Shh, dear guests! I’m eavesdropping on a scene in the ballroom and I don’t want anyone to see me. I asked Lady B to invite a fabulous new author and her characters to the ball today, but it’s not going off as planned. Erin Knightley, you see, is not only a delightful person, but she’s written a deliciously wonderful novel that was nominated for a Golden Heart Award and will be out in mere days, and she keeps a yummy blog too. So I expected her visit today to go without a hitch. But I may have been wickedly misled to believe this. I’ll just duck behind this potted palm (oh, hello, Sabrina!) and watch from between the fronds.

The delightful Erin Knightley

Dear Lady B.,

We regret to inform you that, though we are honored at the invitation, we will be unable to attend

Erin: Benedict! <tugging a quill from the fingers of the remarkably handsome Benedict Hastings, the hero of  More Than a Stranger> What are you doing? You can’t decline an invitation to a ball you have already arrived at. Good heavens, Lady B would never allow me live it down.

Benedict: I assure you, I was prepared to provide her with a perfectly valid excuse.

Lady Evelyn Moore bustles in, adjusting the skirts of her pale blue gown.

Evie: All right, I’m here, though for the life of me I don’t know why they can’t make a ball gown that is as comfortable as a riding habit. <She pauses, looking from Benedict to Erin and back.> Uh oh. What did I miss?

Smiling innocently, Benedict lifts her hand to his lips and presses a kiss to the inside of her wrist.

Benedict: Nothing, my love. It is I who missed you.

Evie shivers but apparently refuses to be distracted by this adonis. (Ed. Note: She is clearly a stronger woman than I.)

Evie: How very eloquent, Benedict. However, that only tells me that I definitively missed something.

Instead of releasing his hold, Benedict tugs her closer still.

Benedict: I know how much you abhor balls. I was merely attempting to provide us with an acceptable excuse to leave.

<Squawk> Excuse to leave. Looking for an excuse to leave! <Squawk>

Horror now writ across her pretty face, Erin realizes Lady B is standing at her side. 

Lady B: Albert, what a dreadful thing to say. Who here could possibly… <pausing and narrowing her eyes>

Erin: (swallowing) Er, good evening Lady B.

Lady B: Miss Knightley, what is this nonsense about leaving? Surely you cannot have somewhere better to be than here in my ballroom?

Erin: No, of course not! I’m delighted-nay, honored to be here!  I took ballroom dancing lessons and everything. <smiles hugely and drops into a curtsey.>

Lady B lifts a single eyebrow in a gesture that has sent lords to the gallows–metaphorically speaking, that is.

Lady B: Hmph. So you say. Albert, however, says otherwise. Need I elucidate which of the two of you I am inclined to believe?

Benedict steps forward.

Me: (whispering) Wow, in person he really is incredibly handsome.

Sabrina: (whispering) S’truth.

Me: (whispering) He’s got that thick dark hair and chocolately eyes drop dead manly thing going on.

Sabrina: (whispering) I’d like to see him with his shirt off.

Me: (heart fluttering as I recall a particular scene in Erin’s book) I have. It’s… (taking a deep breath)… very nice.

As Sabrina and I drool onto the greenery, Benedict bows to Lady B.

Available June 7!

Benedict: I assure you, my lady, Miss Knightley speaks the truth. If there is any blame to be had, then it is mine and mine alone. I was just writing you a letter—

Lady B: A letter?

Erin blinks in astonishment. I’m a little flabbergasted myself. For… Lady B just blushed!

Benedict: <He offers Lady B a small, collusive smile.> Indeed.

She tilts her head, I’m guessing in an attempt to have the feathers in her turban cover up her red cheeks.

Sabrina (whispering): Lord B used to write Lady B love letters. Way back when.

Me (nodding): Must’ve been some pretty nifty letters.

Sabrina: Based on that blush, “nifty” might be an understatement.

Lady B: I’ve heard quite a bit about your letter writing skills, Mr. Hastings.

Evie snorts, then immediately begins to cough to cover it up. She and Erin exchange glances.

Benedict: Be that as it may, my lady, while I am eternally grateful for the invitation to one of your legendary balls, I’m afraid Lady Evelyn and I must decline.

Lady B: But you are already here, young man. Who has ever heard of such a thing?

<Squawk> Doesn’t happen! <Squawk>

Benedict: Yes, I realize. But the thing is— <leaning in close to his hostess> —I’ve only just rediscovered the woman who has held my heart for nearly a decade. I find that I am indecently reluctant to share her.

Dreamy sighs simultaneously erupt from Erin, Evie, Sabrina and me. Erin’s head whips around and she spots me and Sabrina spying from behind the fronds. She flashes us her signature sparkling smile then returns her attention to her companions.

Evie: Thank goodness I’m not the only one who felt that way, Benedict. Honestly, if I had to see you dance with another woman, I’m not entirely certain I wouldn’t say something that I might quickly regret.

They grin at each other, and one gets the feeling that they are sharing a private joke.

Lady B: (clearing her throat, a smile lurking beneath her pursed lips) Clearly the two of you feel you have much better things to do than attend my ball.

Sabrina: (whispering) And she quite condones it.

Me: (whispering) Quite.

Benedict bows again, pressing a kiss to Lady B’s gloved hand.

Benedict: You, my lady, are a treasure. I do hope you’ll forgive us. We’d very much love to return to your ballroom once we’ve had our fill of each other—perhaps in twenty years or so?

Lady B: (chuckling fondly now) See that you do, young man. See that you do.

Sabrina: (whispering) The old softie.

Me: (whispering) Quite.

What a pleasure it’s been to have Erin, Benedict and Evie visit today! I adored Benedict and Evie in More Than a Stranger and can’t wait for you lovelies to read it. For a chance to enter Erin’s fantastic “Sealed With a Kiss” blog tour giveaway, tell us: Do you like writing and receiving handwritten letters? Have you ever had a pen pal? (For the details of Erin’s big giveaway, click HERE.)

I’ve brought a guest to today’s ball, two actually. The inimitable Janet Mullany is here, along with the hero of her book Dedication. Originally a Signet Regency, this highly praised (and unusually sexy-for-a-trad) romance was long out of print. I paid an outrageous sum for it used. The revised and expanded edition of Dedication is now available as an ebook. It’s a tale of reunited lovers – with a twist. Years after she and Adam parted, Fabienne has become a noted patroness of the arts. She conducts a fervent exchange of letters with Mrs. Ravenwood, a gothic novelist whose books are all the rage. Little does she know that the reclusive Mrs. Ravenwood is really …. Well, you’ll see. Meanwhile, I’ve decided to have a little fun with Lady B.

<squawk>

I’ll send you a case of lobster patties, Albert, if you don’t spill the beans.

Miranda: I have two guest Authoresses in The Ballroom today. Miss Mullany and, as promised, Mrs. Ravenwood

Lady B. I see an unknown lady–

Miss Mullany (curtsies): May I present–

Lady B. And a gentleman. He doesn’t look like any Authoress I’ve ever seen, and, as you know, I have seen many.

Mr. Ashworth: Adam Ashworth, at your service, ma’am.

Lady B: Indeed. Where, then, is Mrs. Ravenwood? Explain yourselves. All London is mad for her horrid novels and Miss Neville assured me the entire ton would be at my feet if Mrs. Ravenwood were to attend the Ballroom. I, of course, have not read the books myself, although I caught my butler reading the copy of The Ruined Tower I had bought to display in the drawing room. One must always appear au courant, but I’m too busy to keep up with My Authoresses’ books. (aside to Janet: Don’t tell Miss Neville, but I haven’t got to her latest yet). My duties as a hostess and to Lord B. leave no time for reading novels written by people I’ve never met.

Miss Mullany: Your lack of acquaintance is about to be remedied.

Lady B: Excellent. Bring me Mrs. Ravenwood immediately.

Mr. Ashworth: I am she, ma’am.

Lady B: You, sir? That is preposterous. Who is this fellow, Miss Neville? I do not believe that I am related to any Ashworths.  Sir, I do not receive gentlemen–and I use the term loosely–with no claim to kinship or whose coats are out at the elbow. Mrs. Ravenwood may be connected to Lord B’s aunt’s second cousin by marriage so I’m happy to make her acquaintance.

Mr. Ashworth: I am sure she would be suitably grateful, but I must tell you, ma’am, Mrs. Ravenwood is no one; or, to be more precise, I am that person. As for my coat, I live in the country where I write novels and look after my pigs–

Miss Mullany:–Oh no, not the pigs again. Enough of the pigs, Adam.

The original cover was very proper

Mr. Ashworth: Very well, although her ladyship may well harbor a passion for pigs.

Lady B: I assure you pigs are rarely on my mind. I do occasionally think about sheep, when Miss Dare insists. Continue, sir.

Mr. Ashworth: The pigs are indifferent to my sartorial mishaps, ma’am. This is how I dress in the country.

Lady B: And you hide behind Mrs. Ravenwood’s literary petticoats, sir? Why is that?

Mr. Ashworth: I have my reasons, ma’am. But wait. I think we have met before?

Lady B: I doubt it. I usually associate with those of the highest rank. Why, you can barely shake a stick at the number of dukes who pay their respects in this house.

Mr. Ashworth: Lady B … yes, I remember a certain Heliotrope. You wore a mask as we all did–and the women little else other than some floating draperies. As I remember, they floated right off.

Miranda: How shocking … and fascinating! You must be mistaken, sir.

Mr. Ashworth: We were all much younger, then, were we not, Lady B? In love with love and freedom and brotherhood. Heady days. You know to what I refer, ma’am, a certain secret society devoted to the ideals of revolution. Miss Heliotrope was much admired for her ability to–

Lady B: I shall call my footmen to eject you from the house, sir.

Miss Mullany: A word, Adam … (whispers in Adam’s ear)

Mr. Ashworth: Of course. I see it now. Beg your pardon, ma’am. An easily made mistake, for you bear a remarkable similarity to a lady of the same name I once knew. But the books, ma’am–yes, indeed, I am the author of those gothic novels you are too busy to read. Thankfully others are not.

Lady B: I consider novel writing a singularly unsuitable occupation for a gentleman. Gentlemen have their uses–and often excellent legs–but when it comes to writing a good book, there’s nothing like an Authoress. Goodness me, in my youth, when I had more time, I perused novels by Mr. Fielding, Mr. Richardson, and Mr. Lawrence Sterne. Also The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire by Mr. Gibbon. Would that the Decline had been faster and the Fall final. But none of these works pleased me like one of the excellent tales penned by Miss Willig, or Miss MacLean, or Miss Foley, filled with suspense, love, and good bits. Men should leave novel writing to the fairer sex, who know what they are doing. Little wonder that Mr. Ashworth prefers to publish under a feminine nom de plume, else no one would take him seriously.

Miranda: Lady B! You insult Mr. Ashworth and he is our guest.

Lady B. Do you take me for a fool, Miss Neville? Mr. Ashworth may claim to be an Authoress, but I know that he is merely a Hero. He is the creation of Miss Mullany, who is unambiguously female and a true Authoress. I daresay her books have plenty of good bits.

Miranda: I have it on the best authority that Dedication, Janet’s story about Adam and Fabienne, contains some good bits that didn’t appear in the original edition.

Miss Mullany: About one and a half chapters worth, actually.  All very good bits.

If you missed Dedication first time around, or if you read it then but would like to check out the new good bits, Janet has kindly offered to give a copy to one commenter. (Ebook only, your choice of format). For centuries, some writers have preferred to write under assumed names (including even some of the Ballroom Authoresses, but don’t tell Lady B. or she’ll go into a genealogical frenzy). Let’s talk about our favorite pseudonymous writers, and the reasons behind their disguise. Part of the fun is making up your own name. Whether you are a writer or not, what would you like to be called if you could pick your own name?

Dedication. Nook ~ Kindle ~ LooseId. See the book trailer.

Also, new from Janet Mullany: The Malorie Phoenix. Nook ~ Kindle. See the book trailer.

Greetings, lovely guests! The other day I was reading about the Golden Horde, and—

Miss Ashe, we have barely finished mending the place after that ship incident Miss Noble instigated. If you invite an army of Mongolian barbarians to my home I will shut my doors to you forever.

Oh, hello, Lady B! <looking around confused> What are you doing here today?

<lifting her lorgnette> Upon the previous occasion I consulted with Lord B, this was still my house, Miss Ashe.

Ha. Er. What I mean is, you’re not usually here on Saturdays. But no matter, I digress! Speaking of the Golden Horde, as you know when I’m not in the ballroom I’m teaching history—

Lord help us all.

—and last term I taught a course on the interesting ways in which medieval Christianity is represented in modern fiction and film.

You are a remarkably peculiar gel, Miss Ashe.

I know! It was so fun. My students researched and wrote fiction too. One project was about Christian missionaries to the Golden Horde, and it reminded me of how in the Middle Ages Christians told stories of the Mongolian invaders that included thoroughly scandalous details.

Finally a topic of interest.

Gorgeous however remarkably uncomfortable birthing table

It was rumored that even the womenof the Golden Horde were savage warriors and that they didn’t pause in their fiendish invasions even to give birth, but bore their children from the saddle. Isn’t that fabulous?

It sounds remarkably uncomfortable.

I daresay. But it got me thinking about scandalous professions for women.

All professions for women are scandalous.

I know you don’t really think that. After all, you share your ballroom with authoresses!

Lady B casts me a look that suggests I’ve just made her point.

But it’s a time-honored reality, my lady. Women have forever been pursuing professions that society considered scandalous. Why, just remember all those mistresses Sabrina brought to the ballroom.

squawk! Scarred for life! squawk!

And speaking of women using their feminine wiles to advantage, one of my favorite ancient plays is the political comedy Lysistrata in which the wives of leaders of the embattled Greek states withhold sex until their husbands call a truce in the war.

Behind the scenes politics. Impressive.

Wasn’t it? And in the Middle Ages there were cross-dressing monks — women in disguise for years and years! — and a famous woman soldier or two as well.

squawk! Pre-guillotine days! squawk!

Jeanne d'Arc, icon for French feminists and fascists alike

Yes, Albert, unfortunately Joan of Arc’s military cross-dressing got her burned at the stake in France. But there’s another famous medieval cross-dressing Joan. The legends call her Pope Joan. They discovered she was a woman when she sat down on the papal throne and the bottom fell out of it, revealing the truth.

One wonders why the witness had his head beneath the throne.

Doesn’t one? Those crazy medievals! In fact, just the other day I came across some lovely ladies on twitter— er— that is, at the park chatting about yet another medieval woman whose behavior scandalized everyone. Now… who was that queen…

Ashlyn Macnamara: Eleanor of Aquitaine. She was queen of two kingdoms consecutively, started a civil war between her sons and her husband, and rode bare-breasted to the crusades with her ladies in waiting to rouse the soldiers’ spirits.

And other parts! squawk!

I daresay.

Ah, and here are the very lovely ladies I was tweeting— that is, strolling with the other day! Lady B, may I make you acquainted with Ladies Ashlyn Macnamara, Alyssa Alexander and Tracy Brogran? And you already know Anna Randol (who visited us in January with her dreamy warrior-poet hero!).

Of course I am acquainted with the Dashing Duchesses, you silly gel. Who isn’t?

Katharine: <beaming at the duchesses> It’s wonderful to have you here today, ladies. Will you do me the honor of adding to my list of professions of a scandalous nature for ladies?

Tracy: Well, I’ve heard from a very reliable gossip that there’s an Englishwoman trying to gain admittance to a medical school in New York. Can you imagine? Elizabeth Blackwell is her name. She lives in the Americas now, no wonder. But it’s said that she was allowed entrance only because the administrators thought for certain her application was a ruse.

Tell me the poor gel is at least married. On the other hand, if she isn’t, my fourth cousin thrice removed, that fellow just over there staring down Mrs.

Alice Guy-Blache, the first female cinema director

Cres-

Tracy: Elizabeth chose to never marry. Imagine? A maiden, traveling back and forth between the Americas and our homeland, encountering all sorts of riff-raff. I’m certain she encountered the most nefarious of ne’er do wells. But she did manage to establish quite a few dispensaries to aid the infirmed.

<squawk!> Learning opportunities all round!

Ashlyn: And a chance to ogle a few, er, legs.

Lovely.

Anna: At least she was mending people. Alessandra Giliani in the 14^th century— did you ever meet her, Lady B?

Perhaps there is a reason I do not normally attend Saturday salons.

Anna: Alessandra carved them up. She’s credited with being instrumental in developing a way to map the human circulatory system. On cadavers no less. All before she was 19.

Alyssa: Medical school! Anatomists! But no! <fanning herself while searching for her smelling salts>  But they weren’t the only women comfortable with a blade.

Do tell. I fear you will whether I allow it or not.

Alyssa: Rumor has it that the Assyrian Queen Sammuramat (also Semiramis) gained the throne in a most nefarious — though clever — way. After impressing the current king with her strategic battle skills, she asked if she could be queen for a day. She promptly had him beheaded, poor sap, and ruled for another couple of decades.

Remarkably clever gel. Though most unpleasant for the king, I should think.

Alyssa: He clearly did not think through her request, alas. And since the rumor is her son had her beheaded, well, she had her comeuppance.

squawk! What goes around, comes around.

Alyssa: Indeed, indeed. I must say, it is only rumor, however. The Greeks rewrote her history a couple of times. But the scandal sheets are always more fun than the truth. <wink> So I shall follow the scandal.

Tracy: Follow the scandal? Shame on you, Lady Alyssa! <she lowers her voice> Come sit by me, will you?

Boudica on her chariot, trouncing the Romans.

Ashlyn: If we’re going to mention ladies of a military bent, we can’t leave out Boudica, who led an uprising against the Romans. Of course, they took her kingdom away from her, had her flogged and raped her daughters, so some might say they had it coming.

Anna: Or Fu Hao in Shang Dynasty China. Queen, military leader, and high priestess. Trounced the barbarians so soundly they never attacked again. Over a hundred swords, axes, and spears were discovered in her tomb.

<peering through her lorgnette> Fond of weapons, was she?

Katharine: Which puts me in mind of ladies of the sea, with great big gun arsenals at their disposal.

Anna: Ah, those sailors with their large cannons…oh, you meant actual cannons. <clears throat and sips tea>

Tracy: Have you seen the size of their balls? Enormous. The cannon balls, I mean. <fans herself and looks askance>

Aarrr! squawk!

Katharine: <endeavoring with no little effort to maintain my Serious History Professor-like mask> Yes, indeed, Albert, there was a remarkable number of women who devoted their lives to sailing ships, including female pirates like the infamous Anne Bonny and Mary Read, close friends and both fierce buccaneers.

Alyssa: Scandal! <gasps> How fun!

squawk! Walk the plank! squawk!

Katharine: Neither met a happy end. But that’s what you get for breaking the law.

Ashlyn: Thus, Boudica.

Katharine: Quite! But some ladies like my own Viola Carlyle in How To Be a Proper Lady worked their shipcraft within the confines of the law. Viola is a privateer. Everybody here knows what a privateer is, right?

The duchesses and Albert nod.

Good heavens. Yet another ponderous lesson in history approacheth.

Katharine: Very funny, my lady. A privateer is—

A thief with license! squawk!

Ashlyn: The bird speaks the truth of it.

Katharine: Exactly. As Violet la Vile, Viola is commissioned by the state of Massachusetts to scout out nere-do-wells and haul them into port. And if she wins a lot of booty from the ships she brings in, well that’s how she pays her crewmen.

Flag of the state of Massachusetts which flies above Viola's ship

Anna: <whispering to Albert> Do you suppose she wears trousers? Or has she learned to scramble around in the rigging in her petti…<realizes everyone’s staring, sips tea> I said, isn’t your hero, Captain Jin Seton, a privateer too?

Katharine: Ah, yes! But he holds his commission from the British Navy.

The plot thickens! squawk!

Katharine: As sorry as I am to deviate from speaking of a delicious hero for even a moment, we’re getting away from the point of this writer’s inspiration post. After all, the reason I wanted to talk about this is because of the amazing courage, bravery, and plain old chutzpah these women had to do what they did.

Tracey: Miss Blackwell says, “If society will not admit of women’s free development, then society must be remodeled.” Perhaps she’s on to something.

Katharine: Like Viola, overturning societal conventions. Why just look at her. She’s ripping his “bodice”.

Bodice ripping: The good kind

squawk! No guts, no glory! squawk!

Katharine: Precisely.

Thank you to Ashlyn, Alyssa, Tracy and Anna for visiting the ballroom and inspiring us today! I hope you’ll all dash over to The Dashing Duchesses blog and pay them and their sister duchesses a call. But before you go, tell us what is the most scandalous job you’ve ever had? If you’ve been modest in your employment, then what’s the most scandalous job you could dream of having if you could do anything without suffering any consequences? 

I am back in the card room, having finally dispatched my last hero and his unexpected guest, and settling back into my game of whist. However, for the first time that I have been witness to, Lady B has decided to sit in on a rubber.

Lady B: I am constantly amazed by your complete disregard for anything other than cards, Miss Noble. You attack your play with a bloodthirstiness that is uncommon in your sex.

Kate: …Thank you? I suppose that to be a compliment.

Lady B: Yes, especially when delivered by someone who has the final trump.

Lady B lays her last card and I blanche. She had been holding that Heart all game, and I had completely forgotten it! With that trick, she had taken the game.

Lady B: Another rubber, my dear? I am surprised to have won – you are such a yare player, after all.

Kate (still peevish from losing): if you say so, Lady B.

Albert: <squawk!> Sore loser! <squawk!>

I glare at Albert as Lady B deals out another hand.

Lady B: What do you mean, my dear? Do you not wish to play again?

Kate: I’m happy to play – however, my comment was in reference to that word you used. ‘Yare’?

Lady B: Do you not know what ‘yare’ means? How is that possible? Samuel will be appalled.

Kate: Samuel?

Dr. Johnson. A findy man, if ever there was one.

I look up from the middling cards that Lady B had just dealt me, to find that a heavy-set man in a wig was looming over the table. Admittedly, the wig throws me – why, wigs had gone out of fashion with the turn of the century – but what throws me more is how Lady B introduces him as he takes a newly empty chair at the table.

Lady B: Miss Noble, this is Dr. Samuel Johnson. He’s an author too, you know.

I do know. Dr. Johnson is a bit of a celebrity of his time – an author, a critic, and an essayist. But he is perhaps best known for writing what is considered the English language’s first comprehensive dictionary. In 1755.

Kate: So the space-time continuum just doesn’t exist in this ballroom, is that it?

Dr. Johnson: What is that, child? Space-time continuum? I do not know if I have that word in my dictionary.

Kate: Er – nevermind. Dr. Johnson, it is a pleasure to meet you.

Dr. Johnson: Indeed the pleasure is mine. And call me Samuel. I am quite illaqueated by your charms. Rumor has it your card play is quite fatidical.

I exchange a glance with Albert. The parrot shrugs.

Kate: Dr. Johnson – er, Samuel — I’m afraid I do not know what you mean.

Dr. Johnson: Now, now, don’t demur, child –

Lady B: No, she really does not know what you mean, Sam. These young authoresses do not have the same words as you and I do.

Dr. Johnson: Really? I find myself hebetated! Er, and by that, I mean ‘stupefied’, young lady.

Kate: I’m afraid it is true, Dr. Johnson. Where I come from, there are many words in your great dictionary that have fallen out of favor and into obscurity throughout the ages.

Dr. Johnson: Is my life’s work for naught then?

Kate: No, of course not! But English is a fluid language, it changes with time and need. I wager that there are hundreds of words – words like ‘gearshift’, ‘meme’, and ‘Decepticon’ – from my time that will disappear from the lexicon within a century. Having them written down – like you did with your dictionary – is the only way of preserving them and their meanings.

Dr. Johnson: Well, that is a relief. I swear you had my heart apitpat with your pronunciations! Now, shall we play? And Lady B, do you think we could procure some belly-timber? I tried to prog some refreshments but the hallways in this house are so anfractuose I found myself in huggermuggers thrice!

This time I look at Lady B. And this time, she is the one to shrug.

Lady B: There are times even I do not know what he is saying, Miss Noble.

While Lady B and I try to decipher just what on earth Dr. Johnson is talking about, tell us what are some of your favorite obsolete or esoteric words? Because if I cannot beat Lady B at cards, I need to make certain that I have ammunition to best her at Words with Friends.

I brought along a special guest today–my latest heroine, Miss Eliza Cade.  I can’t wait to introduce her to Lady B, but there’s a problem.  I can’t bring Eliza into the Ballroom itself.

Miss Dare, why are you dragging me down the corridor?  The ballroom is the other way.

I know, Lady B.  Forgive the distraction, but I want you to meet Eliza.  She’s in the spare parlor.

Which spare parlor?  I have several.

Er…the lavender one?

Ah, yes.  Why is the gel waiting there?  Have you brought along another of your wallflower spinsters, Miss Dare?

No, no.  Miss Eliza Cade is quite a different breed from the Spindle Cove set.  She’s most definitely not a wallflower.  Quite a bold and lively young lady, in fact.

Then why doesn’t she come join the ball?

Well, she’s not allowed, you see.  She’s the youngest of four girls, and her father has decreed that Eliza may not be “out” in Society until all three of her older sisters are married.  Even though she’s a grown woman now, and she’s been waiting for years.

That strikes me as rather strange parenting.

(I lower my voice.)  You see, there was an incident a few years ago.   Eliza was young, and her heart was in the right place–but she showed rather poor judgment.  Her father thinks she’s too scandal-prone.  He’s convinced she’ll sink her sisters’ chances if he lets her anywhere near a ballroom.  Meanwhile, Eliza’s trying her best to be good.

I open the parlor door. 

Well.  She seems to be failing on that score.

I shut the parlor door.  But not before Lady B gets an eyeful of Eliza engaged in a feverish embrace with a dark-haired, roguishly handsome man.

(Lady B raises her quizzing glass)  Miss Dare, who was that gentleman?

Er…that would be Mr. Wright.

Mr. Wright?  He looked like Mr. Wrong to me.

Yes.  Indeed.  Harry Wright’s rather a dangerous scoundrel, always hovering at the fringes of balls and parties.  And Eliza can’t seem to avoid him, no matter how hard she tries.

She didn’t seem to be trying very hard just now.

Well…  No.  She wasn’t.  *sigh*

Lady B (and everyone) can read all about Miss Eliza Cade’s struggles to avoid temptation and the oh-so-wrong Harry Wright in my new novella, “The Scandalous, Dissolute, No-Good Mr. Wright.”

It’s part of a digital anthology called Three Weddings and a Murder, which will be available for sale sometime this week – perhaps as early as tomorrow!

Included are historical romance novellas from yours truly, Courtney Milan, Leigh LaValle, and a romantic thriller from Carey Baldwin–all for the bargain price of $2.99, and profits go to a good cause–the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer.  You can learn more about the anthology, read an excerpt of my story, (and find buy links, once they’re live) here.

I will confess–this novella was partly inspired by my desire to write a couple who bore a slight resemblance to one of my all-time favorite couples, Rhett Butler and Scarlett O’Hara.  A devilish scoundrel, paired with a spirited society girl.  Only I wanted Eliza and Harry to have a happy ending!

If you could rewrite a famous love story and give it a happier ending, which would you choose?

One of the best parts of writing fiction is having free license to just make stuff up.  People, places, times, gadgets, creatures, and more!

Of course, here at The Ballroom Blog, we are mostly writing historical romance — and we try to use the real historical setting as best as we can research it.  But we still get to make stuff up.  All those dukedoms and earldoms, for instance.  All our characters, of course.  Perhaps a village, like Spindle Cove.  And every once in a while, we have an excuse to make up an entire country!

That’s the fun I’m having right now, as I work on the new book, ANY DU–

Oh, wait.  I may not have announced in the Ballroom that I have a new book contract!  Well, I do!  I’m so excited to be working on Spindle Cove Book 4, which will be releasing in 2013.  It’s called ANY DUCHESS WILL DO.  Huzzah!  Much rejoicing in the Dare household.

As I was saying…

As I work on the new book, ANY DUCHESS WILL DO, I have the exciting challenge of creating a fictional country.  (The book takes place in England, but I have visiting royalty as secondary characters.)

Up until now, the closest I’ve come to this was letting Colin from A Week to be Wicked spin yarns about being the long-lost Prince Ampersand of Crustacea.  That was fun in a different way.  I didn’t have to make anything make sense! Quite the opposite.  The more absurd, the better.

Now I’m trying to create a plausible fictional country.  Right now, I’m modeling it off some alpine principalities (shades of Crustacea) that were at different times part of the Austrian Empire, part of Germany, or part of Italy.   Mostly I’ve chosen this region so that my fictional land can have some strategic importance in the Napoleonic Wars.  But also because…

Tirol Castle, near Meran, Italy

Lovely, no?

If you were creating a fictional country of your own, where would you put it?

Are there any fictional lands in literature you wish you could visit?  Narnia, the Shire, Genovia, Oz…?

And if anyone has names for my fictional alpine principality, I’d love suggestions! 

Normally, we save our writerly inspirations for the Saturday Salon, but it’s been a while since I’ve talked about Captain Martin and his meddling mother. And since a novella featuring these two will be releasing this summer, I thought maybe I’d mention him again. After all, the story was entirely inspired by Lady Beaufetheringstone’s ballroom.

(For a recap visit: In which Sabrina Darby drags yet another man into Lady B’s home.)

Lady B: Inspired by my ballroom? How lovely!

Sabrina: Well, I hear that your ballroom and gardens will be featured in many of the Authoresses’ new novels.

Lady B: And so my home should be immortalized. That is the purpose of art, naturally.

Sabrina: Naturally. And art plays a role in my little novella, too.

Lady B: What is it called?

Sabrina: Amazing, Lady B! You are on tonight. Almost as if you had played wingman before.

Albert: << squawk >> Wingman! << squawk >>

Sabrina: In any event, the story is titled The Short and Fascinating Tale of Angelina Whitcombe.

Lady B: So that is the actresses’ name!

Sabrina: Ah! You remember that bit of rumor. Well, I won’t substantiate if it’s true or not…at least not yet. My cousin asked me to be discreet, and while I know in just two and a half months, no one will be able to contain the scandal…the least I can do is give her a bit more time to prepare.

Lady B: Miss Darby, we have all been around the Ballroom long enough to know how this works. Time is irrelevant. I want you to invite Miss Whitcombe to the Ballroom, especially before she heads north for Yorkshire.

Sabrina: I most definitely will. I assure you Lady B, that the next time I help host one of your balls, Miss Whitcombe will attend. In the meantime, speaking of Yorkshire, my sister is heading there next week for a walking tour. (I’m totally jealous!) Which reminds me, Lady B…in advance, I can tell you this much about Miss Whitcombe. When I asked her for packing advice for my sister, she gave me the following list:

• sturdy shoes
• warm outerwear
• a sketch book, to record the many picturesque sights

While I’m certain my sister will trade a sketchbook for a camera, I know she has the first two items on the list. I’ve been trying to tell her that, if she insists on copying Angelina, she’d best be open to meeting a completely ineligible but perfect for her alpha male. She steadfastly contends that she is not the heroine of a romance book. Of course, we know better, do we not Lady B?

Lady B: Every young lady is a romance heroine waiting to happen.

Sabrina: Exactly!

Albert: << squawk >> Wingman! << squawk >>

In any event, I’ve asked her to spy on John and Angelina and give us all the juicy details as they get to know each other in that ruin of a castle. But aside from that somewhat difficult task for a 21st century real woman, what advice would you give a young woman travelling alone in Yorkshire? And does anyone have travel plans for the summer?

Congratulations to

Sue P

for winning a copy of TOO TEMPTING TO RESIST by Cara Elliott. I know you’ll enjoy it! And thanks to Cara for being a great guest at The Ballroom.

Today I welcome my friend Cara Elliot to The Ballroom. Cara’s latest book, available now, is a terrific addition to her Lords of Midnight series. Determined to stop her wayward brother from squandering their dwindling fortune, Lady Eliza Brentford decides to follow him to his favorite den of depravity. There, among the candlelight and raucous revelry, she encounters her brother’s role model in debauchery ….

Lady B: Miss Neville! Who is the gentleman with the excellent figure and smoldering green eyes? He looks like the kind of man one of my Authoresses would create but I checked my diary and I’m not expecting anybody new until next month when Miss Ashe’s new hero -

Miranda: – and heroine -

Lady B: – and heroine (if you insist) arrive. I’d like to state for the record that all my Authoresses do not appear to have been working as hard as Miss Ashe.

<squawk> here comes the bride <squawk>

Lady B: Thank you, Albert, for reminding me. Miss Willig and Miss Noble are both about to enter the state of matrimony and therefore have little time to arrange the affairs of others. The rest of you have no excuse. Get your pens out and keep me entertained.

Miranda: Sorry, Lady B. I’ll pass the word along. But meanwhile I’d like to present a Guest Authoress, Miss Cara Elliott, whose latest book is titled Too Tempting to Resist.

Lady B: Welcome, Miss Elliott. Are you responsible for that green-eyed creature? He looks disreputable and quite possibly tempting.

Cara: Actually, I can’t claim complete credit. I found him growing wild on a Welsh moor, but he does clean up rather nicely, doesn’t he?

<squawk> He’s wearing a fig leaf <squawk>

Cara: That is an ivy leaf dangling from his watch chain, which in the secret language of flowers signifies “friendship.” For you see, over the course of writing the book, Gryff —this is, Lord Haddan—and I have become bosom bows—

<squawk> Your bosom is far too close to his muscled shoulder. <squawk>

Cara: inching back a step and slanting a look at Miranda Is the parrot always so …outspoken?

Miranda: Lady B is waiting to be introduced to our gentleman guest, Cara.

Cara: after darting a barbed scowl at Albert Yes, but of course. Lady B, allow me to present Gryffin Dwight, the Marquess of Haddan, who counts among his many extraordinary talents an expertise in landscape design.  Not to mention his skills in . . . a secret language.

Lady B: He appears to be a man of gifts. The gifts of dark locks, broad shoulders, and (lowers her eyes) a good pair of legs. Have him come closer.

Miranda: Gryff is delicious but I invited him, and his creator, here for a specific reason. I hear Lord B is thinking about making some Improvements at your country place.

Lady B: I leave all that to Lord B since I’m not terribly interested in rural life. I find it dirty, odiferous, and dull. However, I would be happy to discuss anything with Lord Haddan, though on the whole I prefer to conduct my conversations in English. I leave foreign languages to Albert.

Gryff: Flowers are not odiferous and dull, Lady B, so allow me to wax poetic—

Cara: Perhaps I should first finish giving Lady B a picture of your illustrious accomplishments.

Gryff: If you insist. Though you do know I prefer to keep my passion a secret from all but my closest friends.

Cara: Gryff has a very discerning eye and sensitive soul, despite his reputation for other less cerebral activities.

Miranda: Like the use of Regency era sex toys – er – marital aids …

Cara: Not many people know that he writes very lyrical essays on landscape design.

 Gryff: I am a great admirer of Lancelot Brown, who is considered England’s greatest gardener . . .

Capability Brown turned a stream into a lake at Blenheim Palace

 Miranda: (giving Cara a little nudge) And I am a great admirer of a certain other Englishman.

Cara: Ha! He is half Welsh. If you doubt me, you can take a look at the large dragon tattooed near his—

Lady B: Miss Neville! Miss Elliott! Manners! I am listening to Lord Haddan. We can look at his dragon later.

Gryff: Thank you, milady. As I was saying, Brown—who earned the moniker “Capability” for often telling clients that their estates had great “capability” for landscape improvement—is quite a fascinating man. He made a name for himself by breaking with tradition and creating a new “natural” approach to designing gardens and grounds, as opposed to the formal layouts of the past.

Lady B: (looking bored) You don’t say?

 Gryff: Indeed, He called them “grammatical” landscapes, which should appeal to the writers here. His style is marked by long stretches of rolling grasslands, with bushes, trees and lakes, artfully placed to create visual texture and interest. Many of the most famous estates in Britain feature his garden designs, including Blenheim Palace—

<squawk> Get on with it, Green-Eyes <squawk>

Cara: Right, start talking about the secret language of flowers.

Lady B: Flowers? I adore receiving flowers.

Gryff: But of course. What lady doesn’t appreciate their seductive colors and perfumes? However, even more alluring is what each particular bloom is saying. You see, every flower has a special meaning, so a beautiful bouquet also conveys a very intimate message.

Lady B: Pray, do go on.

Capability Brown designed the park at Highclere (aka Downton Abbey).

Gryff: You probably know that a single red rose signifies ‘true love’ but did you know that 15 red roses mean an apology, and 108 mean a proposal of marriage?

Lady B: That’s very romantic. And reassuring to know a man can count to over a hundred before one agrees to marry him.

Gryff: Pink roses mean ‘perfect happiness,’ and pale peach ones mean ‘modesty.’ In addition, there are many interesting meanings represented by other blooms. For example, red poppies symbolize ‘pleasure,’ white daisies mean ‘innocence,’ pink camellias say ‘I’m longing for you,’ and hydrangeas mean ‘thank you for understanding.’

Lady B: So, Lord Haddan, if you were to design a bouquet for me, which flowers would you include?

Gryff: (without hesitation) I would start with orange roses, which mean ‘fascination.’ Then I would add some sprigs of sage, which convey ‘esteem,’ peach blossoms, which mean ‘I am your captive.’” (Taps his chin) “And then, I might sneak in a white violet, which says ‘Let’s take a chance on happiness.’

Lady B: Naughty man. (to Miranda) You may invite him back any time. As for Miss Elliott . . .

Thank you, Cara, for joining us today and introducing us to a fascinating subject and a yummy hero – he can send me a bouquet any time. Cara has kindly offered to give a copy of Too Tempting to Resist to one commenter (US addresses only.) Since it’s May, many of us are busy in our gardens, patios, or window boxes. I’ve just planted some new Sweet Williams, phlox, and asters. What’s blooming in your garden? What are your favorite flowers? With a bit of luck, Gryff (via Cara) will tell you what they mean.

We have something of a bridal theme going on here at the Ballroom Blog at the moment, with two real sets of nuptials and a whole host of fictional ones coming up.  (Is it just me, or do you imagine that Lady B has a whole cabinet full of truly alarming hats to wear to said weddings?)

In preparation for my upcoming nuptials, the mother of a good friend of mine has been sending me daily pictures of wedding cakes.  These range from the glorious…

… to the truly insane:

My friend’s mother titled that last one: “When the Groom Has Input”.

Be grateful: I spared you the Satanic Hell-Mouth Halloween cake.  (I kid you not.)

Naturally, all of this got me wondering about Wedding Cakes Past.

My friend’s mother informed me that the tradition of the wedding cake dates back to Ancient Rome, when thin wheat cakes were crumpled over the bride’s head to ensure fertility.  (I have already told my fiancé that there is zero way he is mashing cake onto my head, fertility or no fertility.  Buttercream is sticky.)  According to various, probably unreliable internet sources, this cake ritual came along with the Roman legions to England, where the tradition developed of baking numerous small cakes for a wedding party, possibly piling them up and making the bride and groom attempt to kiss over them.

Is it just me, or has anyone noticed how many wedding traditions seem to tend towards making the bride and groom kiss in public?  Rather like our modern tradition of clinking glasses to make the bride and groom smooch.  You can just see ye olde groomsman elbowing his buddies and saying, “Hey!  I’ve got an idea.  Let’s make this pile of cake and then dare Aethelbert to kiss Hedwiga without knocking them all over!  Betcha he can’t do it!”  “Ha!  If you think that, you don’t know olde Aethelbert.  Betcha three goats that he can!”  “I’ll take your goats and raise you a sheep.”  “You’re on!”  They were probably also drinking a little bit of ye olde malt brew at the time.

But I digress.

Wouldn’t you know it was (reputedly) those decadent French who first thought of icing those little cakes?   While the French were playing with icing, back in England, the seventeenth and eighteenth century saw the bridal pie.  Because, really, what doesn’t say romance like pie?  A ring would be baked into the pie and she who found the ring would be, supposedly, the next to marry.  Either that, or just lose a tooth from biting a ring baked into a pie.

That brings us to our era.  (And by our, I mean the Ballroom.)  Were there wedding cakes in the Regency?  Absolutely.  We have no less an authority than Austen on it.  The following passage comes from the beginning of Emma:

The compliments of [Mr. Woodhouse’s] neighbours were over; he was no longer teased by being wished joy of so sorrowful an event; and the wedding-cake, which had been a great distress to him, was all eat up. His own stomach could bear nothing rich, and he could never believe other people to be different from himself. What was unwholesome to him, he regarded as unfit for any body; and he had, therefore, earnestly tried to dissuade them from having any wedding-cake at all, and when that proved vain, as earnestly tried to prevent any body’s eating it. He had been at the pains of consulting Mr. Perry, the apothecary, on the subject. Mr. Perry was an intelligent, gentlemanlike man, whose frequent visits were one of the comforts of Mr. Woodhouse’s life; and, upon being applied to, he could not but acknowledge, (though it seemed rather against the bias of inclination,) that wedding-cake might certainly disagree with many — perhaps with most people, unless taken moderately. With such an opinion, in confirmation of his own, Mr. Woodhouse hoped to influence every visitor of the new-married pair; but still the cake was eaten; and there was no rest for his benevolent nerves till it was all gone.

What was this cake that so distressed Mr. Woodhouse?  William Henderson’s 1806 The Household Instructor provides the following recipe for bride cake:

Take four pounds of fine flour well dried, four pounds of fresh butter, and two pounds of loaf sugar.  Pound and sift fine a quarter of an ounce of mace, the same of nutmeg, and to every pound of flour put eight eggs well beat up.  Wash four pounds of currents, pick them well, and dry them before the fire.  Blanch a pound of sweet almonds and cut them length-ways very thin; take a pound of citron, a pound of candied orange, the same of candied lemon, and half a pint of brandy.  First work the butter to a cream with your hand, then beat in your sugar a quarter of an hour, and work up the whites of your eggs to a very strong froth.  Mix them with your sugar and butter, beat your yolks half an hour at least, and mix them with the other ingredients.  Then put in your flour, mace and nutmeg, and keep beating it well until the oven is ready.  Put in your brandy and beat lightly in your currants and almonds.  Tie three sheets of paper round the bottom of your hoop, to keep it from running out, and rub it well with butter.  Then put in your cake, and place your sweet-meats in three layers, with some cake between every layer.  As soon as it is risen and colored, cover it with paper and send it to a moderate oven.  Three hours will bake it.

Fundamentally, we’re talking fruit cake, with lots of alcohol to help it keep.  The cake would then be iced, in a way not all that dissimilar to ours, although their white icing would often have been egg-white based and flavored with rose-water or orange-water, two popular Regency flavor choices.

It’s nice to know that some things don’t really change.  Here’s last year’s royal wedding cake, which was, yes, a traditional fruit cake under all that white icing:

Lovely, no?  I could go on posting pictures of cakes (the good, the bad, the exceedingly ugly), but at my back I can already hear Lady B’s slippers hurrying near, telling me I’ve overshot my allowed post length.

So instead, I’ll just ask: what are the best– and worst!– wedding cakes you’ve seen?  And what would your dream wedding cake look like?  Also, what are your suggestions for ideal wedding cake filling combos?