Stephen was stoned to death for reasons I cannot now recall.

Sarah: Downer.

Miranda: Agreed. But it’s also the day for the distribution of Christmas Boxes.

Sarah: Fun! But isn’t some Odiously Perky Random Research Geek going to point out in comments that Boxing Day isn’t Regency?

Katharine: The Oxford English Dictionary gives 1833 as the first use.

Miranda (holding on to her aching head): Lookee here, OPRRG. I cede to no one, not even Katharine, in my love for the OED (see her post on the subject) but those guys had to actually read all the books, so it’s not surprising they missed things. They didn’t have the awesome search capacity of Google Books which confirms that Boxing Day goes way back into the eighteenth century. It may go even further back and be named for when the poor boxes in churches were opened and the donations distributed to the poor.  Christmas Boxes, however, were mostly given to tradesmen with whom you did business and consisted of sums of money, not necessarily in a box.

Sarah: You mean shopkeepers? Like giving a gift to the guy in the cheese shop? There was this brie last night…

Miranda: Yes. The cheesemonger and the grocer and the coal merchant. Also service providers such as the livery stable, the dressmaker, the chimney sweep, the crossing sweeper.

Sarah: Like tipping the mailman or the New York Times guy. Damn. Which I forgot to do.

Lady B: Miss MacLean, language, please.

Sarah: Now, that’s more like my mother.

Miranda: A writer in 1731 complained that an unending line of people showed up at his house on Boxing Day, expecting a handout. They all went down to the tavern for the evening and got drunk and kvetched about cheapskates who only gave them sixpence. Mind you, the writer seems to have been a bit of a Grinch so I take his account with a pinch of salt.

Lady B: You’re forgetting servants. We always take care of the servants on Boxing Day. In fact, I was up early to do it.

Miranda: You are generous beyond measure, Lady B. That tradition seems to vary from house to house.

Lady B: The best ones keep to it.

Sarah: Of course they do.

Lady B: Are you trying to get out of taking a walk, Miss MacLean?

Sarah: Is it working?

Lady B: No. It shall do you all good.

Sarah: So, Lady B, which servants do you treat?

Lady B: Lord B attends to the servants and tradesmen. I make gifts of money to my personal maid, my modiste, and my coiffeur.

Miranda: Absolutely. My hairdresser always gets a gift for her sterling work in keeping the gray at bay.

Lady B: Speak for yourself, Miranda. I assure you my color is quite natural.

<squawk> salt and pepper <squawk>

Lady B: Hush, Albert.

—

Today, the authoresses of the Ballroom would like to share a Christmas Box with you! Comment below with a post-Holiday (any holiday…not just Christmas!) tradition from your home…and SIX commenters will receive a surprise Christmas Box…one from each of our Authoresses…and Lady B, of course!

Sorry to our international readers, but this contest is US Only. 

 

 

From writers such as Victoire, Count de Soligny, Washington Irving and Charles Dickens among others, we get a vision of festive Christmas dinners that include an enormous roasted beef, Boar’s head with bay leaves and rosemary, peacock or pheasant pie, turkey, mince pies, plum cakes for kids, and the medieval inspired Wassail bowl for adults.

 

Only a few of these traditional foods remain today. Although, as we saw while shopping on Monday at Fortnum and Mason’s, a savory Christmas pie might include Goose and chestnuts, usually the foods we eat are not so dissimilar from those eaten on Thanksgiving.

 

When I think of Christmas foods, I tend to picture gingerbread and chestnuts, Brussels sprouts, Yorkshire pudding, eggnog and mulled wine. Lately, I’ve been enjoying baking and experimenting with new recipes, such as a gingerbread bar made with crystallized ginger. So yummy!

This year, I intend to try making Sugar Plums.

A fabulous looking recipe can be found here.

 

I know everyone has unique holiday food traditions. I’ve even seen Lady B disappear into the kitchen to supervise her Christmas preparations. What are yours and what will you be having tomorrow for your Christmas dinner?

 

Today I’ve donned my prettiest gown, new kid gloves, and a pair of antique pearl earrings I borrowed from one of my heroines. I’ve even dabbed lavender water behind my ears and on my wrists. Why the extra primping? Because it’s my first time bringing an author as a guest to the ball, and I’m feeling celebratory! 

And what a guest! Anne Gracie – author of deliciously emotional, sexy, captivating stories – enters the ballroom with me. She’s dressed in a flowing purple gown and is wearing a string of glittering beads and a turban with peacock feathers.

I peer about for Lady B. Across the ballroom I spot Albert by the glimmer of the diamond stud lodged in his beak (Seems he’s still pilfering jewels from Lady B’s dressing case, the dear bird). Lady B can’t be far off.

Anne (gesturing discreetly as we move forward): There she is.

I don’t know how she recognizes Lady B; I don’t think they’ve met before. Then again, Anne has a long familiarity with another formidable lioness of the ton, so she probably recognizes the gleam in Lady B’s eye…

We have strolled the breadth of the ballroom and are upon our hostess already.

Lady B (sniffing the air): Miss Ashe, you smell like a sachet one finds in a garment press.

Katharine: Oh, yes, well, lavender. Can’t get enough of it. Love it like I love champagne! Even made one of my heroes wear lavender. Though he prefers rum to champagne. Pirate, you know. And brandy, cause he’s also an earl. Um… (I’m babbling. Can you say “a tad overexcited”?) Anyway… it’s perfume! Because today is a special day at the ballroom. Very special. Like champagne.

Lady B actually rolls her eyes. Then she turns her gaze upon Anne and gives her a once-over though her quizzing glass. It’s clear in an instant she approves.

Katharine (puffing with pride): My lady, please allow me to introduce to you a wonderfully gifted storyteller, Anne Gracie.

Anne (blushes madly, executes a wobbly curtsy): I do believe Lady B might be acquainted with Lady Gosforth, the aunt of several of my heroes.

Lady B: My dear gel, Maude Gosforth and I go back to the time when we were both in leading strings. Fourth cousins thrice removed, don’t you know. Redoubtable woman! Keeps all those handsome Renfrew brothers in line, doesn’t she?

Anne: She does indeed. Lady Gosforth has a fine line in Crushing Epithets and Withering Looks and I see it runs in the family.

Lady B offers Anne a Narrow Glance and then decides it was a compliment.

Katharine (hurriedly, in case it wasn’t): Lady B, the delectable hero of Anne’s next book, Bride By Mistake, is one of the Renfrew brothers’ closest friends. Anne, please, please, please tell us about Luke Ripton — or, to those who’ve seen him, Lieutenant Tall, Dark, and as Beautiful as an Archangel. (My favorite kind of hero!) What is he like?

Anne: A princess once said this of him: “Luke was their ‘fallen angel’, and when she saw his face, she understood why. He was darkly beautiful and somehow tragic-looking, with dark eyes and cheekbones a woman would weep for. His thick dark hair was tousled, and he wore his neckcloth carelessly knotted.”

Katharine (breathing unevenly, looking a little flushed): Oh. Em. Gee.

Anne: But Luke is also a man haunted by his past. Back home from the war, he’s a daredevil who indulges in all kinds of extreme Regency sports and invariably wins; he doesn’t seem to care if he lives or dies. Women flutter around him but he shows no interest in settling down, even though he’s now a lord, and needs an heir. But things are about to change. Or rather the past is about to rise up and bite him in the… er.

<squawk!> Bite him in the unmentionables! <squawk!>

Katharine (whips out a fan; fans self wildly): Sounds good to me.

Lady B: Miss Ashe, pray pause in your swoon for a moment. Let us address the most important matter first. Miss Gracie, are Lord Ripton’s gams shapely?

Katharine (snaps fan shut): Of course they are! He was a soldier. All those battlefield marches make for gorgeous legs. Am I right, Anne?

Anne:  Almost, Katharine — he’s a cavalry officer, so not a lot of marching. Think long, hard, horseman’s thighs, a tight butt and gleaming top boots.

Katharine (clutching her heart): C-C-Cavalry officer? Beyond dreamy! And I always say that a delectable hero deserves a fabulous heroine. I cannot wait to meet Isabella.

Lady B: Isabella you say? I adore the name.

Katharine: Oh, so do I! But Anne, how does Isabella come to be acquainted with Lieutenant Tall, Dark and as Beautiful as an Archangel? (whispered aside to Albert) Actually, I already know, and it’s really crazy but totally honorable. I love that kind of beginning! (dreamy sigh)

<squawk!> Sucker for a hero with a noble heart. <squawk!>

Katharine: I am! I know! (another dreamy sigh)

Lady B: Miss Ashe, you are dismissed.

I blink. I kind of gape.

Lady B lifts a single fingertip toward the door. Her look is implacable.

I. Am. Totally. Mortified.

Katharine: (whispering) I’m really sorry, Anne. This is so embarrassing. I’m just so excited you’re here — talking about Luke, no less! I think I’m a bit giddy. And when I get giddy, I babble. Please forgive me. I’ll just go now.

Anne (grabbing Katharine’s arm): No, no, dear Lady B, please reconsider. If Katharine leaves, I will have to depart with her — I am her guest, you see. And if I leave, I cannot tell you of how Luke and Isabella met… Such an interesting tale… (Fans herself casually with her sandalwood fan, affecting a downcast expression while hanging firmly-but-elegantly onto Katharine.)

Lady B (sniffs, harrumphs, and finally gives Katharine and Anne a Beady Look and sniffs again): Very well, Miss Ashe, you may stay. You (raps Anne with an ivory fan, thus trumping mere sandalwood) do tell me how they met.

Anne: Luke was a young officer, barely nineteen, and on a mission. In the mountains of Spain he came across a young girl being attacked — Isabella. She was just thirteen, and fleeing from a hateful forced marriage. Luke rescues her, and, you know it already, don’t you? Yes, dear Reader, he married her.

<squawk!> Noble hero! <squawk!>

Lady B (eyes snapping): Marries a gel of thirteen? Shockingly bad ton! And he dragged the poor child off to war, like that fellow, Harry Smith I suppose.

Anne: No, Lady B, though Isabella did want to go with him. Luke placed her in a convent in the care of her aunt.

Lady B (to Katharine, who is staring across the ballroom): Miss Ashe, if Miss Gracie insists upon you remaining, I expect you to attend to her scandalous revelations and my righteous outrage. Are you paying attention, gel?

I’m not. My gaze is glued to the entrance. Tall and Handsome with the brooding, dark eyes of a fallen angel — a really masculine, incredibly hot angel — has just sauntered into the ballroom. I’ve seen this gentleman before. My heart sped up then too. It’s Luke Ripton.

Anne: Ah, there is Lord Ripton now. Shall I introduce you?

Katharine (choking on eagerness, barely manages words): I wish you will.

Anne beckons to Luke, who is dressed in severely cut, dark formal evening wear. He gives a curt nod and strides across the ballroom. My heart is spinning, I tell you. Spinning. Anne makes the introductions. Luke bows. Ladies around the ballroom sigh and drift subtly closer.

Lady B: Lord Ripton, Anne has been telling me about your marriage to a thirteen-year old child.

Luke (giving Anne a look, glittering ice blue): Has she indeed?

Anne fans herself airily and hums a little tune.

Lady B: Left her in a convent, I gather. And where is she now, pray tell?

Luke arches a dark, potent eyebrow and says nothing.

Lady B (whose family invented the Silent-Yet-Potent Eyebrow Response, snorts) I said, young man, where is your bride now?

Luke (being well acquainted with Lady Gosforth, recognizes the breed and clenches his jaw): Still in the convent. I meant to have the blasted marriage annulled, but it’s been refused.

Lady B: So you are off to fetch her from Spain, then?

Luke: Yes.

Katharine (sighing): How thoroughly romantic!

Luke (turning a cold eye on her): No, Miss Ashe, it’s a cursed nuisance! But at least, being convent raised, she’ll understand obedience, unlike some ladies I know.

He glances at Anne, bows to Lady B and me, and stalks away. Lady B scowls. I gape.

Anne (grinning): And wait till you see how Bella reacts!

~ ~ ~

Lovely guests, today I am giving away a copy of Anne’s Bride By Mistake to one randomly chosen commenter (paperback, Kindle or Nook, as desired). Tell us, are you an obedient sort of person (like Luke expects Isabella to be!), or not? Have you ever broken the rules really scandalously? Or do you prefer to play it safe and reap the rewards of propriety? Since I’m wearing the lavender scent of one of my own most rule-breaking heroes, I’ll throw in a signed copy of Captured by a Rogue Lord too (If you already have it, I’ll be happy to send it as a holiday present to a friend of your choice)! I’ll keep the drawing open through Friday evening. 

Lady B, brace yourself.  Fill a cup with ratafia.  What I’ve brought to the ballroom today is rather  shocking.

Shocking, Miss Dare?

You might even say salacious.

Salacious?

Or scintillating.

All I will say is that you are entirely too fond of alliteration.

‘Struth, I confess.  But I have one more S-word to throw at you, and it is this:

STEPBACK.

I am nonplussed.

Albert: <squawk>What the feathers?<squawk>

Let me explain.  Sometimes romance novels have a tw0-part cover.  The reader flips open the outer cover, and there is a deliciously glossy, often mildly naughty image inside, and that is known as a “stepback.”   And I have one–a real one–for the very first time.

But I thought A Night to Surrender had a stepback.

It did, yes.  But the picture inside was a closeup of the picture on the front, so it didn’t have quite that naughty factor.  Colin and Minerva in A Week to be Wicked have the real deal.

You are such a tease, gel.  Post the image on the InnerNetting already, so all the Ballroom guests can see.

Gladly!

 

 

I’m inordinately thrilled about it.  In fact, I have gorgeous coverflats with said stepback, and I’m giving away a whole slew of them to people who enter my website contest. Isn’t it exciting, Lady B?

Why.  Yes.  It is, rather.  My goodness.  I’m…

Shocked? Scintillated?

Speechless.

Well, that’s new.  :) What do the rest of you say?  Do you find stepbacks scintillating, shocking, scandalous, or something else that starts with S?  Have any particular favorites you’d like to mention or post in comments?  Or perhaps they are too much for you, and you prefer to leave such things to the imagination?

In my first six or seven books, I let my heroes give my heroines a wide assortment of jewelry. Rubies, sapphires, diamonds, opals, gold.

Not until I was writing my Spindle Cove books did any of this fictional jewelry result in any heavy-duty hinting to Mr. Dare around traditional gift giving times like Christmas, my birthday, or our anniversary. I mean, I’m sure it would be nice to have a big rope of rubies like the one I wrote Jeremy giving Lucy in Goddess of the Hunt, but I don’t know where I’d wear the thing. My wedding ring aside, I’m just not much of a precious gemstone girl.

But then I started writing a geologist heroine, Minerva Highwood (to appear in the forthcoming A Week to be Wicked). Minerva’s not much of a precious gemstone girl, either–but she’s an interesting gem, mineral, and fossil girl. And of all my heroines, Minerva’s the one who has added to my personal jewelry collection.

It started with this pendant, which I happened across at last year’s RT Convention. When I saw it, I knew I just had to have it.

Isn’t it beautiful? It’s the halved shell of a fossilized sea creature called an ammonite. Minerva studies ammonites. She’s so fascinated by their symmetry, she’s embroidered her bed linens with this pattern. (And yes, said bed linens see some action in the book, if you know what I mean. If the primeval sea snail’s a rockin’…)

And this year, as I’ve been working on A Lady by Midnight, the third Spindle Cove book, I’ve grown fascinated with blue john, a unique kind of fluorite found only in a few particular caverns in Derbyshire. They started mining it in the 18th century, so it’s found in quite a bit of Georgian jewelry.

For this, I broke out the heavy duty hinting.  Mr. Dare might have ordered a one-of-a-kind pendant for me from a jeweler in England and had it airmailed… And I might have already signed for the package.  But of course I can’t open it yet, and they’ve taken it off the website, so I can’t even find a picture! Here’s a similar one.

So there you go.  Diamonds and rubies not so much.  Fossilized sea snails and rare fluorite – yes, please!  I’m weird like that.

If you could ask Santa (or the Romance Hero of Your Choice) for any piece of fictional jewelry to have in real life, what would you like to have?  Do you have any pieces in your personal collection that have special literary or historical or personal significance?

We all know about the twelve days of Christmas, but often it’s the two weeks before Christmas that really make the difference. Especially when one’s decided to go all the way: Christmas tree, Christmas letter, elaborate Christmas dinner and the perfect presents for all of the special people in one’s life.

Which is why today I’m accompanying Lady B outside of her ballroom, on a shopping excursion through the most fashionable areas.

I’m playing it cool but underneath my urbane exterior, I’m brimming with excitement. As an author, there is nothing better than first hand experience, and after today it should be much easier to describe the experience of frequenting the shops of Regency London.

Bundled in warm cloaks, we make our way through the shops. First stop: Harding, Howell, and Co., on Pall Mall, which Lady B claims is one of largest emporiums in London.  We stroll through numerous departments—draperies, fabrics, ribbons, gloves and more—each neatly separated by gleaming polished mahogany dividers.  Lady B picks up three bright ribbons for her niece and a painted fan for Lord B’s sister, Charlotte. I try to keep step with Lady B, who is clearly a seasoned shopper, as I stare at everything, running my fingers over silks, muslins and brocades. Sensory overload.

Then we make a stop at Hatchard’s (because I begged), where I reverently peer at the books.

Lady B orders a copy of Sense and Sensibility by “A Lady” to be bound in blue leather to match the rest of her library. I hold myself back from mentioning the author’s name.

Finally our last stop is on a Piccadilly corner: Fortnum & Mason

Sabrina: Ooh I’ve been here! Though I think they’ve remodeled a bit in the last two hundred years. In fact, I was just looking at their website yesterday. Have you seen the hampers they put together?

I’m getting hungry just thinking about it.

Lady B is staring at me and I quickly think through what I said.

Sabrina: I mean I was thinking of ordering a few of their dried fruits and preserves to give as gifts.

Lady B: Ah. You speak so fast, Miss Darby, that you often sound as if you are saying nonsense. I know an excellent tutor of elocution. One of my second cousins married a young woman from Cornwall and we couldn’t understand a word she said for months. The tutor performed miracles.

Sabrina: I’ll do my best to enunciate. (And to avoid mentioning websites and other anachronisms.)

Lady B: I rarely visit myself, but there are certain commissions a woman cannot entrust to a servant.

We enter the store, apparently embarked on a mission to choose a new set of china for Christmas dinner, as two of the old place settings were smashed during some festivities a month ago. Lady B has not yet revealed exactly how they were destroyed but from the way she keeps avoiding the subject, I suspect an interesting story.

The interior of Fortnum & Mason looks equally different from my previous experience.  Wood counters flank us on either side and behind them neatly dressed clerks move about with intent.  Rather like a hive of bees. We march past potted food, spices and teas—scents that make my mouth water. When we reach the room where the china is displayed, I leave Lady B to her meticulous taste and wander back toward the food.  It’s different from the way the food hall is these days—chocolate truffles and ready-made lunch are not yet de rigueur, but there is still enough eye candy to amuse me.

Out of the corner of my eye I see a familiar yellow bonnet and turn to Lady B, who is consulting her scrap of paper with a rather concerned expression.

I try to peek at her list but she quickly turns it away.

Sabrina: What’s wrong?

She peers at me, chewing on her lip in a manner I’ve normally only see in ingénue romance book heroines.  Then she appears to make a decision.

Lady B: It’s Lord B. You see, we made a small wager. Which of us could pick the most unusual gift. And whoever wins… well, I suppose you don’t need to know that.

Oh, but I do!

Sabrina: (prodding) Whoever wins?

Lady B: It hardly matters, for I have only one week left to shop and I am convinced he will win.  I’ve considered hats and gloves, a carved jade shaving handle, even an opium kit from India, although I quickly scratched that idea. Far of purchasing a small lion for him, he is a man who has everything! Why must shopping for men be so difficult?

For all the differences between Regency England and today, some things haven’t changed.

I want to help Lady B.  After all, she’s been more than generous. And perhaps she’ll reveal just what that wager was…So I’m turning to all of you.  What is the most unusual gift Lady B could purchase for the Regency gentleman who has everything?

Lady B is in her boudoir, along with her maid, several spinster cousins, and a case of ratafia, making hundreds of copies of her Christmas letter, which she sends every year to her friends and relations outside London. There’s a good deal of writers’ cramp and genteel cursing going on. I haven’t dared tell her about the future invention of the Xerox machine in case I incite a riot.

As I’m sure you know, these Christmas Round Robins can be a bit on the dull side. Everything is always marvelous and all the children are above average. Knowing how much Lady B hates to be boring, I looked forward to reading hers. She refused to give me an advance look but Albert filched a copy of an early draft from the wastepaper basket and sold it to me for half a dozen lobster mince pies.

<squawk> I love Christmas <squawk>

Me too, Albert. I made the most fascinating discovery. Every family story in her letter has several possible outcomes. I’m afraid our adored hostess is not above a little embellishment of the truth, just as long as the result is entertaining. I leave it to the Ballroom visitors to decide which version of each story will appear in the final version.

<squawk> only the truth! <squawk>

My Dear Friends and Relations (which are the same thing since I am related to Everyone)

 

My annual letter comes with the Greetings of the Season and my wish that you Unfortunate Souls who live in Rustic Simplicity and are unable to attend my Ballroom should not miss out on the year’s News and Gossip.

 

As you know, I like to keep an eye on the young. They eventually grow up and become interesting. My nephew Chas, the youngest son of Lord B’s sister Charlotte, is home from Eton.

With so many connections, it’s inevitable that each year brings its share of loss. Arthur Bostock died last January, from a seizure brought on by a Surfeit of Fruitcake. I almost hate to admit that Arthur was my cousin, given his Scandalous Behavior. He willed his fortune to his Mistress and left his daughter destitute. So the poor gel had to go as a governess. Since her name is Amaryllis and she always neglected to Practice her Instrument, her career in education has not been a success.

 

The Duke of Alverdiston (my fourth cousin, or perhaps third cousin once removed) was married four times. Much as I love gels, I have to count it a Misfortune that his series of Duchesses presented him with eleven Daughters and not a single Son. Dowering them has put a severe strain on the purse of his distant cousin, the new duke.

 

My sister’s sister-in-law’s husband’s second cousin, Clementina Postlethwaite is very poorly, poor dear.

 

My third cousin Alaric is a very charming young man with most excellent Lower Limbs. I am sorry to report that he engaged in a Duel over a matter related to a Wager and a Young Lady. Since his opponent’s future health remains doubtful, Alaric has had to Flee the Country.

 

Now there are several paragraphs so heavily scratched out and rewritten than I can only make out a few words and phrases. Post chaise. The Duke of Wellington. Identical twin footmen. Elopement. Innocent gaze. Syllabub. Garters. Potted Plant. She never saw him again. Oysters. Boots. Hm, very interesting. Then one final piece of news.

 

 

So, my dear friends, I wish you all a Merry Christmas and hope to see you in The Ballroom next year.

 

Yours very affectionately,

 

Heliotrope Beaufetheringstone

 

I suspect we’d all sometimes like to “improve” things that happen to us. Last week Lady Gaelen asked us for the highlights of our year. I’m asking the Ballroomies what you wish had happened in 2011. Don’t hold back! Tell  us your most outrageous fantasy. You never know, Lady B may put it in her letter.