Lady B has asked me to attend her in the sitting room. I suspect this is because all the other authoresses have made themselves scarce, knowing as they do that Lady is “at home” today. I’m fairly certain Miranda’s love of fashion (and ability to scathingly judge it) would be more of use. As we know, it’s been a zoo here during the Season, and all because of Monty.

But nonetheless, I happily leave my work-in-progress aside and call upon my anthropological training to be a participant observer in the ritual of Regency courtship. One in which the male in demand is unlikely to be present and all early negotiations are made through oblique comments by the females.

Just as I enter the sitting room, I hear the first knock at the front door.

“It begins,” Lady B intones with a wink and I take a seat to her left.

“Again,” squawks Albert.

I am half tempted to retrieve my laptop—ahem, notepad—to take notes. After all, what better way to get tips on London ingénues than here?

“Mrs. Perkins-Wilkenson and her daughter, Miss Perkins-Wilkenson,” announces the footman.

These two are not your usual romance book mother-daughter set. In fact, they are fairly reminiscent of the Gilmore Girls. While I assume young Sarah Perkins-Wilkenson is the customary 17 or 18 of a girl in her first season, her mother, Eloise Perkins-Wilkenson, looks as if she could be her sister. Both of them are lovely in that peaches and cream, strawberry blond sort of a way, and they are dressed impeccably. Wait, no. Is that a turned hem I spy at the bottom of Eloise’s dress? Hmm, surely if it is Lady B will notice and I can ask her later. I start wondering if perhaps Eloise is a widow and absolutely ripe to be a romance book heroine. Perhaps she sees her young daughter as her last chance for financial safety but ends up having a romance of her own.

Not with Monty. Lady B would never forgive me, even if it’s merely in the world of my fictional conjecture, my little writerly game.

But certainly any number of wealthy rakes (yes, it would have to be a rake who endangers her reputation and therefore her daughter’s chances of a respectable marriage!) would be appropriate for her. But unfortunately all the rakes I’ve met in Lady B’s ballroom lately have been taken. Maybe one of our heroes has a best friend or a “rake club” acquaintance to recommend.

But then again, perhaps Eloise is still very much married. Then I must focus my attentions on Sarah.

I am determined to fit Eloise and Sarah into the romance book mold over the next fifteen polite minutes. What do you think is the true nature of their circumstance and what gentleman/gentlemen would be appropriate as a match?

I’m late for today’s ball – in fact I nearly forgot that I was hosting – for a couple of reasons. One is the imminent arrival of tax day. April is the only time of the year I am actually thrilled by all the money I spent on anything business related. What? The hotel bill for the RWA conference was only this? I should definitely have spend more on cocktails.

<squawk> You were pissed <squawk>

Well, hello, Albert. I haven’t seen you lately. I thought perhaps you and Harold had eloped. Your phrasing interests me. (You see, the other reason I’m a little crazed is that I unwisely agreed–all right, volunteered–to give a talk at the New England Romance Writers’ conference on British vs. US English.) No, Albert, I was not pissed. Much. Are you sure you aren’t projecting about those evenings in low taverns with Monty and Harold?

<squawk> You’re pissing me off <squawk>

Now you’re talking like an American.

I frantically make notes about the different meanings of the word piss. Aside from the obvious (common to both sides of the Atlantic) pissed in England means drunk (dates back to the Regency era at least, so Albert is quite familiar with the usage) as opposed to the American meaning of annoyed. @JanetNorCal recently asked on Twitter about “taking the piss” which basically means to mock, or have on.

Tell me, Albert, have you ever been to America? I know parrots live long lives. I have no idea how old you are (age is not a topic one raises in front of Lady B.) but perhaps you traveled the world before finding your cozy berth at Beaufetheringstone House.

<I may have gotten to spend the fall in New England>

Now you’re talking. Early nineteenth-century British English had far more in common with the American version than twenty-first century. After all, the two countries had severed ties relatively recently. Fall as a word for autumn was used in eighteenth-century England. Now it’s a sure marker of American English. Same with the dreaded gotten. For about two hundred years English people have not said “gotten,” but you can argue that it is acceptable Regency usage. It was on the way out but may have lingered. These are the things that make writing historicals so interesting.

<squawk> word nerd <squawk>

I plead one hundred percent guilty.

 Now dear Ballroomies, I need your help. You all read lots of British-set historical romance and many of you come from outside the US. What shall I include in my Brit vs. US language talk? What are your favorite British words (or American ones for that matter).

 

 

“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?”

So he knew my name. Despite the relative ubiquity of Anderson as a last name, surely then, he knew that I was the daughter of his father’s old partner.

I straightened. Turned. Sent him that slanted smile. Up close he was nearly devastating. But he wasn’t smiling back. Maybe that intense expression meant something other than the desire I had read. Maybe I only knew how to read college boys, not mega-wealthy businessmen.

“That’s right,” I said lightly. Took a sip of water while
watching him. “Newest employee at Hartmann Enterprises . . . Mr. Hartmann.”

His lips quirked. I almost held my breath, expecting that brief movement to stretch into his patented smirk, the one that had stared out at me from GQ. For goodness’ sake, he was a celebrity, or at least dated celebrities. And I was talking to him.

“Well, newest employee. I’m on my way out to lunch. Join me.”

I blinked.

He shifted. I could see the outline of muscles under the smooth lines of his pants. I had the brief, clear idea that his body would be long and lean, the sort of body that belonged to a man who was active and athletic but had never tried to bulk up. He was about a decade older than me and yet he was without doubt the most attractive man I’d ever been within five feet of.

He knew my name and he was asking me to lunch. If that didn’t add up to having been made, I didn’t know what did. I wanted to run but I had to brazen this out.

I crossed my arms, affected an air of nonchalance that I didn’t feel at all.

“Do you invite all your newest employees out to lunch?”

“Do you look at all your bosses that way?”

The way I had looked at him? What about the way he had looked at me?

“You’re my first boss,” I bit back quickly, hoping the heat I felt didn’t show in my cheeks. How exactly had I looked at him?

“We hired you without a track record?”

I wanted to stamp my feet at how easily he caught me off guard, twisted my words to serve him. Instead, I arched an eyebrow. Tilted my head. “Should I be worried for my job?”

He smirked. I sucked in a breath. The man was wickedly handsome. It wasn’t fair. Especially since I resented him. Hated him. He’d sent my father to jail.

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?

After today, there are only two more Ballroom Blog posts before Christmas, and I must say, I am fully in the holiday spirit. And from the sound of it, Lady B is too.

“Good King Wenceslas…”

I can hear her singing as she overseas the servants as they continue last minute decorations in preparation for all of the family arriving for the holidays. From what I hear, she’s been singing ever since Kate’s post.

Part of my good cheer and holiday spirit stems from the recent trip I took to Prague.

I had not seen snow in seven years. All right, technically this isn’t strictly true, as there was that freak snow storm that we drove through on our way to Yosemite, but all of the snow was gone by morning and we never had a chance to walk out in it.

Prague, however, was a magical winter wonderland.

And when I say magical, I mean, it felt more Hogwartsy than Hogwarts. I mean, in a city with a history steeped in alchemy and mysticism, you’re bound to round some corner and step into a special room that only infrequently makes an appearance, or perhaps stumble into an unusual alleyway. And Prague is the location of one of the most famous Golem stories.

Lady B: That’s a very strange painting. I cannot make out the brushstrokes.

Sabrina: That’s because it’s a photograph, Lady B. I’m certain we’ve discussed photographs before… no? Have we at least discussed lithographs, because I brought you back this wonderful print by the famous Moravian Art Nouveau artist Alphonse Mucha.

And I brought a little something for Albert. Not lobster patties, but since sausage is ubiquitous over in the Czech Republic, I figured…

<< Squawk! >>

Albert swoops down and snatches the food from my hands.

Well, that’s one way to show that he likes it.

I liked it too. In fact, I liked quite a bit of food I normally don’t eat. As we strolled through the Christmas markets, I sampled hot wine and mead (just to keep warm, of course!) and roasted chestnuts. I’ve always loved roasted chestnuts and when I could no longer buy them on the streets of Manhattan, I was quite sad. However, I was very satisfied in Prague!

And with all that talk of Christmas Carols and Good King Wenceslas, it turns out no one calls Wenceslas by that name in Prague. I think that must be his Latinized name, as there he is known as Vaclav, and Wenceslas square is actually Václavské náměstí (not pronounced the same as the term “namaste” that I know from Yoga class)

Lady B: Yoga?

Sabrina: I know the word is strange, but I am completely certain, Lady B, that you remember this day.

I tried to take as many photographs of Christmas trees as I could, unfortunately, all the pictures of me look a bit ridiculous because I was so cold I tried to hide as much of my bare surface area as possible.

So even though it was the second week of December that I visited Prague, I feel as if I’ve had my “White Christmas.”

Lady B: I do love fresh snow. I wonder if it will snow here in time for Christmas…

Alas, unless I drive into the mountains, there is very little chance of that here in Southern California. How about you? Is anyone going to have snow for Christmas this year?

It’s December…and you know what that means! It’s time for trees and menorahs and snow and singing and sledding and weeks off from work and school and presents! And it occurred to the Ballroom Authoresses this year that we were terribly rude last year and forgot to give Lady B Christmas presents. We’d had a whole thing planned out for Boxing Day 2011, but it ended up being a rather late and liquored evening on Christmas Day, and we forgot.

So, this year, we decided to go all out, and make sure we delivered our gifts to Lady B early in the month.

“…to avoid the cold shoulder she can so expertly deliver,” I’m explaining to the rest of the group when the Lady in question materializes at one end of the ballroom.

“I beg your pardon, Miss MacLean?”

I look up from where I’m arranging paper-wrapped boxes beneath the Ballroom Christmas tree, and mutter, “Good lord. The woman has ears like a…like a…”

“Hawk?” Kate offers, from where she is adding her package to the stack

“I think that’s eyes.” Miranda says.

“Owls have excellent hearing,” Tessa adds, opening a bottle of ratafia.

“No doubt, but I don’t think that’s what I was thinking.”

“Actually, the best hearing is often attributed to the tiger moth,” Katharine pipes in.

“Fine,” I say, rising from the foot of the tree. “Then the woman has ears like a tiger moth.”

I turn to find Lady B standing directly behind me. “You’d best remember that, gel.”

“Lady B!” I cry, “You’re just in time!”

She looks to the tree. “I see you’ve brought another needley plant into the house.”

“I have!” I say, quite proud of myself. “And this time, it’s trimmed with presents!” 

This seems to mollify the Baroness.

I leap to add, “Presents for you!”

The authoresses beam.

“Would you like to open them?”

“I suppose I might have the time for one or two.”

“Or eight?” Lauren suggests.

“Or eight,” Lady B agrees.

“Excellent!” I’m thrilled that we’re off the tiger moth at this point. “We all thought long and hard about the best gifts for a lady of discerning taste…”

“You really shouldn’t have spent your hard earned money on me.” Lady B demures, every polite.

I refrain from telling her that we agreed on a $25. limit on gifts, and instead wave at Kate. “You start!”

Kate presents her gift to the Lady, who tears at the wrapping with gusto. Opening the small, flat box, she peers in and says, “How lovely!”

“This bronze ladies’ watch is fashionable as a necklace or as a pocket piece. I thought it might help you to keep time when time in the Ballroom starts to get…”

“Wibbly-wobbly?” The lady finishes for her.

Kate nods. “Precisely.”

“Thank you, Miss Noble. I shall wear it with pride.”

Kate blushes. “Thank you, my Lady.”

I wave Gaelen forward. “Knowing your penchant for sweets, my lady…” she trails off as Lady B rips at packaging to reveal a small gold box. “I thought you might enjoy this…er…new delicacy.”

“Godiva? Like the nude woman?” Lady B raises an eyebrow. “Miss Foley, is this quite appropriate?”

“Oh, totally!” Gaelen says.

Lady B peers into the box. “Brown balls?”

Miranda snickers. “A wonder that name didn’t stick.”

“Truffles, my lady,” Gaelen clarifies. “Chocolate truffles.”

“Chocolate is a liquid, Miss Foley,” Lady B says. “I should know. I drink it every morning. It’s my very favorite warm beverage.”

Gaelen smiles “Try one.”

Lady B bites into one truffle carefully, skeptical for less than a second before she closes her eyes and moans her pleasure. “Oh, my. Oh…MY.” The Lady pops one more into her mouth. “They’re HEAVEN!”

Gaelen grins. “I thought you’d like them.”

Lady B speaks around a mouthful of chocolate. “What else have you brought me?”

“Ooh! Do me!” Lauren leaps to gather a long, slim box and set it on Lady B’s lap. The Baroness reluctantly relinquishes the Godiva, but not before sneaking another into her mouth. “This one is from Miss Gwen and me, Lady B…I noticed you envying hers…”

Lady B opens the box and lets out a little squeal of happiness. “My very own sword parasol!”

“For warding off those Ballroom fashion infractions!” Lauren adds.

“It’s perfect, Miss Willig. Precisely what I wished for.”

“My turn!” Tessa is getting excited. Or, she’s ready for Ratafia. She points to a small, thin box beneath the tree. “That one!”

Lady B claps her hands. She’s getting excited, too. Or she’s ready for Ratafia. Once the package is in hand, she tears at the wrapping and opens it to reveal…”Quills!” She turns to Tessa. “Do you expect me to draft my own novel, Miss Dare?”

“I’m hoping for a memoir, honestly, my lady…but these are no ordinary quills. They’ve got ballpoints!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Er…I mean to say…they’re self inking!”

“Self-inking? You mean I don’t need an inkwell any longer?”

“You don’t!”

“How very clever!”

“Isn’t it, though? Farewell ink-stained fingers!”

“The one downside to so many balls…no longer!”

We all lean forward to watch Lady B test the quill on a swatch of wrapping paper, signing her name, Heliotrope, Lady Beaufetheringstone, in wide, sweeping letters.

“And there’s more in the box!” Tessa can’t contain herself.

“So there is! The lady reaches in and extracts several long, red tubes. “It’s…” she lifts it to her nose. “Wax?”

“For sealing envelopes! You just put them into your glue gun…” Tessa trails off.

“Which gun?”

“Uh-oh.” Sabrina looks up from where she is feeding Albert lobster patties.

Tessa looks like a deer in headlights. “You’re…glue gun?”

There is a long pause before Lady B says, “Hmm. I shall have to ask Lord B about this glue gun. He shall be very grateful for the wax, no doubt, Miss Dare. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Tessa says, sounding immensely relieved. She looks around. “Who’s next?”

“I shall go,” Miranda volunteers, handing Lady B another small box.

The lady is getting into it now. “How wonderful you all are!” She peers into the box. “Apothecary viles!” She lifts one sparkly vile and reads closely. “China glitz? Is it from the Orient, Miss Neville?”

Miranda leaps in. “Indeed it is! For painting your toenails!”

Lady B’s eyes go wide. “Only the most scandalous ladies paint their toe nails, Miss Neville.”

Miranda grins. “We shan’t tell if you don’t! I thought you might like gold and silver and – for that holiday je ne sais quoi – red and silver glitter.”

Lady B giggles. FULL ON GIGGLES. “I shall enjoy that very much.” She looks around, right at me. “Miss MacLean? Did you bring me something?”

The Baroness has become rather forward.

I smile. “I did, Lady B.” And I’m really quite proud of this one. I pluck my package from the boughs of the tree and hand it to her, the ribbon flying away instantly.

“Oh!” Lady B says, lifting the long silver chain from the bed of cotton inside the box. “It’s a necklace! And is that…” she peers closely. “Is that one of Albert’s feathers?”

Albert squawks. Thief!

“I didn’t steal it,” I assure him. “I simply retrieved it from the floor after your last run in with Harold!”

Albert does not look pleased.

“Oh, tosh, Albert. It’s lovely,” Lady B says, putting the necklace on. “I shall have a piece of you with me whenever I wear it!”

The bird flies to Sabrina, who consoles him with lobster.

Lady B turns to Katharine. “I am ready for you now, Miss Ashe.”

Katharine leaps to deliver her large, flat package. “I have several of these, and they’re very useful.”

Lady B tears the paper and reveals a lovely large Tall-Ships Calendar. “What a handsome calendar! How clever, with the different pages for each month! This is quite lavish, Miss Ashe. I shall be able to keep track of all my balls quite easily now.”

Miranda snickers again, but just barely before Lady B adds, “Tell me, what does 2013 mean?”

We all look to Katharine as she answers easily, “It’s the year.”

Lady B’s eyes go wide. “The year?”

Katharine realizes what’s she said. “For…yaknow…future planning.”

Lady B laughs. “Rather far into the future, my dear.”

Katharine laughs with the Baroness…a touch too loudly. “Right! A fine jest, don’t you think?”

Lady B nods and turns to Sabrina. “And you, Miss Darby?”

Sabrina plucks her box from beneath the tree. “Here you are, my lady…”

The box is barely in the Lady’s hands before it’s unwrapped and she’s holding a small rectangle of plastic. “How interesting! Is it a machine?”

“It is!” Sabrina says. She lifts a pair of headphones from the packaging and places them to Lady B’s ear. “Don’t be alarmed, my lady. It won’t hurt you…just listen!” She pushes a button on the walkman in the BAroness’s lap and we all watch as Lady B’s eyes go wide in shock.

“It’s music!” She yells at the top of her lungs. “IT’S PLAYING IN MY HEAD!”

Sabrina explains to the rest of us… “It’s a mix tape of Christmas Carols and Czech pop songs. I figured  and give her a Walkman, to introduce her to the “old fashioned” way of sharing music.”

Thank goodness we saved Sabrina for last…Lady B is lost to us…amazed and entranced by the music in her head.

And who can blame her? Walkmen are pretty cool.

—

Ok readers! We gave Lady B eight presents under $25. What’s your favorite gift under $25.? Share in comments — we could all use some good ideas this holiday, I’m guessing!

I have been charged with a very important task, and that is to ensure that we arrive in London TODAY. No water crossings, no freak snowstorms, no pirates, no moors and highwaymen. After all, there is a certain ball to plan and I am certain Katharine and Lady B will need every day between now and Monday to do so.

Lady B: I assure you, Miss Darby, that I could plan this ball in my sleep.

I eye Lady B from my position in the corner of the coach, facing forward and near the window. (I’m not a good traveler and, although it took them nearly three weeks to realize this, the rest of my travelling companions have decided its best to let me pick my seat.)

Lady B: You doubt me?

Sabrina: Never.

And I don’t. However, considering the amount of days we’ve spent on the road, and the number of hours per day we’ve all spent napping the interminable hours away, it did look for a while that Lady B might have to plan in her sleep.

Of course, it’s my job today to ensure that will not be the case. And I am indeed the right person for the task. After all, I’ve never seen Magic Mike and I’m not easily impressed by a famous male face.

Katharine: It will be fine.

She’s sitting opposite me, and I can see that she’s speaking out of a desire to convince herself it will be so.

Lauren: I’m famished.

We can’t stop. We’re so close (The landscape blurring past, etc…)

Stop!

It’s Lady B making the demand, so of course, we stop. However, I don’t see any convenient copse of trees around. The edge of the nearest forest is visible a mile away.

My goodness, Look!

I look. It’s a lovely September day. I always love the English countryside. I wish I could spend as much time here in the 21st century as I do virtually in the 19th.

I hear Sarah say rather incredulously: So unicorns are real.

Which means I am clearly looking in the wrong direction.

Kate: Aside from narwhals, of course.

I’m picturing a whale with a horn when suddenly a flash of white crosses my vision. OMG. It’s actually a unicorn. As in white coat. A single horn. And absolutely stunning.

Lady B: I want to see it. Miss Dare, you have a way with animals, fetch it for me, will you?

Gaelen interrupts. “Actually, a unicorn can only be captured by a virgin. At least, according to mythology.”

We all look at each other. Eight married women and we are quite certain that despite her husband haring off with Lord B, Kate has consummated her union. If only this journey had happened at the beginning of the summer, when neither Lauren nor Kate were married.

“This is the 21st century, Sabrina.”

“Nonono! It is the 19th, I assure you.”

“Right, I heard that the horn is a symbol of virility.”

“Well we need a virgin. Albert?”

Lady B coughs.

“Alright, Monty?”

Monty stirs from his careful ignoring of us, which he’d been doing for the better part of the last two days. He stares at us between swollen eyes, then those eyes grow wider, even as he winces in pain.

Ladies, I assure you, there is no reason to be looking at me.

I look at him doubtfully. Or hopefully? Because it really would make it so much easier if he were…

Lady B: Follow that Unicorn!

I look out the window to see that the white horned animal is speeding away from us and suddenly we are speeding after it, as if the forces of darkness will overtake the world and keep it in winter forever if we don’t find the unicorn. At a pace not at all copacetic with my stomach.

I have no idea where we are anymore. Last I knew, we were a mere 20 miles from London. Now, with my internal compass all turned around, I have no idea.

We’re in the middle of the forest thicket, and the path before us is lit with tiny candles in decorative lanterns.

We’re never going to get to London.

Except, there’s a familiar odor in the air. Like stagnant water and coal…

“London!” Miranda cries, like someone starved for sustenance and I do believe she’s right. Furthermore, somewhere in this fair city is a unicorn, sniffing after virgins like a Regency rake. The only question is, where is the unicorn? And where exactly in London are we?

There is a certain tension in the air when I enter the ballroom tonight. Albert and Harold both are present, and neither the beloved parrot nor the black toucan are squawking at each other, which suggests something dire indeed has occurred.

I search the already crowded ballroom for Lady B, and find her looking quite put out. She meets my gaze and is positively glowering. I think quickly through everything I have done in the last few weeks. No…I can’t think of why she might be upset with me. I take a deep breath and (bravely) approach.

As I do, I see that she is standing next to a youngish-appearing gentleman. A light has cast him in silhouette but from the cut of his hair and his coat (and yes, I can tell a man by the cut of his hair), I recognize her nephew, Montague. (In fact, all I really have to go on is the cut of his clothing and hair because every time I’ve seen him before tonight, he’s been a bruised disaster. Only a fortnight ago, he was brawling with one of Miss Darcy Burke’s heroes. Although Katharine has been nursing him back to health and perfect male beauty.)

Lady Beaufetheringstone?

Lady B: Miss Darby, perhaps you can convince my wayward nephew that as noble as the cause may be, he cannot help every damsel in distress. He must be presentable if he will attend events in London.

I look at Monty and wince. After Katharine did such a wonderful job tending to Monty’s wounds, he now looks slightly worse for wear.

Another incident?

Monty: I assure you, Miss Darby, that the lady’s assailant looks far worse than I.

And then, he winks.

Have you ever seen a man with two bruised eyes attempt to wink? It is a bit frightening. And arresting. For between the slightly swollen lids of his right eye, I can almost make out the color. It looks…black. Or maybe it’s a very dark brown. Or maybe that’s just the shadow and in reality his eyes are hazel. Or a rather light blue?

Fine, I admit it, I don’t actually know.

Maybe you can take a look and help me?

What do you think? Should Montague stop his impulsive and well-intentioned brawls? Or does he simply need to engage an excellent teacher of pugilism?

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.