Lady B: What on earth is that racket?

I look up from where I’ve collapsed on the ground amidst a pile of luggage and tote bags.

Lady B: Ah, I see you have returned. It is about time.

She looks irate. With me. And I have no idea why. After all, I’ve only just come back from the Romance Writers of America conference.

She’s standing there, arms akimbo, and glaring.

I struggle to my feet so that at least she has me at less of a disadvantage. I take a stab at figuring out what is bothering her.

Sabrina: I promise, I don’t have any trips scheduled for at least a fortnight.

She doesn’t look appeased.

Lady B: While you’ve been off cavorting at soirees with half-garbed men, do you know what that Captain Martin of yours has done?

Sabrina: Captain Martin?

H.G.J. Martin? Hero of The Short and Fascinating Tale of Angelina Whitcombe, which, releases tonight, at midnight, like some sort of reverse Cinderella story?

Wanted:

A beautiful young woman—preferably one with no connections, who won’t ask too many questions—to spend two weeks in the North of England with an obstinate, aloof, and utterly handsome man.

Must love dogs, fixing up crumbling castles, and gorgeous and complicated war heroes who may or may not be hiding hearts of gold under their gruff exteriors.

Must not, under any circumstances, fall in love . . .

Simpering misses need not apply.

Lady B: Yes, Captain Martin! It was bad enough that when he visited my ballroom last, he was taciturn and ungracious, but now he has committed a travesty!

I cannot imagine what he could have done. After returning from his time helping the war effort as one of the Royal Engineers, the poor man has hidden himself away in his crumbling castle for nearly a year.

Sabrina: I am certain whatever has been done can be undone.

I look for my pencil. The one with the extra powerful eraser. After all, I am the writer. I am in charge, right? Except…I’m back in the ballroom now, and somehow these heroes always seem to confound us authoresses here.

Lady B: Undone? If he had only left it undone, all would be well. Have you seen the castle on our Yorkshire estate lately?

Sabrina: No…

Lady B: It looks of recent construction.

Sabrina: Naturally, after all I know Lord B and you take excellent care of your properties.

Lady B: That we do, but Lord B painstakingly designed this castle as a replica of the ruins of my great-great grandfather’s home. It is supposed to look not dissimilar to this:

Sabrina: Oh. That is a problem.

It’s sort of funny, too, but I don’t think I’ll be mentioning that to Lady B.

Lady B gives me that look.

Sabrina: I do apologize Lady B, but at least, in just a few hours, he will be loosed upon the rest of rest of the world.

Lady B: Lord B was quite put out. And you know how difficult it is when one’s husband is not content. I hope he doesn’t decide that authoresses are far too much trouble.

Uh oh. Time for serious damage control.

Sabrina: I certainly hope not! Especially as I am so excited about this story in particular. It incubated here at the Ballroom, starting with this very first post, Advice Desired Most Urgently, in which I read my cousin Mary’s desperate letter to you and asked everyone for advice. This novella would not exist without the input of your guests.

Lady B lets out a little sound halfway between a harrumph and a sigh. I have no idea how to interpret this.

Lady B: I certainly expect that you have brought a copy of this for me?

Here at least I can satisfy our hostess!

Sabrina: I have.

Lady B: Excellent.

So let me know, if you could build a folly to resemble anything, what would it be? A ruined castle like Lord B? A Greek temple, a space ship? In celebration, I am giving a copy of The Short and Fascinating Tale of Angelina Whitcombe to one commenter.

Screams … shrieks … Lady B’s shrill cries of horror echo from the Ballroom.

This is terrible! They’ve got her!

Heaven help me, this is all my fault. That diabolical pair decided to strike while everyone else was away in Anaheim.

Shhh! Don’t let them hear you!

Admittedly I am not proud of myself at the moment, cowering behind this curtain instead of going to our dear Patroness’s aid.

A bead of sweat rolls down my cheek as I flatten myself back against the wall. Don’t make a sound. Don’t move a muscle, Ballroom friends. You mustn’t let them notice we are here.

What’s that? Me go and save her? Are you daft? I’m not going out there.

My kenpo skills are not that good. Where’s an Inferno Club gentleman spy when you need one? Or even a Knight brother?

Not a one in sight. Totally different genre, my arse. You’d think they’d have some gratitude–but never mind that. Maybe Lord B will come home soon and save his good lady wife. Or even that feckless Monte?

You: Gaelen, DO SOMETHING! They are torturing poor Lady B!

Me: Shh, I tell you! Get back here! What do you think you’re doing? (Grabbing you by the arm and pulling you safely back behind the curtain.) Don’t even think about going out there!

You: This is disgraceful. We are being cowards.

Me: No, we are merely being intelligent. Believe me, I love Lady B. as much as you do. But in this instance, prudence is the better part of valor.

You: How bad can these villains of your really be? Come on, they’re from a children’s novel. I think we can take them!

Me: Well, don’t blame me if you go out there and get turned into a sea anenome. I know what those are capable of – you don’t.

You: Who are they?

Me: The pair of heinous villains from The Lost Heir, that’s who!!! Now that the book is finally on sale (Kindle, Nook, and Trade Paperback), they’ve been loosed upon the world!

The tall, well-dressed gentleman with hair like a crusted helmet of Macassar oil and a look in his eyes as though some mad waltz is forever playing in his head, that’s Waldrick Everton, young Jake’s treacherous uncle.You know how dangerous Evil Uncles in Victorian stories can be.

Worse by far is the lady he’s got with him. That raven-haired beauty in the scarlet gown, well, don’t be fooled by her appearance. She’d like the world to think she’s a diva of the Royal Opera House, but in reality, that’s just her disguise, wrought by a powerful magic—and temporary.

If you could see her in her true form… :::shudder:::: Let’s hope you never have to. For that, my friend, is Fionnula Coralbroom, the sea-witch… A fugitive from justice! Banished to live on the land for trying to overthrow King Oceanus and the mermaid royal family. Beware. She may be a fish out of water, but she is still deadly. Those who cross the sea-witch rarely live to tell the tale.

In fact, they usually end up getting turned into unpleasant things… like sea anemones. Or newts.

What she may do to our dear Lady B, I can hardly fathom.

A dread peek past the curtain into the Ballroom reveals the alarming sight of Lady B. magically levitating several feet over the Ballroom floor, whimpering in fright and wearing a most unfortunate outfit…

Fionnula is holding her in midair by the magic of her wand while Waldrick plays the bully, an all-too-comfortable role for him, I’m afraid.

Waldrick: WHERE IS HE? The boy? We know you’ve seen him. We have it on good information the brat invaded your Ballroom weeks ago! Now, tell us what you know, or trust me, things will get much worse for you, my dear.

Fionnula: This one thinks she’s clever.

Lady B: No, please, no more! I can’t bear it!

Fionnula: Take that! …

 

 

 

With a wave of her petrified starfish wand, Fionnula causes another instant, magical change in Lady B’s apparel. Our poor hostess looks down at herself and shrieks. For once more she finds herself dressed in yet another of the ugliest costumes from Miranda Neville’s Regency Project Runway. This time, the hideous yellow one. It’s a dreadful sight.

Fionnula laughs heartily while poor Lady B squirms in despair, as if the sheer ugliness of those dresses is a torment in itself against her elegant skin.

“No, no, no! Make it stop! It’s too horrible!”

<Squawk! I’ll save you milady! Squawk—ack!>

 Lady B: “No, Albert, stay back!”

As the valiant parrot flaps across The Ballroom cawing madly to try to alert the servants of the grave sartorial danger Her Ladyship is in (to no avail, sadly, for the servants have all been transmogrified into silverware–a temporary condition, we hope) Fionnula turns and waves her wand at the angry bird.

Albert swoops and dodges left and right to escape the zigzagging flashes of lightning that fly from the sea-witch’s wand. But then, disaster!

Our noble parrot is suddenly enveloped in a blue bubble of strange magical energy, which paralyzes him in mid-flight. He floats in the blue bubble, unable to flap or fly or move or anything.

<What the Squawk?>

 Lady B (enraged now): You monster! Do what you must to me! But for the love of heaven, have pity on my parrot!

Waldrick: Oh, be still, you yammering hen. The parrot’s just fine. Tell us what you know and we will let you both go.

<Um, squawk?> Albert’s bubble is now floating gently along the ceiling. He’s worried.

Lady B: I am the daughter of a Duke, sir, and I shall tell you nothing.

Waldrick crunches into a fresh cucumber sandwich to which he has helped himself from the sideboard. Then he elegantly dabs his fingers on his monogrammed handkerchief.

Waldrick: Fionnula, my dear, we are obviously wasting our time with this silly woman. I am beginning to think Lady Beaufeatheringstone truly knows nothing. It must have been one of those dashed authoresses who let my nephew in here that day. We’ll have to hunt them down, one by one, and see if we can’t make them talk  I daresay Lady B. has too fine a sense of propriety ever to have knowingly admitted such a grubby little guest.

Fionnula: Perhaps.

Waldrick: Besides, I’ve grown bored of this game. Pardon, madam, you must known it pains me to inconvenience another member of the Quality like myself. Fionnula, let us be on our way. I am bored of this game. And you are almost overdue for the next dose of your, er, medicine.

Fionnula: Yes. Very well. But I’m leaving her up there so her horrid author friends will find her like this. Let it be a warning to them, that we will not be trifled with!

Waldrick (wearily  – for he says this a lot): Yes, dear.

As they head for the door, we flatten ourselves once more behind the curtains in dread of being seen. At any moment, they’ll be gone. Then we can rescue Lady B and Albert and without getting turned into newts.

Halfway to the door, Fionnula stops abruptly. “Oh, no.”

Waldrick: What’s wrong?

She looks at him in alarm.

Fionnula: It’s happening!

Waldrick: Not here?!

Fionnula, nodding with a panicked look: We’re too late! I didn’t time it well. Quickly, Waldrick! I need another one of those magic feathers!

Waldrick: But I didn’t bring any!

Fionnula: DIDN’T BRING ANY?

Waldrick: Please don’t do this to me in public. Can’t you  make it stop?

Fionnula: No! Do this to YOU? I’m the one the mermaids cursed, you thankless worm! Oh, noooo!!!

She falls to the ground writhing in pain. Her slender form suddenly bulges; satin rips as her walrus-like bulk splits her gown. Her raven tresses go wild and gray; her milky skin turns greenish and warty.

Fionnula: Waaaalllll-DRICK!!!!

Waldrick: Keep your voice down! I don’t want any of my Society friends to see the Earl of Griffon’s mistress looking like this! By Jove,  I’ll never be able to show my face at White’s again!

Fionnula: This is your fault, you idiot! How could you leave the house without them when you know that I need– Ahhhh!

Her browbeating of him turns to a shout of pain as eight squiggling tentacles flop about where her feet used to be.

Behind the curtain, you and I glance at each other in wide-eyed alarm and no small measure of disgust. There is no sign left of the diva’s beauty; she is now pure sea-hag and in no mood for argument.

Fionnula: Get out of my way. I need to reach the river.

Waldrick quickly gets the door for her: Be my guest!

Dragging herself by her arms, Fionnula crawls / wriggles with surprising speed across the slick Ballroom floor. She passed out through the French doors, which Waldrick holds open, onto the terrace, and pulls herself thusly out through the garden, flopping into the Thames with a splash. She disappears under the water and quickly swims away.

(Oh, I don’t think Lady B’s house is actually on the Thames, come to think of it, but then again, this house has many amazing features not usually seen.) In any case.

Waldrick straightens his cravat after she is gone. He glances around to make sure no one saw them, then he rushes out of Beaufetheringstone House without a backward glance.

You and I run to Lady B’s rescue, pulling her back down to the floor. You steady her and help her to a chair while I run to get the library ladder and set it under the chandelier, then climb up and pop the magic blue bubble in which Albert was trapped.

He flaps away to freedom and lands on his miserable mama’s shoulder.

Me: Er, are you all right, Lady B?

Her Ladyship: Of course I’m not all right! I have guests arriving in half an hour and LOOK at what I’m wearing! Oh, lud! The trouble these authoresses get me into. (Huffing) I’ve got to go change.

You: I think she’s going to be all right.

Me: I hope so. In the meantime, you might all enjoy these pictures of our author friends gallivanting in Anaheim.

And while these lovely ladies are not villainesses of any kind, we all have a dark side (mua-ha-ha)…

If you were a famous book, tv, or movie villain or villainness, who would you be and why? 

For myself, I think I’d go with the witch played by Bette Midler in Hocus Pocus.

 PHOTOS FROM THE BALLROOM MEET-UP AT RWA IN ANAHEIM … Oooh, ahhh, everybody looks so beautiful!!! Lady B. definitely approves. Vouchers for all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As I sit and write this post, for once, I am not in the Ballroom.  Indeed, the sun is on my face, the wind is in my hair, and *gasp* my ankles are most certainly showing.

Tessa: “Who wants another go on Space Mountain?”

Lauren and Sabrina both raise their hands.  I however, turn slightly green.  I prefer to gentler glide of the Dumbo ride.

Sarah: “Who wants another margarita?”

To that, we all raise our hands.  While we are running around meeting with people, enjoying the opportunity to spend time with readers, doing signings and panels galore, and, yes, enjoying the castles of Lord Disney, the best thing about the Romance Writers of America conference in Anaheim is that we authoresses get to enjoy a short respite from our otherwise beloved Lady B.

Tessa (raising her glass): “To California!”

Me: “To no ratafia in the bar!”

We lift our glasses for that.  The fruit sweetened cordial that is ratafia is, to say the least, an acquired taste. A margarita is a refreshing palate cleanser… as are most things about California.  Oh don’t get me wrong, I adore Lady B, and being an authoress in Lady B’s ballroom. But it is a great deal of fuss, dressing in Regency garb, remembering the steps to the quadrille, and trying to convey a secret message based entirely on how one holds one’s fan.  Yes, sometimes, a short jaunt to the 21^st century, complete with margaritas, is exactly what is needed.

It is just as I am reaching this conclusion, that Miranda comes running up to us, terribly frazzled and out of breath.

Miranda:  ”Ladies look!  Somehow this was tucked into my bags!”

We do look.  She is holding in her hand a sealed letter – the crest in the wax is unmistakable.  Also unmistakable is the parrot feather that is affixed to the paper with the wax.

We all stare at the letter.  Like a bomb about to go off on the table.

Tessa, the mother of small Darelings, is the most efficient about it.

Tessa: “Just rip off the band aid, Miranda.  It must be done.”

With a grim nod, Miranda rips open the wax seal.  She begins to read.

My dear Authoresses – it begins, and as if the feather and the seal were not enough, it is now entirely apparent who has sneaked a missive in with Miranda’s socks –

I have been informed by Miss Ashe and Miss Foley that there are Events Afoot while you are on your sojourn to this land you call California. 

We all take a moment to wonder just what Katharine and Gaelen are enduring at the hands of Lady B without us the rest of us there to divide her focus. It is entirely possible that they are being put to work, wrangling Lady B’s errant nephew.  Which must be akin to trying to hug a wet seal.

            I am told that you are planning to host your own Ball, an adjunct, nay, an extension, nay, a REPLACEMENT Ball.  Without me to guide you.

Me: “What on earth is she talking about?”

Sarah: “I think she’s referring to the Ballroom meet-up we are having tonight.”

That’s right.  We have put out the call to our readers that on Thursday, (tonight) we would be hosting a Ballroom meetup in the bar of the conference hotel at 9:30pm.  But it’s not a ball, by any stretch of the imagination.  The bar doesn’t even serve ratafia.  I made sure of it.

But I digress, as Miranda continues her recitation.

I am gratified that after a year under my tutelage, you feel confident enough in your hosting abilities to spread your wings and attempt to fly the nest.  But allow this poor mother bird –

Tessa: “I can hear Albert squawking in the background already…”

– to give you a few last pieces of advice, before you inevitably crash to the ground, and have to limp and hop your way back up the tree to home.

Sabrina:  ”An overworked metaphor if there ever was one.”

Miranda:  ”Shh!  I haven’t even gotten to the worst of it yet.”

She turns the paper out and let us all see.  On it, enumerated in very bold hand, was a list.  A terrifying list.

1.  A hostess shall send her invitations out at least a month ahead of time.  A household messenger should be the appropriate means of delivering such wondrous delights, but for guests who are at some distance, the post will do.

I turn to Sarah.  Me: “Did we invite everyone a month ahead of time?”

Sarah: “I think we may have managed to tell people 2 weeks ago?”

Miranda: “And the only messenger we employed was 140 characters long.”

2. A hostess shall always makes certain there is comfortable seating to be had for all, preferably of the sofa or chaise lounge variety. 

Tessa: “I think the bar has padded bar stools.  Surely that will suffice?”

3.  A hostess shall serve only tea or ratafia to the gentler sex, and spirits to the gentlemen only in the card room.

We all look down at our margaritas in stony silence.

4.  A hostess shall, under no circumstances, imbibe more than a single cup of ratafia over the course of the evening. She must have her wits about her.

Lauren: “If you cross out “ratafia” and replace it with “margarita” that bit of advice actually applies.”

5. A hostess shall provide a number of amusements for her guests.

Miranda: “There are six of us here.  I suppose that means we are supplying six amusements?”

6. Lastly, a good hostess is gracious in all manners, knowledgeable on all subjects and eager to engage with everyone.  Even those not listed in DeBrett’s Peerage.

Sabrina: “Well, thankfully, that one we can accomplish – since none of us are in Debrett’s Peerage either.”

I must suppose that you will fail monstrously in your endeavors without me to lead you, but I have hope — such hope! — that you will instead heed what I have told you… oh, one last little bit I forgot.  And this is the most important…

Me:  ”Oh no…” I groan.  We all glance at one another.  What final tortures could Lady B have devised?

… Remember, my girls: Have Fun! 

And to that, we all raise our margaritas.

Come one, come all — if you happen to be in Anaheim – to the Ballroom Blog meetup in the Marriott Bar at 9:30 pm on Thursday, July 26^th (tonight!)  We can decry our lack of ratafia and practice how to coquettishly hold our fans.  We promise to try and amuse, and look forward to seeing everyone!

Pink stilettos– check.  Flowered sheath dress– check.  Advil– check.

Lady B:  Don’t tell me!   

I’m not sure what I’m not supposed to tell her, so, for once, I obey orders and keep shoveling items into my little blue quilted overnight bag, or, as Lady B prefers to call it, my portmanteau.

Albert:  Tell her! <<squawk>> Tell her!  

I think I hear him mumble something about life being very uncomfortable in the parrot cage otherwise, but I can’t be entirely sure.

Lady B: (descending upon me, wagging her lorgnette)  You are going to that assembly!  The one with all the other authoresses!

Lauren: You mean the RWA Conference?

Lady B (impatiently):  Yes, yes, isn’t that what I said?  The assembly– wherever this “Ardway” may be.

Lauren:  It’s in a place called Anaheim.  Near Disney Land.

Lady B:  Yes, I’m sure it’s very kind of Lord Disney to open his gates to you all, most generous of him [I hear her add as an aside, Although I have never heard of him.  Must be one of those Irish peerages].  But what I really wish to know, Miss Willig– will Miss Austen be there?  Lady B preens slightly.  I have heard– although, you do understand, it is merely a rumor– that Miss Austen wrote me into one of her novels.

Lauren: [trying very hard not to choke on a miniature Altoid]  Really?  She did?  Was the name of the character… Lady Catherine?

Lady B:  [waving a hand] I’ve never read them myself, but I thought if you saw her there, you might make enquiries on my behalf.  I have, after all, sheltered you in my ballroom for these many months now.

Lauren:  I don’t believe Miss Austen will be there….  Not unless someone has a very good ouija board.

Lady B: [crossly]  Whyever not?  Miss Darby distinctly told me that everyone was going to be there.

I was fairly sure that Miss Darby had said nothing of the kind, but given that the conversations Lady B remembers are seldom the same as the conversations one actually has, that seemed like a futile argument.

Lauren: The conference– I mean, assembly– is in a different place every year.  This year it’s rather far away for Miss Austen to travel.

As in two centuries too far away, but there’s no need to get into that.

Lady B: [imperiously] Tell Lord Disney to hold it closer by next time!

Lady B:  [Struck by a sudden thought]  Do you think the authoresses might like to gather in the Ballroom?  I should be happy to serve as one of the patronesses…. Provided, of course, that I control the guest list.  That nice Miss Burney, I think– you know, the one who was Mistress of the Wardrobe for Queen Charlotte and wrote that charming book about a young girl beset by rakes and seducers.  Mr. Richardson, of course.  But certainly not that nasty Mr. Fielding!  If I had a daughter who behaved like that Sophia….

I slip out the back way while Lady B is still getting her guest list together for her own variant of the RWA conference.  I do have a plane to catch, even if I am rather curious to see which authors Lady B intends to pointedly shun.  Will Mrs. Radcliffe get an invite, or is Lady B boycotting gothics this year?

If you were planning a historical version of the RWA conference, who would you invite?

 

Thanks, everyone, for welcoming Marquita Valentine and her character Zoe to the Ballroom so nicely yesterday! The winner of Marquita’s fabulously yummy debut novel, Twice Tempted, is Jamie. Congratulations, Jamie!

It’s a quiet Saturday at Lady B’s house today. Everybody’s off packing, getting ready to go to California for the Romance Writers of America national conference. Everyone, that is, except Gaelen and me. Gaelen’s probably somewhere having tea with juvenile pickpockets, or perhaps patching up Monty’s poor battered face (being well accustomed to heroic fisticuffs, as she is).

As for me, I’m enjoying a lovely cup of tea in the library and reading up on English and European royalty in the 18^th and 19^th centuries for the book I’m currently writing. Albert is perched on the arm of his favorite leather upholstered and brass-studded chair, preening but mostly avoiding Harold. The house is nearly empty, but I’ve locked the door anyway. I have so few really peaceful opportunities to read these days, and I don’t want a single soul to disturb me from my research, especially since this research is so much fun! You wouldn’t believe the trials that royal princes and princesses had to put up with in those days. Or the scandals they created when they broke the rules.

For instance, take Princess Caroline of Brunswick (who plays a tiny part in How a Lady Weds a Rogue).  Married to the infamous Prinny—George, the Prince of Wales, who was already illegally married to another woman—Caroline had to endure social ostracism and isolation and the death of her only child, not to mention horridly degrading insults to her virtue, intelligence, and suitability for the crown, and she was investigated not only once but twice for adultery and ultimately exiled—

CRASH!!

<squawk!> Intruder! <squawk!>

Wait. Didn’t I say I locked the library door? My book slips from my hands as I swing around to the window. Outside it’s a typical London grey-sky summer day, and I can see very clearly the silhouette of a woman as she stands before the window. She has lots of long thick hair and she’s a bit petite, and it looks like she’s wearing some sort of full-sleeved blouse and a longish skirt.

“Oh! Is someone here?”

She has a pretty voice for a thief, I’ll give her that, a sweet, soft southern accent.

“I am,” I reply calmly because I’m an author and odd things like strangers appearing suddenly in locked rooms happens to characters in my books all the time. Or maybe not. But they could if I wanted them to. (Oh, the power!) “I’m Katharine. And who, may I ask, are you?”

She moves away from the backlighting of the window with a jingle of tiny bells on the hem of her skirt that sound oddly familiar to me and I catch a glimpse of her face. Then there’s another stupendous crash and she knocks over a piecrust table with a lamp atop it.

“Ouch! Holy cra—!”

“Crab soufflé! Holy crab soufflé!” I cut a quick glance at Albert. No sense in teaching him unsuitable modernisms, after all. Because I know what she was about to exclaim. I know it because…

“Hi, Katharine. It’s nice to meet you. I’m really sorry to barge in on you like this. My name is Zoe Am—”

“Zoe Ambrose. Yes, I know.”

She comes closer, accidentally swiping a priceless crystal vase full of flowers with her sleeve. I dive over the sofa for it. “Got it! I got it.”

<squawk!> Holy crab soufflé! <squawk!>

“Sorry! Sorry.” Zoe’s nose crinkles up. “How do you know my name?”

I set the vase carefully on the floor and wipe spilled water on my skirts. “I know your name because I recognize you. There’s only one Zoe Ambrose—” I gesture to her “—and I’ve read everything ever written about you at least four times.”

“Written about me? But I’m the writer.”

“So am I. And so is…” A glance at Albert stills my tongue. The characters in novels by The Ballroom’s authoresses aren’t typically perturbed when we remind them that we’ve created them. They’re historical, after all. Or something. Anyway, Zoe isn’t. She’s dressed like she just stepped out of a 1980’s retro convention, but she’s a 21^st-century woman, and an author in her own right. But she is also most definitely a character in a romance novel by debut author Marquita Valentine, who happens to be my good friend and my beta reading partner.

Wait. A character in a contemporary romance novel is in Lady B’s house???

Now it’s my nose’s turn to crinkle.

“Zoe, what are you doing here?”

“I left my notebook in here.”

“You left your notebook in here?” I may be staring blankly. I’m a tad freaked out. She is modern, but she’s a character. Modern but a character. This is a little hard to process. I have no problem with dukes and earls and duke-vampires and ships and toucans and what-have-you in the Ballroom. But… “You were here before?”

“I was doing research for my latest Katrina Steele novel…” She looks around the room then starts walking here and there, pushing aside cushions and peering under furniture, banging into things as she goes.

“What – uh!” I grab a gilt-framed portrait of Prinny before it tumbles into the fireplace. “What kind of research?”

“I was researching English great houses. In my next book Katrina has to go to England to chase Dimitri—”

“The uber hot villain in your Katrina Steele series, who is actually modeled on the uber hot Hollywood playboy Christian Romanov who broke your heart four years ago but you can’t forget.”

Zoe swings around abruptly, catches her heel on the edge of the thick Aubussen rug Lady B just had laid in here, and lands on her bottom. “What did you just say?”

“Zoe, I love Christian too.” I can’t help smiling.

“What do you mean ‘too’? I don’t love him!” Her face goes completely red. “He’s a major a—” Her gaze darts to Albert then back at me. “—donkey hat! And only— Wait! You know him?”

“Yes. No!” I hurry to explain. “Not the way you do! I mean…” Oh no. How am I going to get myself out of this? “I mean, he’s a big Hollywood star, you know, America’s own kind of royalty, and I may have heard about how he and you… That is…” There is no way to fix this. “But wait! That’s beside the point.” A diversion tactic! “You were doing research into English great houses and you ended up here in this library in London? How on earth?”

“I don’t know. One minute I was in the library at Chatsworth—”

“Chatsworth? Home of the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire???”

“Yes! Chatsworth! I read about how beautiful it was and I wanted to use it as a setting for Katrina to meet Dimitri, probably in the vast gardens—”

“Gardens being wonderful for all sorts of dalliances…”

“Like sneaking away at a masked ball.” She stares dreamily off into space, a secret smile curving her lips. “Just the two of you talking and kiss—”

“You snuck away at a ball, hmm?” I cross my arms and nod knowingly. I’ve seen this before, after all.

“Yes, I mean no… er… maybe?” Her shoulders rise, her hands fluttering in the air like Albert’s wings when he’s had too many lobster patties. “Would you believe it was research?”

“Usually, yes.” I arch a brow (something I learned from the heroes we’ve had in this house). “Except that I can’t quite recall a scene like that in any of your books.”

“Ah, that was research for a future novel! I’m a plotter. Anyway, one minute I was in the library at Chatsworth admiring the original Hans Holbein portrait of Henry VIII, then the next minute I found myself here, in this library.”

“Amazing.” I’m actually amazed. I knew Lady B’s house was sort of magical, but this…?

“I know! I was so startled I dropped my notebook. The one that I jot down notes in for my stories when I don’t have my laptop.”

“And then?”

She crosses her arms over her chest. She’s still sitting on the floor, so she doesn’t look very tough. But I know Zoe. Any woman who can reform a truly rakish fellow like the European aristocratic Hollywood playboy Christian Romanov has to be tough in all the right places. “Then I said, ‘Oh, is someone here?’ and you said, ‘I am.’ And now here we are.”

<squawk!> Found it! <squawk!> Albert pokes his beak behind a chair and comes up with a small notebook. He hops over to Zoe on the floor.

“Oh, you sweet, sweet thing! Thank you!” She smiles beautifully and strokes his feathers and I swear to you the bird purrs. I did not know parrots purred.

“Well.” I take a big breath. “I’m glad you—”

And then she’s gone.

Just gone. 

Vanished. Before my eyes. The library is again completely empty except for me and Albert.

<squawk!> Holy crab soufflé!  

“Holy crab soufflé is right, Albert.” A little dizzy, I plop down in the comfy chair and take a fortifying sip of tea. But now I’m thinking about Zoe… and how she manages to reform the most rakish of bad boys in Marquita’s Twice Tempted…

I remember I’m here in the library to do research into European royalty. But Christian Romanov fits that description, albeit about 200 years after the time period I’m supposed to be researching. And, like I said, aren’t movie stars our own kind of royalty in the U.S.? I glance at the thick history tome on royalty that I was happily reading earlier. Then, with a guiltless little shrug, I reach for my e-reader and call up Twice Tempted.

For the next few hours, at least, the bad boys of history will just have to wait their turn.

 

What makes bad-boy heroes so delectably delicious that we can’t resist them? One randomly drawn commenter will win a copy of Marquita Valentine’s debut contemporary romance, Twice Tempted (e-book only!). 

Twice Tempted is available as an e-book at B&N and Amazon. You can find Marquita online at her website, Goodreads, Facebook, twitter, and the Lady Scribes Blog.

The Ballroom is quiet. I’d say suspiciously so, but I’m quite happy for this momentary respite. After all, Saturday’s anniversary was filled with so much excitement and ratafia that I wasn’t even fully recovered when Miss Burke and her hero showed up to create more exhilarating havoc. Which all adds up to mean that I am perhaps a bit out of sorts, to put it delicately. And silence is…beautiful!

<< squawk >> Barbarian! << squawk >>

Oh no! Albert’s terrified voice is distinctive and from the rapid fluttering of wings, I know that in 3…2…1…

A rush of air and colors speed through the ballroom, as has been happening intermittently for the last four days. Albert followed by Monty’s toucan, Harold. Then they are out of the room and it’s peaceful again.

Right…so where was I? Oh, yes, plotting.

Lady B: What’s that, Miss Darby? Another book? Please tell me this time there will be no mistresses, courtesans, or merry widows.

I knew the quiet wouldn’t last, but of course, Lady B’s company is always a pleasure.

Sabrina: No rakes, lusty fiends or jackanapes?

Lady B: Don’t be too hasty, naturally.

Sabrina (smirking): That’s what I thought. But as a matter of fact, I was *not* plotting a story.

Lady B is starting to look worried. As well she should be…usually. But this time, my actions are quite innocent.

Sabrina: I am packing for the conference next week. Which always requires a very detailed to do list and visualization of each day’s activities.

Lady B: Ah yes, that “conference” which requires you and too many of the authoresses to be absent from my ballroom. If I had known my nephew would arrive, I never would have condoned it. I have a feeling I’ll need all the help possible around here to keep him (and his bird) in line.

Sabrina: And I suspect keeping him in line is a lost cause. Nonetheless, I am starting my list. Water, tea–

Lady B: Yes, naturally. You must always bring victuals for a journey. One never knows if the food you find will be fit for consumption.

Sabrina: Especially when one is on a very restricted diet.

<< squawk >> Lobster patties! << squawk >>

And there go Albert and Harold again with their half-hourly fly by.

Sabrina: I don’t think Lobster will be on the menu. In any event, what else should I put on my list?

Lady B: Let me get mine.

She rings a bell four distinct times. As we wait for the footman, I recall the passage from Pride and Prejudice where “her ladyship again inquired minutely into the particulars of their journey, gave them directions as to the best method of packing, and was so urgent on the necessity of placing gowns in the only right way, that Maria thought herself obliged, on her return, to undo all the work of the morning, and pack her trunk afresh.” Not that I would ever compare Lady B to Lady Catherine de Bourgh. But what I am really thinking about is Regency era packing, which must have been vastly different than mine.

The footman, Gilbert, enters with a thick sheaf of papers. I presume somewhere in that stack is Lady B’s usual packing list.

Lady B: Ah, there we go. Place that right here on the table.

She picks up the first sheet of paper.

Lady B: Let me see. Trunk #1–

I am starting to realize that whole stack might be the list. My own list never exceeds two sides of one sheet and I’ve already learned the lesson of rolling dresses rather than folding them.

Sabrina: How many trunks do you normally take?

Lady B: That certainly depends on the journey. For a removal to the country, which is rare as Lord B does prefer London, I have a considerably more in-depth list.

My eyes widen.

Lady B: (continuing) Where was I? Yes. Sheets, pillows, blankets… (She stops, which is good because this is starting to sound like collegiate hosteling.) Now, Miss Darby, how long is this trip, and will you be stopping at any public inns?

Sabrina: I will be away for 5 nights and am staying a private home only an hour from my own.

Lady B: Very good. While I always carry my own sheets in case of an emergency, as you are not traveling out of the neighborhood, you could choose otherwise. How many servants will you be traveling with?

Is this the moment I admit to Lady B that I have neither maid nor cook nor butler nor parrot? Or perhaps obfuscation is a better choice.

Sabrina: Lady B, I do have the packing list well in hand.

Lady B: As well you should. I remember when my dear childhood friend, Cordelia Highwater, forgot to pack her spectacles and was forced to spend the entirety of her visit to Orkney Island peering out of that dandy’s quizzing glass.

Sabrina: I’ve heard this story. Wasn’t that dandy Lord MacGowan? And didn’t that end up being a fortuitous match?

Lady B: Considering that he padded his lower limbs, I am not certain that is the case.

Sabrina: Good point.

Lady B: There was also that terrible solicitor who was so unprofessional as to demand attendance of the entire family, including all cadet and American branches, at Pinchpenny Park and forgot to pack the will. In that circumstance, all the imposter heirs claimed they were in possession of Sir Percival Pinchpenny’s most recent documents. By the time the whole matter was settled, that wealthy estate was near depleted from hosting so many rapacious individuals for so long.

Sabrina: That’s terrible! You would think a solicitor would have a list! Well, the only I story I have is that Belinda White’s latest delicate condition is entirely due to Lord Lackheart forgetting his French letters.

Lady B: (firmly) We are discussing household matters and not courtesans. Must I remind you?

Sabrina: Right. Household matters. What about you, Lady B? I would love to know if, despite your formidable planning, you have ever forgotten something important.

Lady B’s face falls.

Lady B: That is the very reason I have such a list. I did once forget my dear Albert’s first blanket, which was nearly ripped to shreds but still his favorite. I had to send for it immediately because he was inconsolable for days.

<< squawk >> Days! << squawk >>

Albert alights on Lady B’s shoulder making the most pitiful noises.

Lady B: He has never fully forgiven me.

But from the way that he’s looking at her, I’m pretty sure he has.

There’s a terrible squawking that I now recognize as Harold and once more Albert is off again in a flutter of terrified wings.

I’ve frequently forgotten to pack contact solution or a toothbrush or toothpaste, but all those items are easily replaceable these days. Is there one thing you’ve ever forgotten while travelling that was extremely important? Or is there something you must take with you wherever you travel?

And the winner of Darcy Burke’s To Seduce a Scoundrel is…

 

Rhiannon Rowland!

 

Congratulations, Rhiannon!  I’ll be emailing you to find out your preferred format and delivery method. Hope you love the book as much as I did!  Thanks so much to Darcy and all for a great time on Monday.

I’ve arrived early to the Ballroom today to welcome a special guest.  I’m expecting my dear friend Darcy Burke any moment.  Darcy’s a new authoress on the Regency scene.  She just released her first trilogy this summer, and I was lucky enough to read her most recent release, To Seduce a Scoundrel, early for a quote.  I confess, I had to think long and hard about the proper quote, because I think my first message to Darcy after reading it was just a bunch of exclamation points and capslock crimes like LOVE!!!  and SQUEEE!!! and HOT!!! (Actually, that might not look so bad on a book cover, hm?  ”OMGLOVE!!!” ~Tessa Dare)

Anyhow.  Suffice to say that To Seduce a Scoundrel grabbed me from the first scene and didn’t let go, and I’m very excited to give away a copy today.

More on that later, because Miss Burke is here!  And she’s not alone.  She’s accompanied by an exquisitely handsome man with dark hair and eyes that carry a glint of perpetual amusement. His build is impressively muscular, and he sports a somewhat crooked nose that surprisingly only adds to his allure.

I know at once that it’s Lord Ambrose Sevrin.  Inside myself, I do a little dance of happiness.  But I try to keep my outward cool.  Right.  Because that always works.

Tessa:  Darcy, it’s so very good to see you.  Very good!

Darcy:  Thanks for the invitation.  Where is everyone?  Lady B?

Tessa:  Oh, never mind them.  I’m so glad you’ve brought Sevrin with you.   I have…questions…for you, my lord.  So many, many… (He leans close now, and I’m losing it.)  Questions.  Yes.   My lord, your reputation precedes you.  I’ve heard you’re good with your hands.  In a fight, I mean.  You’re an expert on pugilism, are you not?

Sevrin: Depends on what you mean by “expert.” I’m no longer welcome at Jackson’s. (He arches his brow in a most provocative fashion.  siiiigh.) but I keep myself rather fit with my own private fighting club.

Tessa: Oh, my. How…delicio–.  Er, daring. I wonder if you might be of some help to me. You see, my friend Susanna Finch operates a ladies’ retreat in the coastal village of Spindle Cove.  They’ve long included shooting as one of their weekly activities, but I’m thinking the ladies might like to add pugilism.

Sevrin:  Pugilism for ladies? Why on earth would they want to hit each other?

Tessa:  Maybe not pugilism so much as … self-defense.  It’s a handy skill, don’t you think, for any lady to know how to extricate herself from a dangerous situation?  (This sounds almost plausible!  I’m so pleased with myself.)

Sevrin: (Quiet for a moment, perhaps considering…) The idea has merit. Indeed, I can think of a time or two a woman of my acquaintance may have needed to fend for herself. Let’s see, how would this sort of instruction work? You’re thinking of an occasion upon which a lady might be attacked?

Tessa: Yes, exactly that.  Perhaps Miss Burke would not mind loaning you out for a demonstration?

Darcy waves her hand, all generosity.  She is such a good friend.

Sevrin: (Stroking his chin in thought, he circles me.  I’m dizzy.) A villain would likely try to approach a lady from behind, the element of surprise, you see.

Tessa, a bit nervous: You’re not speaking from experience, are you, my lord?

Sevrin swoops up behind me, shockingly close to my ear: I’m certain you’re aware of my reputation, my dear lady, and my crimes are several, but I haven’t yet stooped to assault.

Tessa, breathless: My apologies, my lord.

Sevrin: Now, if I were a criminal of the worst sort and meant to harm your person, I might come up behind you and grab you around the waist. I don’t recommend you engage your assailant in a pugilistic bout, however.

Tessa: No? Then however am I to protect myself?

Sevrin: Ladies’ boots and shoes have heels for a reason, I think. The instep of a man’s foot is a rather good target for that heel. If you raise your foot up and stomp down on your attacker thus, I should think that would do the trick.

Tessa: But what if I miss?

Sevrin lowers his voice to a seductive tone.  Or maybe that’s just my overworked imagination.  Let’s go with “authorial license.”

Sevrin:  You won’t miss. Nevertheless, I should think a two-pronged attack is the best course of action. While he’s in agony from strike one, you’ll turn in his grasp and go straight for his eyes. It’s a bit messy, but do try to dig your thumbs into the sockets.

Tessa:  Er, good heavens.

Sevrin: Shall we give it a go?

Tessa: You don’t really want me to gouge your eyes out?  They’re such intriguing eyes.  You know, with that perpetual glint of amusement and all.

Sevrin, eyes glinting away: What do you think?

Tessa (lowing her own voice to a sultry tone, thanks to the magic of authorial license):  I’ll try not to hurt you.

Sevrin: Here I go.

His arms come around me, and he hauls me back against his chest. For a dreamy moment, I can’t quite remember where I am. Oh yes, a self-defense lesson in the middle of Lady B’s ballroom. What was I supposed to do? Step on his foot. I manage to strike a minor blow to his foot and then I turn in his arms. I raise my hand—

A loud, tropical squawk of alarm rings through the Ballroom, followed by a booming voice:

What sort of knavery is this?  Unhand that lady, this instant.

Tessa, cringing:  Uh-oh.

Sevrin releases me just in time to fend off a swooping, black-feathered attack from the air.  Moments later, he’s driven halfway across the Ballroom by a charging aristocrat in a well-tailored suit.

Tessa:  Wait!

Men:  Oof.

Darcy:  What?

Fists are flying.  Feathers are flying.   It’s mayhem.

Tessa:  Oh, dear.  That’s Montague, Lady B’s prodigal nephew, recently returned from India.  And Harold, his, er, attack toucan.  Monty’s face is bruised because there was an Accident.  Or an Incident.

Darcy:  I can imagine.  He’s certainly ready for a fight.

Tessa:  From what I understand, he’s a dangerous mix of good intentions and poor timing.

Darcy:  I do believe Sevrin will pulverize him. He was a prizefighter, you know. Could have been the champion.

As if to punctuate Miss Burke’s commentary, Sevrin lands a ferocious punch.  We ladies wince.

Tessa:  And here I was so hoping we’d finally see what Monty looked like beneath the bruises.  It’s going to be a few more days, I guess.

Thwack.

Darcy:  Or weeks.

Sevrin: You’re outmatched.  Give over, bird-man.

Monty:  My future title is pronounced “Batman.”  And I’ll never surrender, you Maligner of Innocents!

Darcy and I exchange looks. Surely he wasn’t referring to us as Innocents?

Sevrin continues his attack and Monty puts up a good defense. They crash into one of Lady B’s large potted palms.

Tessa:  Shall we explain the misunderstanding and break them up?  Or merely suggest they remove their shirts?

Darcy: Oh, the latter most definitely. But perhaps we should save Lady B’s potted plants?

Tessa: Indeed. Gentlemen! Gentlemen, please! Monty, Lord Sevrin was merely teaching me defensive techniques. He’s a pugilist.

The men roll to a stop on the parquet floor. Lord Sevrin jumps to his feet.

Monty: A demonstration, you say?

Sevrin, straightening his coat: You didn’t actually think I was accosting Miss Dare whilst Miss Burke simply looked on? (He offers a hand to Monty and helps him up.)  Perhaps you’d like to audition for my fighting club.  You could use the practice.  Men try out most nights in the Black Horse Court off the Haymarket.

Monty: Audition? For a fighting club? How intriguing.

Sevrin: I warn you, it’s mostly working-class blokes. The only gentlemen are Lord Saxton and myself, and I’m not certain I qualify.

Monty: Sounds perfect.

Tessa, mournfully surveying the destruction:  I’m going to be in so much trouble with Lady B.  And there’ll be no end to Monty’s bruises. Will we never see the reportedly handsome features beneath them?

Darcy: But I do love a good fight, don’t you?   Especially in the defense of a lady.

Your turn, dear readers!  To Seduce a Scoundrel begins with sexy Lord Sevrin rescuing heroine Philippa from a most dangerous and potentially scandalous situation.  What’s your favorite romantic rescue scene in books, movies, TV?   Have you ever been the real-life damsel in distress?  

One commenter will win a copy of To Seduce a Scoundrel (print or digital, winner’s choice)! 

My thanks to Darcy Burke for visiting The Ballroom today and choreographing such a delicious demonstration.  :)

 

 

 

Today is a very big day, marking the first anniversary of our time here at Beaufetheringstone House, and I’m getting a little emotional, thinking back on this big, fancy year.

Remember this?

And so it is that I am standing at the center of the Ballroom with the authoresses, reminiscing.

Sarah: I mean, think of it! One full year with Lady B…and Albert!

<squawk!> lobster patties! <squawk!>

Kate (feeding him): It’s amazing how many of these things he can put away.

Sarah: One full rotation around the sun…here in Beaufetheringstone House!

Miranda: Uh-oh…she’s going to start pontificating.

Sarah: I am not.

Miranda: Really? A full rotation around the sun? You talk like this normally?

Sarah, realizing she does not, in fact, talk like this normally: I’m just saying that it’s an impressive achievement.

Tessa: It has been a good year. she pauses, considering her glass. This Ratafia is a good year as well.

Gaelen: Or spiked with a good year.

Tessa, considering: Could be that.

Sarah: There! A whole year of spiked Ratafia! You see? A year with spiked ratafia and…she casts about, looking for more to reminisce about. Spies Sabrina’s potted fern. Conversations with potted ferns! And heroines in cupboards!

Tessa warms to the game: And Regency Project Runway!

Miranda: And ships through the wall!

Sabrina: And Court, Consummate, Cut Direct!

Sarah, remembering the great Fassbender/Firth conundrum: Oh, my. Yes.

Kate: We’re losing MacLean.

Miranda: It happens when Michael Fassbender comes up.

Gaelen: And let’s not forget the addition of two new authoresses!

Kate and Lauren beam.

Sabrina: Oh! And nameless heroes!

Lauren: And don’t forget Sabrina’s George, trapped in a castle somewhere with a matchmaking mother!

Katharine: And Ballroom Brawls!

Lady B stops as she hurries past: “Dear me, Miss Ashe. Did you say ballroom brawls?”

Katharine: I did, my lady. You see, it’s our first anniversary here…and we were reminiscing–thinking about all the lovely times we’ve had thanks to yours and Lord B’s generosity…do you recall, for example, the time when Albert topped your first Christmas Tree?

<squawk!> Angel! <squawk!>

Lady B pauses, eyes dreamy: “That was quite lovely.”

Sarah: We owe you a great debt of gratitude, my lady, for your kindness over the year. I hope you don’t mind if we presume to stay for another?

Lady B’s dreamy gaze goes away: “You’re welcome to stay as long as there are balls, dear gel, on a single condition.”

The authoresses exchange glances, realizing that the rest of the room has gone uncharacteristically silent.

<squawk!>Uh-oh!<squawk!>

Gaelen leans in to Lady B: Condition, my lady?

“You may not…” Lady B gives each of the authoresses a long, stern look, “Write about what is about to happen.”

The sentence is punctuated by the echo of the massive ballroom doors opening on one end of the room. Eight sets of eyes go wide as saucers and we turn, en masse, to see what is coming.

Or rather, who.

“Having a ball are you, Aunt Tropey?”

.

Miranda turns her head to meet the rest of the authors and mouths, “Aunt Tropey?”

Sarah, aside, “I bet she loves that name.”

Sabrina: Oh My. Look at him.

Tessa: He looks like he’s a member of Fight Club.

<squawk!> Don’t talk about Monty! <squawk!>

Kate: Monty?

It appears parrots can look guilty.

Tessa: Spill it, bird.

<squawk!>Private information is private! <squawk!>

Gaelen: I’m going to see what I can get from some of the…she waves a hand. Locals.

<SQUAWK!>

Lauren: Uh-oh. That didn’t sound like Albert.

Tessa: What is that?!

Sarah: I think it’s a…

<SQUAWK!>

Lady B: MONTAGUE. WHAT ON EARTH IS THAT THING?!

.

Monty: I thought you’d like it, Aunt T.

Lauren mouths: Aunt T?

But we have no time to process the strangeness of the moment, as it is interrupted by a cacophony of squawking and a flurry of feathers–black and green, and Lady B is shrieking, and Katharine is attempting to capture Albert and a great black bird has taken up residence on Lady B’s head, making it very difficult for her to look stern, even though the Baroness is more furious than we’ve ever seen her. Even more furious than Sarah has ever made her.

Sarah: That’s a toucan.

Monty, sauntering toward Lady B: Indeed it is. Clever girl. What’s your name?

Sarah blinks. Has trouble finding her words: Uh…Sarah.

He smiles, revealing a chipped tooth: And Uh…Sarah, How do you know about toucans?

Sarah: Breakfast cereal.

His brows raise: What now?

Sarah: Never mind.

Monty: Another time, maybe you can explain? Privately?

Sarah: Oh, my. Yes.

Miranda: You’re married.

Sarah: I don’t have to be.

Monty grins.

Lady B: MONTAGUE. DO NOT INCITE THE AUTHORS. AND REMOVE THIS THING FROM MY HEAD.

<SQUAWK!> COMFY COIFFE! <SQUAWK>

Monty (turns to Lady B): He likes you, Aunt.

.

Lady B: Well, I do not like him. Where is my Albert?

<squawk!>Intruder Alert!<squawk!>

Albert flies to Kate’s shoulder. She feeds him again.

Monty: “Ah. Is that a lobster patty?” He flashes a grin in Kate’s direction, his swollen eye and split lip somehow making him more attractive than un. “Harold loves them. Do you mind tossing him one or two?”

Kate begins to do as she’s told. But, thankfully, freezes mid-toss.”You want me to toss lobster patties at Lady B’s head?”

Tessa opens a new bottle of Ratafia.

Lady B: No one is feeding anyone or anything, Miss Noble.

Kate shakes her head. “Of course not, Lady B.”

<squawk!> Starvation! <squawk!>

Lady B corrects herself: Except Albert. You may feed Albert.

Kate: Of course, Lady B.

Gaelen returns. Leans in to Lauren and Sabrina. “Rumor has it Monty is–”

Lady B, we are reminded, has excellent hearing: “You needn’t be so secretive about it, Miss Foley. Very soon, it shall be all over London that my nephew has returned…the younger son of my brother, the Duke, Lord Montague Moylan-Hazwell (pronounced Marzipan Hatbox). I’m simply not sure why he felt it necessary to come here. With a monstrous bird.” She reaches up and plucks the toucan from her head, handing him indecorously to his owner.

.

Monty takes the bird and tucks him under his arm: I thought you’d like him, Aunt. I mean, birds of a feather and all that, no?

.

Lady B, down her nose: No. And what happened to your face?

.

Monty: You should see the other fellow.

.

Lady B: I would rather not.

.

Monty: You left out the most important part of your introduction, Aunt.

He passes a rakish, bruised smile over the collection of authoresses and we–we, who deal with rakes and roués for a living–are all somewhat drawn to this strange, bruised, toucaned (toucanoed?) man. Sabrina leans in, and I’m fairly certain–yes…she’s smelling him.

Sabrina: Sandalwood and…

Miranda pops up from behind his shoulder: Man.

We sigh. En masse.

He looks to Sabrina and Miranda: Thank you for noticing, lovelies.

They stutter and stammer and blush.

Lady B, sternly: Monty!

.

Monty, to Lady B: Well, aunt…tell them the rest. The fantastic, coincidental rest!

.

Lady B looks like she might cast up her accounts. “I’m still hoping it isn’t true.”

.

Monty: I’m sure Lord B is, too, but, for fun, why not tell these lovely ladies, (He smiles a bruised battered smile at Lauren, who sighs.) Who else I am?

.

Lady B: Only because of that horrible accident.

.

Monty: I’ve always said one should be very careful around marmosets. Come on, Aunt…I came back from India for you! For this! Because you asked!

.

Lady B: I did no such thing. And I’d be willing to wager you came back from India because you ran out of money. Or you angered a maharaja.

.

Monty, grinning at Gaelen: But his daughter wasn’t at all angry.

Gaelen–even Gaelen!!–sighs.

Monty turns back to Lady B: Go on, Aunt. Tell them.

Lady B stiffens, putting on her very best British Keep Calm and Carry On face. She looks to each of us, and we know, without question, that everything about the Ballroom is about to be thrown into chaos.

Lady B: Authoresses…this is Lord Beaufetheringstone’s heir.

Happy Anniversary, indeed.

–

!!!

We’re all speechless! Lord B has an heir! And he’s related to Lady B? What on earth?! And he’s covered in bruises! And he owns a TOUCAN. What on earth?!?!

Ask your questions about Monty in comments, and we’ll see if we can get Lady B to open up and tell us more!