Some of us authors enjoy writing in open spaces.  Miss MacLean likes to compose her odes al fresco on the terrace, as valets with well-sculpted legs bring her refreshments.  Miss Neville prefers the library, where it is possible to be interrupted at any given time by those seeking a novel, or a perhaps a secluded darkened corner for some canoodling (er, I’m assuming that two people are involved in that last one.)

Me?  I happen to prefer my room.  As Virginia Woolf said, a woman must have a room of her own if she is to write.  (Also, money.  But since Lady B is Regency-wealthy, I can live off of her without qualm.)  My room at Lady B’s faces over the street, and on to the park square.  There’s a lovely tree, and I can people watch to my –

“MISS NOBLE!” the screech comes from the doorway.

“L…Lady B!”  I jump to my feet, knocking over an inkpot all over my current manuscript as I do so. (I would have brought my laptop to the 19^th century, but Lady B doesn’t have any outlets, so it wouldn’t have lasted long.)  “No one is supposed to come up here!  I left word with the maids!”

“Yes, and they have some words to say to you about the state of your linens.  But I am hosting a ball tonight –”

“You host a ball every night.”

“ – and I need all my authoresses there.  Thus I came up here…”

“So I see…”

“But none of this is relevant to the question at hand.”

“Which is…” I ask hesitantly.  But I know what it is, of course.  There’s literally no way around it.

“Which is… WHY IS THERE A TRENCH DUG IN THE MIDDLE OF YOUR ROOM?”

Oh.  That.  Yes, there happened to be a long, sinuous body of water dug into the lovely hardwood planks of my second floor room, it’s contents gently lapping at the Aubusson carpet  How, I don’t know.  I find it best to not question these things.

“Well, first of all, it’s not a trench, it’s a canal.”

“Thank you for the clarification,” Lady B drawls.  “However, its existence is, as usual with you, alarming.”

Ahhh, Venice.

“I wouldn’t worry – it’s simply a leftover.”

“A leftover?”

“Yes – well, you see, Let It Be Me is set in Venice, Italy.  And it’s a city with many canals.”

Lady B shoots me a disparaging look usually served up by Albert.

“And… as I was writing Let It Be Me, this canal sort of… popped up.”  I say.

“Ah.  I see.”  Lady B says.  “But why on earth would you set a story in Venice?  It’s horribly dirty, and Italian…”

“And wistful, and beautiful, and seductive.”  I counter.  “Only look at what my heroine, Bridget Forrester, gets up to on her first day there!”

             “All right, miss, it’s that one,” Molly said, pointing to a crumbling redbrick structure as she rejoined Bridget on the path that ran alongside the buildings on the north side of the Rio di San Salvador. They could not walk on the rio itself, as the buildings abutted right up against the water, but there were footpaths and alleyways on the back side of the houses.

“Are you certain, Molly?” Bridget asked nervously. The house looked very plain from this side. Very nondescript.

“Well, frankly, no, miss, I’m not. But I went over to that chap and said, ‘Signor Merrick?’ and he said a string of Italian I didn’t understand and then he pointed to this house. And then he tried to pinch my bum,” Molly finished darkly. “I still canna believe your mother let you to go off on your own like this and find the letter-writing gent.”

“She was busy with the hotel proprietor and said I should take a walk,” Bridget lied smoothly.

It had not taken long to get here. With the help of Amanda’s guidebook, she and Molly had made their way from the hotel to the Rio di San Salvador. They could have taken a gondola, but neither Bridget nor Molly had much money, and none of the local currency at any rate. So they walked. Molly had expected to get lost, but Bridget had always been able to read a map. Music, maths, and maps were all things at which she excelled, and all were connected in her mind somehow. After all, finding where you were going in music was akin to finding where you were going on the streets, wasn’t it?

However, one minor flaw in the plan was that she hadn’t known which particular house was Mr. Merrick’s, and thus they had spent a considerable length of time walking the footpaths on the other side of the canal, crossing back and forth when there was a bridge, asking people in the crudest of Italian if they spoke English and consequently if they knew which home was Signor Merrick’s, and getting Molly’s bum pinched.

But, Bridget thought, she was finally here. A thrill of anticipation went through her. It was better that she came here herself, not sending a note and waiting days to hear a reply. And it was better that she came alone. Her mother, Amanda, they did not understand. None of her family really understood how she felt about music.

She must play again—because without the music, what was she? The melodies in her head would dry up and the silence would be intolerable.

And she must play better, too—because she knew she could. Knew it in her bones that she had it in her.

And Carpenini had seen it. Five years ago, before her nerves overcame her, before the tortures of the London season, he had heard her play one song and seen that she had it in her.

And with that surety giving her strength, she squared her shoulders and went to knock on the little door on the side of the brick house.

“But who are all these other people?  Signor Merrick?  Vincenzo Carpenini?  Isn’t he a composer of some kind?  And why is Miss Bridget so intent on playing music?  I am afraid that girl needs to spend more time out of doors.” Lady B sniffs.

“Oh, you’ll meet them all later – I’ll be bringing them by the Ballroom when the book comes out on April 2^nd.”

“And will the trench –er, canal be spreading to the Ballroom by then as well?” Lady B asks, eyeing the linear moat separating me from the door – and consequently from Lady B’s wrath.

“I’m sure the waters will recede.  Eventually.  But for now –” I say, skipping over the small bridge that spanned the implausible canal, “let’s go down to the ball, shall we?”

You can bet I hurried Lady B out of there before she could object further, but really, who could object to Venice? It’s a completely romantic city.  What’s the most romantic place you’ve ever been?

Congrats to Linda, the winner of my very last advance copy of The Ashford Affair! Linda, expect an email from me to pop up in your inbox in the near future.

Thanks so much to everyone who commented!

The moment I venture into the Ballroom, I know that something has gone horribly wrong.

The scratchy sounds of a gramophone fill the air. Next to the fronds of a potted palm, a blond woman in a black lace dress is taking a long drag on a cigarette in an ebony holder. A dark-haired man in a dinner jacket holds a glass of champagne—er, make that two glasses, one in either hand. And a frazzled looking girl in a cloche hat looks like she’s trying to decide whether to join him or sidle out of the Ballroom doors.

“Miss Willig!”

Ah, the dulcet tones of Lady B. She comes charging into the Ballroom like an enraged rhinoceros— if rhinoceros were known to wield a lorgnette in place of a horn.

“Who gave you leave to invite the characters from Downton Abbey?” Lady B’s eyes take on a speculative gleam. “Although, now that Series Three has ended in such an unfortunate manner….

“These aren’t the characters from Downton Abbey,” I say hastily. I refrain from asking how Lady B knows about a television show broadcast two hundred years in the future. It’s Lady B. She has her ways. “This is the cast from my upcoming book, The Ashford Affair.”

Lady B narrows her eyes at me. “Miss Willig, when I told you to invite the characters from your new book, I meant that charming Miss Meadows. The one with the intriguing sword parasol.”

I pluck at the demure skirts of my empire-waisted dress. “Well, yes, you see, there’s been a bit of a mix-up. I’d meant to invite the cast of my next Pink Carnation novel, The Passion of the Purple Plumeria, but as that doesn’t come out until August, and The Ashford Affair is coming out on April 9th, the Ashford characters felt that it was rightly their turn. I had thought the time-space continuum might keep them out— but they do get around.”

And isn’t that the understatement of the century. The Ashford Affair rackets back and forth between 1999 New York, an Edwardian estate, World War I and Jazz Age London and 1920s Kenya. I’ve been exhausted just trying to keep up with their comings and goings.

I’m interrupted in my explanation by a long-necked beast picking its way delicately across the Ballroom floor and attempting to eat the grass from the bottom of Albert’s perch. Albert gives an indignant squawk and flies away.

“Miss Willig,” says Lady B, in dreadful tones, “what is that?”

I give up. “That’s a giraffe. You see, a large chunk of The Ashford Affair is set in Africa, and so…. Well, never mind. Here.” I thrust an iPad, cunningly disguised as a library volume, into her hand. “My publishers have created a snazzy new app— er, I mean, pamphlet— so that you can read the first chapter of the book just as it will be set out in the finished volume. That should give you an idea.”

“Hmm,” says Lady B, discretely sticking her lorgnette more firmly onto her nose. She begins to read:

Kenya, 1926

Addie’s gloves were streaked with sweat and red dust.

It wasn’t just her gloves. Looking down, she winced at the sight of her once pearl-colored suit, now turned gray and rust with smoke and dust. Even in the little light that managed to filter through the thick mosquito netting on the windows, the fabric was clearly beyond repair. The traveling outfit that had looked so smart in London had proved to a poor choice for the trip from Mombassa.

She felt such a fool. What had she been thinking? It had cost more than her earnings for the month, that dress, an unpardonable extravagance in these days when her wardrobe ran more to the sensible than the chic. It had taken a full afternoon of scouring Oxford Street, going into one shop, then the next, this dress too common, that too expensive, nothing just right, until she finally found it, just a little more than she could afford, looking almost, if one looked at it in just the right way, as though it might be couture, rather than a poor first cousin to it.

She had peacocked in her tiny little flat, posing in front of the mirror with the strange ripple down the middle, twisting this way and that to try to get the full effect, her imagination presenting her with a hundred tempting images. Bea coming to the train to meet her, an older more matronly Bea, her silver-gilt hair burned straw by the equatorial sun, her figure softened by childbearing. She would see Addie, stepping off the train in her smart new frock with her smart new haircut and exclaim in surprise. She would turn Addie this way and that, marveling at her, her new city sophistication, her sleek hair, her newly plucked brows.

“You’ve grown up,” Bea would say. And Addie would smile, just a wry little hint of a smile, the sort of smile you saw over cocktails at the Ritz, and say, “It does happen.”

And, then, from somewhere behind her, Frederick would say, “Addie?” and she would turn, and see surprise and admiration chasing one another across his face as he realized, for the first time, just what he had left behind in London….

Fortunately, Lady B appears to be absorbed, so I dodge the inquisitive giraffe and scurry towards the doors of the Ballroom. As I make my escape, something falls from my pocket and thumps to the floor.

Nope, it’s not Cinderella’s slipper. It’s my last, carefully hoarded Advance Reader’s Copy of The Ashford Affair, which I’ll be giving away to one person who comments on the Ballroom Blog today.

Since we authoresses seem to be hopping around a bit these days, it only seems appropriate to ask:

Which time period would you most like to visit?

Greetings from the Caribbean!

I’m here in the sand and sun in the spanking new Republic of Haiti. I’ve got a glass of rum in my hand and my hat off and the tropical breeze is ruffling the page I write this letter on. I’m trying to get a little sun in my hair as I write, but Penny keeps pushing the hat back on me, the dear girl. But she’s stealing so many surreptitious glances at Captain Frye that her efforts at saving my complexion are kind of half-hearted. (For the record: she’d be sunburned by now if our positions were reversed.)

We’re docked for the sennight at Môle Saint-Nicolas, known in the eighteenth century as the Gibraltar of the Antilles. It’s a really impressive spot: a port on a strait between Cuba and Haiti through which ships must pass in order to sail to Central America. The peninsula is marvelously fortified, and right beyond it is a huge crescent bay in which you could hide an entire fleet (if you had a fleet to hide, which of course Britain did in this era, including the HMS Victory, former command of the hero of the first book in my new Prince Catchers series, I Married the Duke, Luc Westfall, whom you lovelies helped create!)

Dramatically beautiful Môle Saint-Nicolas, Haiti.

Later in the 19^th century, some years after Lady B’s time [it's hard to imagine, I know!], Haiti was a globally strategic location for another reason. Every place else in the Caribbean except Haiti and the Dominican Republic were European colonies. Now, once everybody started using steamships [fools, all of them! didn't they know how wonderful tall ships were?!], vessels passing from North America to trade in Central America needed coal stations for refueling. So the U.S. started looking for spots to do that everywhere on the route, and they chose Môle Saint-Nicolas. The U.S. tried to pressure Haiti into leasing it to them, going so far as to send the great African-American abolitionist Frederick Douglas to negotiate terms.

Frederick Douglas, escapee from slavery and subsequent famous American abolitionist

The Haitians were amenable; they were savvy businessmen like everybody else on the high seas back then. But just to be sure, the U.S. demanded that Haiti promise not to lease any other part of their island to any other country.

Well, the Haitians didn’t like that. Not one little bit. Some years back, the slaves of the French colony Saint-Domingue had risen up in arms, and in the only successful slave revolt in history those revolutionaries created a nation. So, you see, the descendents of those folks weren’t too keen on letting another nation dictate what they could or couldn’t do with even a square foot of their land. It violated their sovereign rights.

So the U.S. sent over a handful of big old warships to sit in the harbor and put a bit of pressure on the Haitians to agree to their terms.

But the Haitian ambassador in Washington had been carefully analyzing the situation. He sent the Foreign Minister on the island a secret message telling him not to worry about the warships, that the Americans were bluffing. The Foreign Minister turned down the U.S. offer, and the warships turned around and disappeared. It came to be known famously as the only time in history that one man’s signature had defeated an entire navy.

Surf’s up!

The U.S. was still desperate for a coal stopover on the way to Central America, though. So it invaded Cuba instead, snatched up Guantanamo Bay, and secured it with a perpetual lease. We’ve had it ever since.

And there you have it, a little inspiring history about my first stop on my journey around the world!

Oh, if you’re wondering how I know this nifty history, I have beside me on my beach blanket two great reads. Paul Clammer is an English adventure-travel guide writer and his brand new Bradt Travel Guide: Haiti is the first travel guide written about this nation in twenty-five years. The other book [commence bragging] is my own handsome and brilliant husband’s Haiti: The Aftershocks of History, which just so happens to have been on the top of the New York Times Book Review’s recommended paperbacks list last Sunday.

Inspired by Haitian history (tho, it’s true, the priest part was all my idea)

Years ago my dh wrote another book on Haiti, specifically about the Revolution, which of course was especially inspiring to me. Who knows, maybe this great nation will find its way into my Prince Catchers series. We shall see!

Okay, wait just a second. Penny is now at the water’s edge lifting her petticoats to dip her feet into the waves. And I think I just spied Captain Frye ogling her ankles.

This is getting interesting . . .

See you all on my next stop. Happy sailing, lovelies!

What little known tidbit of history do you especially love to tell? 

Thanks everyone who commented yesterday! The winner of Entry-Level Mistress (chosen via the random winner selector) is…

Anne!

Congrats, Anne! I’ll will email you today.

“I’ve heard a rumor, Miss Darby.”

I crack one of my eyes open. Apparently I fell asleep on the sofa in Lady B’s library. I go to check the time and then remember that I’m back in the Regency and my cell phone has no power here. That’s the problem with spending a little too much time in 2013; one tends to forget some important details.

“Sit up, Miss Darby!” Lady B folds her arms over her chest and taps her toe. Loudly. And then I feel a pecking at my hair. Albert!

Naturally her minion would be close at hand. I sit up begrudgingly. As uncomfortable as these Regency sofas are, I was rather enjoying my rest.

“What rumor, Lady B?” I ask and seeing that she now has my attention, she finally sits down in the big brown leather chair across from me.

“A rumor that you have released a new book.”

Ohhh. That.

“I assured Albert that it could not possibly be true as I have not yet received a copy and all of your fellow authoresses have always been intelligent enough to send me a copy in advance of the public. However, Miss MacLean (who did present me with a copy of the fabulous One Good Earl Deserves a Lover) mentioned that you wrote yet again about mistresses. So what do you have to say for yourself?”

She is definitely in a huff.

“With apologies, Lady B, I confess the rumor is true.”

<< Squawk! >> Now you did it! << Squawk! >>

“But,” I continue quickly, “it is so different from my usual fare, and I’ve been a bit preoccupied this last week that—”

“Enough with the excuses, Miss Darby.”

“I am sorry, Lady B. Completely remiss of me. May I present you with a very special copy entirely for you? And one for Albert as well?”

Daniel Hartmann and Emily Anderson have every reason to hate each other. Her father destroyed the lives of his parents and he in turn sent her father to jail. Now Daniel’s a successful billionaire and artsy Emily is his newest employee. Both of them intend to make the other pay for the sins of the past, but revenge has never been so sweet.

Lady B nods with a sniff. And then opens the book.

And then starts to read. Aloud.

“Emily Anderson, right?”

There . . . attraction almost all gone.

“No. I don’t invite all my employees to lunch. But I’m inviting you.”

Almost.

Lady B looks up. “While I am not entirely certain about the language in this novel, I do hope you intend to bring this Daniel Hartmann to visit. You know how I always enjoy when these rogues attend one of my balls.”

“I will definitely see what I can do.”

However, in the meantime, I’m giving away a digital copy of Entry-Level Mistress to one of our commentors. I know we all adore Regency rakes, but what about contemporary heroes? Who are your favorites of years past?

Thank you so much to everyone who commented on my Monday post and got excited with me about Any Duchess Will Do.  The Random Winner Picking tool (I envision this looking like The Claw in Toy Story) has selected….

Cayenne!

(See what I did there?  I made her name cayenne red. Hee.)

Congrats, Cayenne!  I’ll be emailing you directly for your address.

Everyone else, please do not give up!  Right this very moment, the lovely Avon Romance folks have a GoodReads giveaway going.  They are giving away forty (yes, 40!!) copies of Any Duchess Will Do!  Just click here and enter by the end of the week.  I think you have to be a GoodReads member to enter, but if you’re not already a member, you should join! It’s fun!  Please come send me a friend request, if you do join or are already a member.  And also feel free to join my GoodReads group, if you feel so inclined. 

This month, many of the authoresses have been sharing sneak peeks into future works.  Today’s my turn!

I received a very special package in the mail just the other day, and I can’t wait to show Lady B.

“Lady B., look what came for me in the post last week! It’s so exciting. I have an ARC!”

Lady B. presses a hand to her throat.  “Oh, dear.  Please tell me we’re not having another ship crash into the ballroom.  I have not forgotten Miss Noble’s stunt with that frigate.  On particularly warm days, the drapes still smell of brine.”

“Not an ark, Lady B.  An ARC.  It’s an Advance Reader Copy of my next book, Any Duchess Will Do.”

“Ah,” says Lady B, taking my precious volume in hand.  “ARCs sound much more pleasant than arks.  At least, tidier in the ballroom.”

I nod.  “They hardly ever smell of brine.  And I don’t get these ARCs very often anymore.  Not printed on paper, anyway.”

“Well, what would they be printed on, if not paper?  Animal skin?”

“No, no.  Usually the preview copies aren’t printed at all anymore.  They’re just sent electronically.”

“That Inner-netting again?”

“Precisely.  So I was wonderfully surprised to have these actual paper copies arrive.  And I immediately opened one and laughed, because for the first time I saw what excerpt they’d chosen for the teaser page at the front of the book.  It’s, ahem, just a little bit salty.”

Lady B. glares at me.  “Salty! I was promised no brine.”

“Different kind of salty, my lady.  Go on, read for yourself.”

(And if you care to, you can read for yourself in the snapshot below.  If you click, you can see it enlarged.)

Here’s the blurb for Any Duchess Will Do:

What’s a duke to do, when the girl who’s perfectly wrong becomes the woman he can’t live without?

Griffin York, the Duke of Halford, has no desire to wed this season—or any season—but his diabolical mother abducts him to “Spinster Cove” and insists he select a bride from the ladies in residence. Griff decides to teach her a lesson that will end the marriage debate forever. He chooses the serving girl.

Overworked and struggling, Pauline Simms doesn’t dream about dukes. All she wants is to hang up her barmaid apron and open a bookshop. That dream becomes a possibility when an arrogant, sinfully attractive duke offers her a small fortune for a week’s employment. Her duties are simple: submit to his mother’s “duchess training”… and fail miserably.

But in London, Pauline isn’t a miserable failure. She’s a brave, quick-witted, beguiling failure—a woman who ignites Griff’s desire and soothes the darkness in his soul. Keeping Pauline by his side won’t be easy. Even if Society could accept a serving girl duchess—can a roguish duke convince a serving girl to trust him with her heart?

Do you have a better word to suggest to Griff, other than “flutterings”?  (I mean, really.  Flutterings.  Hah.)

Or failing that, do you have a favorite Pygmalian or Cinderella-esque romance, where a girl starts from the lowest of circumstances and rises to the highest echelons of society?

One commenter will win an Advance Reader Copy of Any Duchess Will Do!

Edited 2/19: Thanks for all the great comments!  I’ve had so much fun reading them.  I’ll keep this open until midnight Eastern tonight, and then I’ll draw a random winner and post.

The fighting arm of Jack Dempsey, The Manassa Mauler, who held the World Heavyweight Championship from 1919-1926.

I’m currently working on the third Rules of Scoundrels novel, No Good Duke Goes Unpunished.

The book is Temple’s story — Temple, the broad-shouldered, broken-nosed bare-knuckle boxer who handles security at the casino. Oh, and who is known across London as the Killer Duke. Needless to say, Temple’s like no other hero I’ve ever written — extraordinarily physical and filled with emotion that he can barely hold on to, which makes for a rather unpredictable hero.

As I’ve been writing about a fighter, I’ve been doing a lot of research on fighting in the 1830s and in general. I’ve learned some wild things–some of which will end up in this book and some of which will likely never see the light of day: The way fighters used beeswax to stop their teeth from cutting their cheeks; the way they wrapped their knuckles in long strips of linen in precise, perfect patterns; the fact that true bare-knuckle matches lasted 80-100 rounds and that boxing gloves were actually designed to pack heavier punch and make fights more quick and brutal–not to to protect fighters as you might imagine.

I’ve been reading books and watching movies and thinking about fighting a lot as I craft Temple and his story. Movies like Snatch and Knuckle (the Irish travelers have kept bare-knuckle boxing alive and held most closely to its original origins) have been a huge inspiration, and I must confess I’ve watched this clip from the first Sherlock Holmes movie more than I’d like to admit:

Colum McCann writes in his introduction to At the Fights: American Writers on Boxing:

“Writers love boxing, even if they can’t box. And maybe writers love boxing especially because they can’t box. The language is all cinema and violence….what you have with a fight is what you have with writing, and they each become metaphors for each other: the ring, the page; the punch, the word.”

It’s true, of course.

When I came at Temple’s story, I knew I would have to learn about fighting…I just didn’t know I would learn to love it so much.

–

Is there a sport that really speaks to you, either as a spectator or a player? 

Ballroom guest Ashlyn Macnamara looks about the ballroom, admiring her handiwork. In honor of the season, she’s arranged to have things redecorated just a tad…

Lady B (approaching): And what is all this? I’ve heard you’re responsible for it.

Ashlyn (smoothes down a silver garland decorated with pink and red metallic hearts): I do hope you like it. I thought the decor could use some freshening up, and it is St. Valentine’s Day.

Lady B (sniffing at an arrangement of marble cherubs): St. Valentine’s Day is no excuse for such a garish display. Bad enough this fashion of sending cards.

Ashlyn: Where else are you going to get an impassioned declaration like: Plenty of love, lots of kisses, hope one day I’ll be your Mrs.?

Lady B: If all you aspire to is to be a Mrs…. (eyes narrow) Are you another one of those authoresses from across the pond?

Ashlyn: Right you are. And if you saw what people did for St. Valentine’s Day where I’m from, I’m sure you’d like to be ahead of fashion.

<squawk>Trendsetter!<squawk>

Ashlyn: Too bad they’ve not invented the procedure for making chocolate bon bons yet.

Lady B: Chocolate bon bons?

Ashlyn: They’re sinfully delicious. Just think, a sweet made of chocolate that melts in your mouth. Or perhaps if I called them chocolate truffles. You recall those from Christmas?

Lady B: Ah, yes. Miss Foley was kind enough to gift me a box of them (waving a hand at the garlands) But that’s no excuse for the rest of this, ahem, display. Even the lobster patties are heart-shaped.

<squawk>Carrying things a bit too far.<squawk>

Ashlyn: I daresay you’ll eat them anyway.

<squawk>Never waste food.<squawk>