February 28

I have a guest with me today. Hot Scot is here — Leam, the Earl of Blackwood.

He’s already met Lady B. He’s been charming her for the last thirty minutes with his rolling r’s and dark eyes. Shameless flirt. (I mean Leam, though Lady B holds her own when it comes to flirting, of course.) She doesn’t even mind that his gigantic dogs are sprawled out by the door.

But I can see Bourne glowering at Sarah over there, so I’m thinking it might be time for Lady B to step into that tête-a-tête again before things get too heated. It’s definitely time to call Leam away from our hostess.

I lift my hand and do a little nervous wave. He looks straight at me, quirks that sexy mouth of his up at one side, and saunters over.

Now here’s a truth I’ve got to admit to you lovelies as I watch him come toward me: I’m a little overwhelmed by him. My sister authoresses are so wonderfully confident around their heroes. I mean, we’re in control of these guys! And I’m usually pretty put together too when it comes to my heroes. But for some reason it’s different with Leam. He’s so… so… 

Scottish.

Or maybe it’s just that beneath that tall, dark, rugged exterior, I know who he really is.

He stops before me.

Me: Well, hello, Leam. I’m so glad you came tonight.

Him: Ye’ve no given me the choice, lass.

Me: I didn’t drag you in here physically, if that’s what you mean. As if I could.

I look meaningfully up and down his six-three, broad-shouldered yumminess, pretending I’m not lying through my teeth and that I didn’t actually write this scene into the book, which I did of course. (See? I’m totally gutless.)

Him: Ye be full wi’ bletherie the nicht, lass.

Me: I’m not flattering you. You’re a bona fide big guy. Oh, and actually, you can drop the Scots accent. After tomorrow everybody is going to know you don’t usually sound like that.

He quirks a brow. (Of course he quirks a brow. What sexy alpha hero doesn’t?)

Leam: Will they, nou?

Me: Yes, sir. (My palms are a little damp, but I forge ahead. You lovelies are all here, after all, the wind beneath my wings to give me courage.) And they’re going to find out something else about you, too.

The handsome brow comes down. A lock of dark hair falls over his poet’s eyes.

Leam: Whit be that, lass?

Me: They’re going to find out you’re a poet.

I bite my lip and squinch up my face, ready for the worst. But he doesn’t react as I expect.

He smiles. And bows.

I gape a little. Then I smile back. He has that effect on women, even me. See? I’m hopeless.

Me: So you’re fine with everybody knowing?

But his attention has shifted to the door, and I know without looking by the glimmer in his dark eyes who has arrived. Lady Kitty Savege. Gentlemen crowd around her. She’s beautiful in a gown of shimmering silvery-white. An ice princess. But her cheeks flushed with rose belie her otherwise cool façade. I wonder if she knows Leam is here now? I wonder if she realizes he isn’t going to respect her wishes and stay away from her? I wonder if…

Then I hear Leam murmur, as though unable to remain silent –

“Merely the sight of her makes all things bow.”

He’s quoting Dante, the fourteenth-century Italian poet. He’s recited Dante to her before. And not only Dante. And it wasn’t in a ballroom.

As though recalled to his duty to me he turns for a moment, gives me a private sort of smile as though to say “Thank you”, sketches me a bow, and heads across the room to her.

But I know what’s in store for him, and I can’t help but murmur a little verse myself. Shakespeare this time –

“The course of true love never did run smooth.”

Oh, my poor Hot Scot. He has no idea what’s coming. Just the way I like it best.

Miss Ashe!

“Lady B! Good evening!” I swing around, looking around for Sarah and Bourne. “But I thou–”

Did I hear you say that you have written my ballroom into a scene in your new book?

“I did.” I didn’t say it! I have no idea how she read my thoughts. Unless she’s reading this post. O.M.G. I give her a toothy grin anyway. “I hope you like it.”

She preens a little (possibly learned from Albert). She glances over at Leam who is approaching Kitty, and I hear her say very clearly –

“‘Two lovely berries moulded on one stem; so, with two seeming bodies, but one heart.’ Ah, romance!”

 

There you have it, lovelies — Shakespeare from our redoubtable hostess! 

Now it’s your turn. In honor of my Scottish earl’s love of poetry (and his shameless use of it to win his lady), share with us a line of verse today that you love. Or if you’d rather, make up a line or two of poetry yourself. One commenter will win an autographed copy of When a Scot Loves a Lady.

If you need a bit of inspiration, here’s a first line to get started: There once was a hero from Scotland… 

If you read a lot of historical romance, chances are you’ve read about enough dukes to populate a medium size town. You may have also heard people complaining that there are “too many dukes” in historical romance.

Romance duke: utter perfection

It’s true that British dukes are scarce compared to, say, grocers or people named Mr. Smith. Or even grocers named Smith. But there were perhaps more dukes around during the early nineteenth century than at any other time in English history. During the reign of Elizabeth I there was only one duke. After the Regency period, there were created fewer than half a dozen, the last in 1900. Apart from members of the royal family, there hasn’t been a single dukedom created since. (Winston Churchill was offered one and refused it.)

Dukes are very grand. There’s not so much distinction between the other ranks of the peerage but dukes are definitely special, hence their appeal. They are the Italian billionaires of historical romance, possessed of peculiar glamor. Here are some of the special duke perks.

(a) They are never Lord So-and-so, always the Duke of ____

(b) They are the only peers addressed as Your Grace

(c) The monarch calls them cousin, whether they are related or not. (Of course they often are)

(d) Putting duke in the title of your romance sells an extra 5000 copies. (That’s the rumor, anyway. I’ve never tested the hypothesis but perhaps I should)

Real Regency Duke: not so much.

You don’t get made a duke for just any old reason. When I create a duke (or any other peer but especially a duke) I give him a whole family history to explain where he fits in the rarefied levels of the aristocratic hierarchy. Also it gives me a chance to consult one of my very favorite research books, The Dukes by Brian Masters. First published in 1975 and revised a few years later, the book chronicles the twenty-six British dukedoms then remaining (a couple have become extinct since then.) It’s a terrific read, full of fascinating history and gossip.

One chapter has the marvelous heading “Bright Sons of Sublime Prostitution”, chronicling the dukes who were ennobled for being bastards of Charles II. I’m writing about the descendant of one of those now. The Duke of Hampton, father of my hero Blake in the forthcoming CONFESSIONS OF AN ARRANGED MARRIAGE, is an important politician. I based his family on the Dukes of Portland, going back to William Bentinck, a Dutchman who came to England with William of Orange and founded a famous political dynasty.

Let’s face it, there aren’t many true-life historical dukes who can match the hotness of our fictional variety: young, devastatingly handsome, boundlessly inventive in bed, and possessed of interesting emotional pains that only a heroine can assuage. The modern romance writer has perfected the duke. Yet dukes have appeared in novels for a long time. Here are a few progenitors of the romance duke, ones the writer didn’t QUITE get right.

Plantagenet and Lady Glencora Palliser from The Pallisers mini series

Plantagenet Palliser, Duke of Omnium. Planty Pal as he was known (not a good hero name) is a central figure in a series of six novels by the nineteenth century novelist Anthony Trollope. Lady Glencora, a great heiress, enters an arranged marriage with Plantagenet, even though she is in love with Burgo Fitzgerald (bound to be a bounder with a name like that). In a real romance Plantagenet would be hot but troubled and he and Glencora would fall madly in love. Actually, after a rocky start, their marriage is a happy one and they become quietly devoted. Glencora supports his political career, sometimes disastrously. (I admit my upcoming Minerva owes a little to Lady Glen.)  Plantagenet, though a truly good man, remains a bit on the dull side.

Penguin edition of Zuleika Dobson

The Duke of Dorset from Zuleika Dobson by Max Beerbohm. This 1911 satirical novel tells the story of  the ultimate femme fatale, and the Duke of Dorset who falls in love with her. Dorset is a paragon: a great scholar, superb sportsman, talented artist and “the best amateur pianist on this side of the Tweed.” The descriptions of his estates and jewels could have inspired a hundred Regency dukedoms, and then there’s his appearance, seen through Zuleika’s eyes in gloriously purple prose. (Note the lovely period use of the word plastic!)

Rapt, she studied every lineament of the pale and perfect face–the brow from which bronze-coloured hair rose in tiers of burnished ripples; the large steel-coloured eyes, with their carven lids; the carven nose, and the plastic lips. She noted how long and slim were his fingers, and how slender his wrists. She noted the glint cast by the candles upon his shirt-front. The two large white pearls there seemed to her symbols of his nature. They were like two moons: cold, remote, radiant.

The story doesn’t have an HEA. All men fall in love with Zuleika but she can only love a man who doesn’t love her back. The novel ends with the entire undergraduate population of Oxford (including the duke) drowning themselves while Zuleika boards a train to Cambridge. Beerbohm needs to go back to romance writer school.

Not a French duke, but who needs an excuse to look at Alain Delon in his prime?

The Duc de Sauveterre from Nancy Mitford’s The Pursuit of Love. Our heroine Linda is stranded in a Parisian railway station when she is picked up by the duke. He sweeps her off to be his mistress, installing her in a flat with goldfish swimming in the sides of the bath tub and dressing her in couture clothes. And Linda, who has dumped two husbands already, finally finds a man who is good in bed. Ah, Fabrice! Ducal perfection marred only by the fact he (sob) dies in World War II.

Personal confession: When I was in college I took a train from London to Milan that was supposed to have a three hour stopover in Paris. I had it all planned. Like Linda I would sit on my suitcase in the Gare du Nord and weep. A gorgeous French duke would find me and sweep me off my feet. The best laid plans … The train was diverted and I had to wait three hours in Basle, Switzerland. They don’t even have dukes in Switzerland. What kind of a country is that?

Do you like dukes? Of course you do! This is The Ballroom! Let’s talk about our favorite fictional dukes, especially those with happy endings.

Miss MacLean!

I’m standing at the refreshment table, blocking Tessa from view as she spikes the ratafia when the shrill words fly across the room. Tessa gives me the look, the one that says please don’t let her catch me spiking the ratafia.

“She’s looking for you,” she whispers, hiding the bottle of whatever it is she uses behind the fold of her skirts.

For a moment, I consider hiding under the table. I know Lady B’s tone. She’s either got a job or a scolding for me.

Miss MacLean!

“She’s coming!” Tessa says, much more urgently.

And I know I can’t hide any longer. With my biggest smile, I turn to face Lady B. Who is bearing down on us. “Lady B! You look fabulous! Has your maid done something different with your hair?”

Lady B narrows her gaze. “What are you up to?”

Tessa coughs behind me, and I reach out to guide Lady B away from the refreshment table. “What? Up to? Nothing!” Lady B turns a curious eye on Tessa, who smiles innocently. “Was there something you needed?”

The question returns Lady B’s attention to me. Awesome. “Yes. I do need something. There is a gentleman here. And I believe he belongs to you.”

Uh-oh. I do not like it when gentlemen arrive unannounced to the Ballroom. Well, I should rephrase. I like it very much when gentlemen of the other authoresses’ acquaintance arrive unannounced to the Ballroom. But if this one belongs to me…well, this close to release day, it can only be one specific gentleman. And I can tell you , there is no way he will appreciate being referred to as “belonging to me.”

BUT, Katharine has a release next week, too. One can dream. “Are you sure? I mean, couldn’t it be Earl Blackwood? He’s big and Scottish.Likes dogs?”

There is nothing wrong with my memory, or my knowledge of the aristocracy, Miss MacLean.

Rats. Of course there wasn’t. I wince. “He’s one of mine?”

Indeed. He appears very handsome, very quiet and very cold.

“And very difficult, if it’s who I think it is.” I add.

Lady B looks positively thrilled. “I thought maybe so.”

I sigh. “Where is he?”

“Sarah, I don’t have time for your ridiculous games.”

And, there he was. I turn, hands already extended in the universal sign for placation. “I had nothing to do with this.”

His gaze narrows on me. “No? Then I suppose someone else decided to write me into a book and–” he indicates the rest of the ball, “a ball?” He pauses. Then adds, disbelievingly, “A ball? Really? As though this is at all in character?”

I look toward Tessa, and yes…I confess…for a fleeting moment, I am planning to throw her under the bus. She’s gone. Rats again. I return to the matter at hand. “Ok. It was me.”

One black brow rises. “I know.”

“But it was subconscious! I didn’t know it was going to work out this way.”

The black brow remains risen.

“And it had to be a ball. That’s the way the blog works.”

And still. The man’s eyebrow muscles must be very well toned.

“Oh, stop that. I’ve been with you for almost two years, Bourne. I’m over your threatening looks.”

Lord Bourne, would you care for a refreshment? Or perhaps a dance? There are any number of young ladies in the room who would no doubt enjoy taking a turn with you.

The brow comes down as Bourne turns to face Lady B. Now, being his author, I know that what he’s about to say might well get me kicked out of the ballroom, so I rush to interject. “Oh, I have no doubt they would loathe taking a turn with him.”

Lady B looks surprised. “Surely not. He’s a peer, is he not?”

“He is.”

“And wealthy?”

“Very.”

“And well appointed?”

“He’s an obsessive clotheshorse.”

He cuts me a look and I know that he’d like to strangle me. It’s my turn to raise a brow.

“Then I see no problem in his being entirely suitable for any good young woman.”

“He’s suitable for no good young woman at all. He’s a spoiled, selfish scoundrel.” Lady B’s eyes go wide, and Bourne scowls at me, as I continue. “But not for long. I have big plans for him, starting on Tuesday.”

Lady B nods knowingly. “No doubt you do, my girl.”

He narrows lovely hazel eyes on me. “What happens on Tuesday?”

I can’t help my grin. “On Tuesday, my cold-hearted rogue, you meet the love of your life.”

There is nothing better than shocking the hell out of one of your heroes.

–

I can’t believe A Rogue By Any Other Name is already here and you finally get to meet my difficult, diabolical, darling Bourne! As you can probably tell, Bourne is a hero who requires a great deal of reformation. He’s the ultimate bad boy–Beast to Beauty, Spike to Buffy, Bourne to Penelope. Tell me, what is it about rogues that gets us so excited? Why do we love them so much? Who is your favorite rogue, either real or fictional? And what on earth is Tessa putting in the ratafia?

One commenter wins a signed copy of A Rogue By Any Other Name.

–

EDITED TO ADD: The Winner of the book is Renee Pajda! Thanks so much for entering, all!

As I enter the ballroom today, Lady B approaches me at one. She’s walking with purpose, and a curious gleam shines in her eye.

Miss Dare, I hear that this is another of those Colonial holidays.

Yes, indeed, Lady B.  It’s Presidents’ Day.

Presidents. Hm. The American form of government may be more democratic, but it strikes me as decidedly less romantic.  No princes. No dukes.  No knights.  Somehow, I doubt that young ladies lay their heads to their pillows each night and dream of one day marrying a senator.

You may be right, Lady B.  And that’s no doubt one reason why we Americans make such liberal use of England as a setting in our romance novels.  But American history has found room for a love story or two.  Thus far, only one president has been married in the White House, but the story was like something straight out of a Regency romance.

Indeed?  Details, Miss Dare.  Pictures, or it didn’t happen.

Here’s a picture!

Mr. and Mrs. President.

Grover Cleveland was in his late 40s when he became president, and he was, as they say, a confirmed bachelor.  Actually, you could even say he was a bit of a rake–he’d admitted to fathering a child out of wedlock. After he was elected, he lived in the White House with his bluestocking sister, a scholar who wrote books on George Eliot and St. Augustine and chafed under the social restrictions of the day.

This sister sounds like she’d make an interesting heroine in her own right.  Did Mr. Cleveland marry one of her bluestocking friends?

No, President Cleveland fell in love with his ward, Frances Folsom, a woman 27 years his junior.

Twenty-seven years old?

Frances Folsom Cleveland

No, twenty-seven years youngerthan he.  She was only 21 when they married, and he’d known her since her infancy. Her father and Grover Cleveland were business partners, and Mr. Cleveland became executor of Mr. Folsom’s will when he died. Though he was never Frances’ legal guardian, he was very involved in supervising her upbringing and education (which included stints at charming-sounding institutions such as “Madame Brecker’s French Kindergarten” and “Miss Bissell’s School for Young Ladies”). But it wasn’t until Frances reached her late teens that Mr. Cleveland’s regard transformed from beneficent guardianship to courtly love. He proposed marriage in 1885, shortly after Frances had finished her studies at Wells College.

My goodness. A proposal of marriage from the President of the United States. That must have come as a shock.

To her mother, it certainly did–or at least, that’s what was rumored. Gossip was that Mrs. Emma Folsom was thinking the President might propose marriage to her.

Scandal!

Scandal was precisely what President Cleveland feared. To delay speculation, he sent his fiance on a tour of Europe for most of the following year–for finishing, cultural exposure, and–of course–shopping. When they married in 1886, he announced the White House wedding less than a week in advance, to avoid press attention as much as possible.

Albert: <SQUAWK>Paparazzi!<SQUAWK>

Exactly, Albert. He knew the reporters would hound them, and he was right. When they left on a train for their mountain honeymoon, a second train full of reporters followed and set up camp. They cataloged the newlyweds’ every move for the public.

"I'm President Cleveland, and I approve this appliance."

But contrary to President Cleveland’s concerns, the public wasn’t scandalized. Rather, the older bachelor’s obvious affection for his young, charming, vivacious bride endeared him to the American public. The first couple became an object of much fascination. Frances was a large part of his reelection campaign, due to her popularity. They appeared everywhere, on everything. Here they are, in a sewing machine ad.

What a remarkable story, Miss Dare.

Isn’t it? Not just a remarkable story, but one with a remarkable heroine. I’m just stunned, trying to imagine what it must be like to be twenty-one years old, preparing not only to marry a man nearly three decades your senior, but the President of the United States! What an enormous amount of pressure Frances must have felt. And yet she thrived in the role of First Lady and remained devoted to her husband until his death. She must have been a very remarkable woman indeed.

What do you think of May/December romances, in fiction? Any favorites to mention in the comments?
Do you have a favorite First Lady?

I love books.

It’s not that exciting a proclamation, I know. I mean, of course I love books. And of course you love books. And everyone else hanging around The Ballroom loves books. And Miranda’s hot heroes really love their books. In fact…some of them really love naughty books. Her heroines too. I’m looking at you, Celia Seaton.

There’s lots of discussion these days on ebooks vs. print, and while I’m pro-eReader for most things (the exception is research volumes, because I like to highlight and flag and scribble in the margins, and it’s not easy to do that on my eReader). I think we can all agree that, when it comes to book, there’s something pretty special about the object itself. But for the purposes of today, I’m not talking about what’s actually written inside the book. I’m talking about the books themselves. The paper and ink and musty smells…the leather bindings, the creased pages, the book proper.

I have few hard and fast rules in my life (well, I do have Six Commandments of Dating, but that’s a different post for a different time), but this is one of them: I do not trust people who do not have books in their houses. You know the people I’m talking about–the ones with the perfect, pristine living rooms, art on the walls, plants thriving on tabletops, and not a single book. Nothing makes me judge faster.

So, for fun, I thought I’d share some of my favorite bookshelves today. Like this one, a secret passageway set inside a ceiling-high bookshelf (which inspired a scene in my current work-in-progress)!

Uhm. Are you kidding me? Who doesn't want a secret passageway bookshelf?

And this one, from the Los Feliz Residence, a modern architecture gem in the Hollywood Hills. Added bonus, this one has a ladder! I long for a bookshelf that requires a ladder.

I could write an awesome novel in that chair. I know it.

And, as a New Yorker, I  have dreams about this staircase bookshelf. Literally.

This is a stairwell where I could live quite happily.

But, honestly? There’s only one bookshelf that makes me drooly. Mainly, because I dream of this office. And I dream of filling that circular space with romance novels. *sigh*…someday…

–

It’s your turn, Ballroom visitors! Time for you to wax poetic about books…or bookshelves…or book nooks. Describe your dream home library…or, better yet, post a picture!

The strains of the orchestra are muted. The notes of the cellist, in particular, feel as intoxicating as good wine. It’s a wonderful evening for a ball at Lady B’s, and here, standing by the open doors of the balcony, I can see that it is also a shockingly clear night. I can actually see stars winking above London.

A beautiful sight—inspires one to wax poetic about the inky blackness of the sky creating the perfect setting for the celestial diamonds.  Or perhaps I should borrow a turn of phrase from professional poet—

Sabrina: “Our world’s sun becomes a star elsewhere.”

Lady B: What are you spouting, Miss Darby?

At the sound of that familiar voice, I whirl about.  Our hostess is smiling, as if she stumbled upon me in the middle of a good thought. Over her shoulder I can see that the dance floor is filling again.

Sabrina: A line from one of Henry More’s poems. Written  in 1647. Well, it isn’t quite a direct quote, because in his poem, the words are “Sunne” and Starre”, but that’s a bit more difficult to say. Much like that song, “Hot in Herre.” I never really did understand about that extra R.

I’m rambling and I know it, but she’s caught me at an awkward moment, with my thoughts still half in the night sky, thinking about–

Lady B: Miss Darby, are you quite all right?

She’s staring me as if I’ve sprouted two heads. And considering the direction my thoughts have taken, that wouldn’t be too off.  After all, I’m considering the plurality of worlds and intelligent life. That’s right: extraterrestrials.

Yes, here in Lady B’s ballroom.

But it’s not such an alien topic as you might think. 

Sabrina: I am just fine, my lady. I am simply suffering from that overstimulation of nerves that we authors get from when we grow excited.

<< Squawk >>

Sabrina: Yes, and parrots. Not so dissimilar to parrots.

Oh, now Lady B is really giving me a look. That look. The one she usually seems to save for sheep in the ballroom. And perhaps for—

I force myself to focus.

Sabrina: Intelligent life of other planets, Lady Beaufetheringstone.  There is a gentleman in the corner over there, a Mr. Hartley, who, I am informed by my sources—which are many—has encountered other beings.

We both stare at Mr. Hartley. Who does seem to have a bit of a glaze in his eyes, but that could be the ratafia.

Lady B: Impossible.

But it’s clear she’s intrigued, as am I. After all, the topic of Other Worlds is at least old as the Greeks and these days, it’s been making the rounds of astronomers and philosophers. Even Benjamin Franklin was a believer in the possibility of intelligent life existing elsewhere. In some form or another.

But contact? Certainly a bit hard to believe.

 Lady B: Though he does posses a fine pair of lower limbs…

We both stare at Mr. Hartley a bit more. His legs are certainly attractive. The rest of him as well. But he’s very pale. Such white blond hair and thin features that I’d be more inclined to cast him as a hero in a Gothic story involving ghosts.

 Lady B: And he claims to have…seen other sentient beings? What did he see?

Sabrina: That, my dear Lady B, I intend to find out.

Now my thoughts are squarely in the ballroom, trained completely on that poor man standing a few yards away, who has no idea that I’m about to interrogate him mercilessly.

Only, someone’s reached him first. And she’s a strident, stout young woman, who I last saw standing with the rest of the wallflowers. I believe she has a problem with this Mr. Hartley and I wonder what it is.

The debate on the subject of intelligent life and the plurality of worlds was a popular topic in the latter part of 18^th century and throughout the 19^th. It wasn’t until the end of the 19th century that the idea of contact and UFOs seemed to enter the general discussion. So what about everyone else in the Ballroom. Do we believe it’s possible this Mr. Hartley has witnessed something extraterrestrial? Could he have been…abducted?!

Today I’m pondering the “green eyed monster.” Not the large wall in left field at Fenway Park. The Shakespearean one. Jealousy.

O, beware, my lord, of jealousy;

It is the green-ey’d monster, which doth mock

The meat it feeds on. That cuckold lives in bliss,

Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger:

But O, what damnèd minutes tells he o’er

Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves!

Not this Green Monster .... (Photo by Aidan C. Siegel. Licensed under Creative Commons)

Iago, of course, warns Othello about the danger of jealousy, even as he stokes the emotion. Renaissance men were apparently very worried about their wives cheating on them. Wearing a cuckold’s horns was a dreaded disgrace. I wonder if the later belief that women didn’t enjoy sex was promoted by men in the hope that saying it made it so. Then their wives wouldn’t be tempted to stray.

Poor Desdemona. She’s completely innocent and everything she does makes things worse. The object of unwarranted jealousy is a miserable being.

I’m writing about a jealous hero now. Not Othello jealous. The heroine is not going to end up dead. But definitely suspicious. I’m not sure how far to take things, so I’m going to consult our resident expert, Regency London’s combination of Anne Landers and Miss Manners.

Othello and Desdemona from the Boydell Shakespeare Gallery

Miranda: Ahem. Lady B.

Lady B: Oh, it’s you Miss Neville. I didn’t notice you arrive.

Miranda: You were too busy ogling the Marquess of Bourne and Lord Blackwood.

Lady B: Impertinent Miss N. [pause] They do both have excellent legs. I have it on good authority that Miss MacLean and Miss Ashe are going to marry off these gentlemen at the end of this month [note: she’s right. A Rogue by Any Other Name and When a Scot Loves a Lady are coming February 28]. So let me ogle in peace while they are still bachelors.

Miranda: What does Lord B. think of your excessive interest in masculine pulchritude? If he even knows about it.

Lady B: Lord B. knows everything.

Miranda: I had to ask. Since none of us has ever been allowed to meet him, I wondered if perhaps he lived elsewhere. Scotland, for example. Or the moon.

Lady B: Curiosity killed the cat. For your information Lord B. is never far away and I tell him everything. He shall hear about your snippiness today.

Miranda: I do beg your pardon, Lady B. What I meant to ask was, does Lord B. ever get jealous? After all, not only are you an admirer–an entirely disinterested admirer–of a good pair of male limbs, you’ve also been known to engage in badinage with handsome guests at the ballroom.

Lady B: What of it? Just because I’m married doesn’t mean I’m dead. I like to flirt as much as any debutante miss.

Miranda: And Lord B. doesn’t mind?

Lady B: Before we wed the dear man would go into agonies of jealousy. I loved to tease him and his ravings were deliciously pathetic. But now he knows I love him and would never stray. He trusts me completely.

Miranda: So you think it all comes down to trust and security in a partner’s affections?

Lady B: Exactly. And it goes both ways. When we go to Brighton in the summer there’s nothing he enjoys more than looking through his telescope at the young ladies sea bathing. I encourage it. Keeps him away from the whist table and the port.

So, Ballroom denizens, what do you think? How much jealousy is acceptable and when does it go over the top? How about flirtation? Once you are married/in a fixed relationship is flirting a No-No or a Heck Yes?

Unlike George, I feel no guilt.

I am a wee bit early to celebrate George Washington’s birthday. Nevertheless I am moved to announce that I cannot tell a lie (and, in present company, I really don’t know why I should).

The truth: I find writer’s inspiration in hot guys.

Allow me to give you some examples.

But before I do, I should make something clear. I don’t fixate on a model or actor or musician or whoever and copy his appearance or voice or any other delectable attribute into my male characters. To be truly inspired is not to imitate form and content, but to allow the spirit of the original to lift the imagination to yet greater heights.

In other (less flowery) words, in my imagination my heroes are even hotter than the following men.

Let’s begin with Lord Leam Blackwood, hero of my upcoming When a Scot Loves a Lady. While developing Leam’s character, one day I was innocently browsing through I-can’t-remember-what-websites and came upon True Inspiration.

Hot Scot

The cover image for Karen Marie Moning’s Kiss of the Highlander, this inspiring mouth and clavicle belong to model Nathan Kamp. Imagine my delight, then, to learn that Mr. Kamp was the gent on the cover of my Captured by a Rogue Lord.

Hot Pirate

And speaking of Alex Savege, here is the big, handsome, charming fellow that flickered into my mind every so often while I was penning my pirate rogue’s story.

I love a man who can pull off subtle skull-and-crossbones fashion wear.

I’ll let you guess which of my books benefited from Bollywood star Arjun Rampal’s firm jaw.

And he has a dog! Be. Still. My. Heart.

As some of you know, I am as wont to lose my heart to an animated hero as to any other handsome roguish devil. Several months ago I admitted right here at The Ballroom to my inspiration for the youthful Captain Nik Acton in my novella A Lady’s Wish.

"This is kind of an off day for me. This doesn't normally happen."

(He’s even cuter in the wedding finery he dons for the short film that’s showing in theaters now before Beauty and the Beast 3D!)

Finally, while writing book #3 of my new Falcon Club series and again innocently browsing the internet, I discovered this man.

This man is apparently real.

You probably all know who he is. I did not. There was no name attached to the photo and I’d never seen him before. I had however seen Mr. Wyn Yale — Leam Blackwood’s best friend and the hero of the book I was writing — in my imagination quite, quite clearly. When I saw this photo, I actually gaped. I didn’t know how it was possible, but the Internet had created my character’s physical double!

I snatched up the phone and dialed my writing partner, who at the time was reading that manuscript. “Marquita!” I cried. “Wyn Yale exists in real life!” I sent the photo to her. “See? Here’s his picture!”

Darling woman that she is, Marquita chuckled gently and directed me toward a whole page of pictures of Matt Bomer, fan sites, etc. It seemed that my imagination alone had not created him. He was also a Real Person.

But I’m not complaining.

Does any particular handsome gentleman inspire your imagination to soar? 

So you think you’re losing your head over your sweetheart?  Well, I’ll see your smarmy Vermont Teddy Bear and raise you a beheading. SAY WHAT??  Oh, Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone (a  little early).

Since the Great Holiday of Romance is nearly upon us, I found myself curious ~ proud History Dork that I am ~ about the historical truth behind St. Valentine’s Day and how all this got chocolatey-rosey goodness got started. Who was this Valentine fellow, when did he live, and how did he come to be the patron saint of this day of love? And did he really wear a diaper and go around shooting people with a bow and arrow?

Needing to know, naturally, I put it into The Google and could barely wait to come tumbling headlong into the Ballroom to tell you all what I’ve unearthed.

<Squawk! Beheadings Aren’t Romantic! Squawk!>

No, indeed, Albert, I quite agree. A stupid $100 Teddy Bear (and I’ve sworn to garotte my husband if he ever gets me one of these bits of clutter–CHOCOLATE, MAN, IF YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOOD FOR YOU)…as I was saying…the teddy bear is a far cry from the sentiments that motivated our Saint Valentine, who laid down his life for what he believed in.

Lady B: Ms. Foley, whatever are you on about today? Have you had too much of that horrid Colonial coffee you are always swigging?

Afraid so, dear hostess. I’m positively bouncing off the walls with it. But I can’t help it! I am eager to share with my fellow history lovers a glimpse into the world of Ancient Rome in the 3rd Century A.D. …

Lady B: Ahh, Italy! Now that Boney is quite thrashed, I plead every day with my Lord B. to convey me thither. How I long to feel the Tuscan sun warm my cheeks…

Egads, Lady B., you are waxing poetical.

Lady B: Isn’t that what Italy’s all about? Byron and Shelley are there…  

Yes, in our Regency day, certes, but in the 3rd century, you had to be careful to keep your head about you.

Lady B: You’re going to fill my Ballroom with tingling Gothic horror, I presume? Go on then, if you must…

It was a dark and stormy night — no wait, scratch that.

St. V. with Mary & Angel

 It was a secretive yet joyous occasion as the Roman priest, Valentinus, stood before a small, hidden gathering of believers to marry a young couple in the early Christian church. WHEN SUDDENLY – Roman soldiers burst in and began wreaking havoc on them. The wedding guests scattered; the groom was injured in the fracas, the bride barely escaped ravishment, but the priest, ah, the poor, brave priest, Valentinus, was arrested. The year was 269 AD, and to be a Christian was a capital offence. (“DRAMATIZATION”)

Valentinus was a priest of the early Church who was helping Christians survive during the persecution under the Roman Emperor Claudius II.

Not those Goths

Claudius, the villain in our story, was born 213 A.D. His parentage is not recorded. He served all his life in the Roman armies, fighting against the Goths, working his way up to become the commander of an elite cavalry force. Thanks to his troops’ devotion, he came to power during the chaotic rule of Gallienus. He was said to be one tough mo-fo, knocking the teeth out of a horse with one punch. (I suppose it tried to bite him?) It seemed he ruled his troops with an iron fist, and he brought this same sensibility to his rule when he became Emperor at age 55. His street name was Claudius the Goth.

Do all Roman emperors have a big head?

His rule only lasted two years. He died of smallpox while arranging a campaign against the Vandals, and his younger brother, Quintillus, briefly seized power before also being replaced by the Aurelian, “Restorer of the World.”  Claudius II was a middle-of-the-road persecutor of Christians, according to Church history. Aurelian, by contrast, led one of the ten great persecutions of the early Church. 

Gallenius, his predecessor, by contrast, had had a tolerant view of the Christians, but the Roman Senate had grumbled that Gallenius had not been devout enough to the Roman gods. Thus, to gain approval, Claudius wanted to show himself as more attentive to the old ways, and always consulted the Sybilline Books before a battle. [Sybil as in the Delphic Oracle, those prophetesses of Apollo, also devoted to the 'great mother,' Cybele, and Ceres, goddess of the harvest.]

One of Michelangelo's Sybils in the Sistene Chapel

When Christians refused to give honor to Apollo & company, it seemed to the leaders that they were undermining social unity (Roman policy was generally tolerant/inclusive of the gods of the many, many cultures they conquered–to be otherwise would have been too difficult). They simply added more gods into their total population of deities as they conquered new lands, but the Christians would not go along with this.

True, the Jews didn’t believe in multiple gods, either, but they didn’t go around trying to spread their faith. The Christians did, and so the Roman authorities saw them as a bad influence. Even the ordinary folk were frightened that these nonbelievers insulted the gods like Apollo, Mars and Jupiter, and would bring down punishment on everybody if they were not rebuked. So, the Christians had to be made an example of.

Imperial Dickhead, Nero

Lions, tigers and bears, oh my–though the punishment they received under Claudius the Goth wasn’t anywhere near the viciousness of the grand-baddy of them all, Nero. To get the flavor of what had already been done to Christians under Nero, listen to  the Roman historian Tacitus:

“Besides being put to death they [the Christians] were made to serve as objects of amusement; they were clad in the hides of beast and torn to death by dogs; others were crucified, others set on fire to serve to illuminate the night when daylight failed. Nero had thrown open his grounds for the display, and was putting on a show in the circus, where he mingled with the people in the dress of a charioteer or drove about in his chariot. All this gave rise to a feeling of pity, even toward men whose guilt merited the most exemplary punishment; for it was felt that they were being destroyed not for the public good but to satisfy the cruelty of an individual.” (Nero, pictured left)

Still, while Claudius II was a sweetheart compared to Nero, it was still a capital crime to be a Christian. The government could confiscate your property and threw your in jail, and then things got nastier from there if your still refused to give honor to their gods.

Into this alarming situation comes Valentinus, a priest who lives in Rome and finds a new round of persecution percolating when Claudius II seizes power. Legend has it he was caught marrying Christian couples, but one way or another, he was arrested in 269 A.D. and eventually brought before Claudius.

Claudius supposedly took a liking to him, but Valentinus went too far and tried to convert him. Claudius sentenced him to death. While in jail, according to legend, Valentinus healed the eyes of his jailer’s blind daughter. On the night before his execution, he wrote her a note along with this gift of healing, signed, “From your Valentine.”

Then the day came and it was time for his sentence to be carried out. But when beating with clubs was not enough to kill him, he was beheaded near the Flaminian Gate and is buried on the Via Flaminia, north of Rome.

Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales Guy, but you already knew that

Lady B: What a tragical history…! 

The lives of saints are steeped in legend and obscured by the centuries, but how their stories evolve is interesting, in itself. For example, some say the great English poet Geoffrey Chaucer and his circle (mid 1300′s) had a hand in crafting the story of Saint Valentine as it has come down to us today.  

How ever much of all this you do or don’t believe, archaeologists found a Roman catacomb and an ancient church dedicated to Saint Valentine, and in 496 AD Pope Gelasius marked February 14th as a celebration in honor of his martyrdom. 

Today, Saint Valentine is the Patron Saint of engaged couples, happy marriages, love, lovers, and young people. He is represented in pictures with birds and roses. (Thanks to Wikipedia, www.Catholic.org, which has a full battery of saint bios, and www.EarlyChurch.org.uk for info in this article.)

So the next time you hear some cynic scoffing about how Valentine’s Day is a made-up holiday invented by the Hallmark Greeting Industrial Complex, remind them that LOVE is and always has been worth celebrating, whether it’s the One True Love of some ordinary person’s lifetime or the love that inspires a saint to lay down his life. Indeed, if LOVE is not worth celebrating with a special day all it’s own, I don’t know what is.

So, what are you giving the one you love for Valentine’s Day this year? Even if it’s not a spouse/lover, it’s a chance to let our dearest friends/family know we love them. Have you got anything special planned? If you do, please share. I have no idea what to get my husband…I don’t want to have to resort to a Teddy Bear… (aw, lol, they’re not that bad, I guess, but I can’t see paying $100 for the dang thing…)

Leam Blackwood, Scottish earl, is at this moment standing alone in a shadowed alcove near Lady B’s door engaged in an activity guaranteed to make even the most seasoned society matron blush were she to glimpse him going at it.

Like many other men, Leam engages in this activity daily. He does it anywhere he wishes as long as he has a wee bit of privacy. He prefers his own bedchamber, but he sometimes does it out of doors. The wild, untamed outdoors is preferable for most activities to a man with hot Scottish blood thrumming in his veins, but especially this act.

Lady B’s ballroom is definitely not the place for it. She likes to shock her guests now and again, but even she wouldn’t countenance this here.

<squawk!> Scandalous Scot! <squawk!>

I turn a curious eye on the bird.

Scandalous, Albert? Whatever would give you–?

Then I look at where Albert is looking. He’s looking at you, ballroom guests!

OOOOkaaaay then. I can see where some of your imaginations have gone.

All I can say is tsk-tsk.

But only for the moment, of course. After Leam is finished, please feel free to plunge your fertile imaginations into whatever fantasy of a tall, handsome Scottish lord doing something private that you like most. (I’ll plunge right along with you.) In the meantime I will go ahead and tell you the real reason Leam  can’t enter Lady B’s pristine ballroom just yet: he is picking dog hairs off his coat. He is also waiting for his knuckles to stop aching.

Very large. Bred to hunt even larger beasts. Lover by nature. (I'm referring to Leam, by the way. But this applies to Wolfhounds too.)

You see, like many heroes embarking upon Lady B’s ballroom, Lord Blackwood has just come from fortifying his spirits with a glass of whisky and the fine company of his three best friends: two beasts — thus the dog hairs — and one man — thus the sore knuckles.

Allow me to explain. Irish wolfhounds, of course, are longhaired. As for Leam’s best gentleman friend, Mr. Wyn Yale, hitting another man in the jaw actually hurts a man’s hand (whatever the movies make it look like). I’m dying to know why Leam hit Wyn this time, though I’m sure he had ample cause. In any case…

Aha, look, Albert. There are the earl’s canine boon companions now. (His human boon companion, having decided that a slab of raw meat draped across his jaw might be a good idea, has declined to attend today’s ball.)

Leam’s dogs, Bella and Hermes, are not in the ballroom, of course! Dogs that big, Lady B would have a fit. Through the French windows I glimpse them on the terrace. They must have entered through the rear gate.

<squawk!> Wolves amongst the statuary! <squawk!>

You know Lord B has a soft spot for dogs, Albert. He probably let them into the garden while Leam attends the ball.

I press the door open and step out into the crisp winter air. The scrabbling scratch of parrot talons across fine slate follow me. But, oh no, Bella and Hermes have seen Albert.

They launch themselves at him. Holy lobster patty glut! The bird is about to be lunch!

“Bella! Hermes!” I shout. “Halt!”

They come to a quivering standstill four feet from the parrot.

I catch my breath.

Wow. Will you look at that, Albert? Leam has trained them so well. But that’s just like him. A firm hand and fair reward is the best way to handle spirited creatures, he’d probably say. And you know he is really remarkably disciplined himself, too.

<squawk!> Except with the lady. <squawk!>

Isn’t that the truth? With Kitty Savege, Leam has no control whatsoever. (Just the way we like it around here!)

No control.

I move to the dogs and let Hermes, the bigger hound, take a whiff of my palm before I stroke him behind the ears. His fur is incredibly soft and he leans into it. Bella looks on unmoved. She’s not interested in anybody else’s caresses. She’s devoted to Leam.

I pause as it occurs to me that…

Albert, what are Leam’s dogs doing here? Why didn’t he leave them at home?

It was a rhetorical question, but the feathers on Albert’s neck fluff like they do when he’s thinking hard. He opens his beak—

A whistle splits the air. Bella’s head snaps up. She bolts off the terrace toward the gate. Hermes bounds after and they disappear down the alley. This can only mean one thing.

Oh gosh, Albert. I think Leam means to take them into Lady B’s ballroom.

<squawk!> Ruh roh. 

I pause to consider.

You know, I suppose a man likes to have his friends around him at a time like this. He’s about to see Kitty for the first time in a week. A long, miserable week in which he’s thought of nothing but her and drank a whole heck of a lot of whisky.

<squawk!> Poor sot! 

Did you say sot or Scot? Whatever. Come on, pretty bird. Let’s go see what happens.

I open the terrace door and we step inside. Candlelight glimmers off the gowns and jewels of three hundred of the most glittering members of the beau monde. The orchestra strikes up a waltz. Across the chamber I catch sight of Lady B’s first footman turning to introduce the guest now entering.

To my right a lady takes in a short, sharp breath. It’s Kitty. She didn’t expect to see Leam tonight. She didn’t expect to ever see him again…

(to be continued…) 

Whisky and dog hairs… A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do! But what about you, lovely guests? What do you do to prepare before going to an important event? 

Two special notes today: In honor of Bella and Hermes and all the non-human companions we cherish, I invite  any bloggers visiting the ballroom today to drop in at http://smalltownrescue.wordpress.com to learn how you can help raise awareness about pet rescue. And here’s the url for the site on which I found the adorable Wolfhound photo above: http://www.iwfgiftshop.com . Sales from this site go to The Irish Wolfhound Foundation.