It’s our first Monday ball after Lady B’s attempt at a Thanksgiving dinner.  The game birds instead of turkey were  a– well, let’s just say that it was an interesting touch.  And I’m pretty sure that most of the guests have recovered from that slight bout of food poisoning.

I’m in a bit of a quandary as I peer through the Ballroom doors.  You see, Lady B specifically has a “no repeat guests” rule. As she somewhat less tactfully put it, after having us authoresses cluttering up her ballroom, noon and night, she needs a bit of variety to enliven the tedium.  But that’s just her way of showing affection, right?

But I digress.  Lady B asked me (and by “ask”, I mean “command”) to bring that intriguing Mrs. Andrea Penrose, author of those charming mystery stories, to attend her in the Ballroom.  And if Mrs. Penrose might bring with her some of those chocolate recipes she mentions in her books….  Not that Lady B holds with such newfangled things as eating chocolate (everyone knows chocolate is for drinking, not for eating!), but it doesn’t do to be entirely behind the times.  Especially when the times are so tasty.

There’s a hitch, of course.  What Lady B doesn’t know is that Andrea Penrose, writer of Regency-set mysteries, is also Cara Elliott, author of the Lords of Midnight series.  She visited here last year, in her Miss Elliott guise– and Lady B is very fond of bragging that she never forgets a face.

I’ve just dragged Cara behind a potted palm in a last ditch attempt to get her to don the frizzy red wig and dark lorgnette I’ve brought for her in the hopes of obscuring her identity when the inevitable happens: Lady B spots us.

Lady B (peering through her lorgnette): Miss Elliott! I see you there behind the potted palms! What are you doing here again?  Don’t try to slither past me without making your curtsy. Shabby manners are NOT tolerated here in my Ballroom, especially from one of Miss Willig’s guests. She does tend to invite the oddest creatures.

Cara: It wasn’t quite a slither, it was, um, more of a ladylike tip-toeing through the tulips.

Lady B (eyes narrowing): Tulips? I hate tulips. The gardener promised to decorate the hallway with pink carnations.

Cara: Poetic license, milady. I assure you the pots are overflowing with pink.

Lady B: Hmmph! As opposed to the purple of your prose.

Cara: (shooting an appealing look at Lauren and mumbling sotto voce) I didn’t think my latest book was THAT bad.

Lauren (whispering back): No, no the book was fine. She’s just a bit miffed because– um, she thought you were going to be your other self.  And you– I mean, Andrea Penrose, were asked to bring a gentleman with you to balance the numbers for dancing. I had thought maybe Cam—)

Lady B: Don’t mumble, Miss Willig! It’s rude. (Another glare) Like Miss Elliott here, who apparently can’t read as well as can’t write.

Cara (repressing a pained wince): I assure you, Lady B, I wouldn’t dream of ignoring the request spelled out on your lovely invitation. That’s why I was delaying my greeting. My gentleman friend is definitely coming. He will be here at any moment.

<squawk> Impossible! We just had the doors locked, ha, ha, ha! <squawk>

Lady B: Albert is correct. Here at the Ballroom, we don’t permit access after a certain hour. Your friend is late, and thus he will definitely not be making an appearance.

Cara: (shuffling uncomfortably from foot to foot) Um, well the thing is, a lock will not be . . . an impediment. Cameron Fanning is very clever with his hands.

Lauren: Exceedingly clever.

Lady B: Indeed?

<squawk> Hands are vastly overrated. <squawk>

Lady B: Do be quiet, Albert. (To Miss Elliott) Explain yourself more fully, gel.

Cara: Before I do so, I feel compelled to add just a wee bit of backstory— that is, if Your Ladyship will permit me. (A regal nod indicates that she may proceed) First of all, it must be said that Cameron Fanning is the hero of my latest book and as such, he is—”

Lady B: I trust you are going to say handsome, otherwise there is no point in going on.

Cara: Oh, yes, he is handsome as SIN. (She and Lauren exchange titters)

Lady B: At last, you begin to sound interesting, Miss Elliott. (A fraction of a pause) Go on.

Cara: Cameron is—

Lauren (interrupting): A devil of a rogue. He’s a thief to boot.

Cara: Yes, yes, but he only steals from those who can afford it.

Lady B (eyes widening in alarm): Be advised that I have recently installed the latest German puzzle locks on all my doors.

Cara: I’m afraid they won’t have the slightest effect on Cam. He’s extremely skilled at maneuvering delicate little buttons and releasing complex locking mechanisms. I’ve never known him to fail in entering a private place he wished to penetrate, no matter how well-guarded.

Lady B (raising her brows) Are we talking about Ballrooms? Or some other more intimate space?

Lauren (trying to keep a straight face.) Perhaps you should decide for yourself. That appears to be Cameron strolling through the archway.

Lady B (following his progress with a gimlet gaze) Explain yourself, sir.

Cameron: In a moment. But first . . . (He raises her bejeweled hand to his lips and holds it there for a fraction longer than a gentleman should.) You have divine hands, Lady B. (A wink) And divine rings. By the color and clarity, I would say those are emeralds from the Spanish mines of South America, are they not?

Lady B: Never mind!

Cameron: You have nothing to worry about. Beautiful women need never fear of losing their costly jewelry to me. (A pause)  But I make no promises about purloining other infinitely more precious possessions.

Lady B: W-w-what could be more precious than emeralds and rubies, young man?

Cameron: (leaning close to whisper in her ear): Some might feel that a lady’s heart is her greatest treasure, and I confess, I agree. If I could find a true and loyal one, I just might consider becoming a reformed rogue.

Lady B: (letting out a breathy sigh) Perhaps we should retire to the side salon and discuss the matter of hearts over a bottle of my special port. (A sidelong look at Cara and Lauren) After I lock the door and throw away the key.

Cara: Umm . . .

Cameron: I believe Miss Elliott was about to warn you that she know all my secrets.

Lady B: Oh, I do like a man with secrets. (Stepping a tad closer) What are they?

Cameron (with an enigmatic smile): You will have to ask Miss Elliott the details. Suffice it to say, I’m not what I seem.

<squawk> Have a care, ladies. If you kiss him, he might turn into a frog, ha, ha, ha! <squawk>

Lauren: Noooo, definitely not a frog.

Cara (brows shooting up): Lauren! What will your husband say?

Lauren (with an airy wave): Research. He knows I’m very serious about my research.

Cara: But it’s MY book.

Lauren: Oops.

Lady B: Come along with me, Mr. Fanning! Let us leave these two ninnyhammers to their silliness. (To Albert) In my experience, a fine bottle of port always loosens a man’s tongue.

Cameron (with a casual flick of his long, lithe fingers, he mimes turning a key): Sorry, but my lips are locked.

Lady B (hooking her arm with his): We’ll see about that. I, too, have some tricks up my sleeve.

Cameron: Ahhh, well, I always enjoy going mano a mano with a clever lady. Let the latches and levers fall where they may . . .

Cara (watching them walk away): Perhaps I should have told Lady B about Sophie Lawrance. I’m pretty certain that she is the only one who holds the key to Cam’s heart. And seeing how long he’s waited for a second chance to win her heart, I don’t think he’ll risk mucking it up.

Lauren (looking thoughtful): Hmmm, an interesting observation . . .

Which begs the question: How do you feel about rakish rogues? Do bad boys who have grown older and wiser deserve a second chance? 

(Or even more interesting, is there an old flame in your life you’ve thought about, and wondered whether now it might work out differently. Does that intrigue you . . . or is the past best left in the past?)

Do dish! Two commentators will be chosen as random to receive a free copy of TOO DANGEROUS TO DESIRE. (U. S. addresses only, please.)

The lovely Miss Leigh!

 

Leigh: Hullo, Lady B! Wonderful to see you. I am surprised you are hostessing a ball with Thursday fast approaching.

Lady B:  Thursday?  (aside) Miss Dare, what happens Thursday?

Leigh:   So much to do!  The turkey and pies and peas and yams and more pies…

Tessa:  Lady B, our guest is referring to Thanksgiving.  It’s this Thursday!

Lady B: Oh, yes.  That American holiday all my authoresses are so fond of.  This year, I thought of making an American feast myself.  But of course, the servants will do the cooking.

Leigh: How nice. I’m not sure where my kitchen staff ran off to…

Tessa: Neither do I! We Americans are used to doing all the shopping, preparations, and cooking ourselves.  Not to mention the cleaning up. It can be so stressful.   That’s why I invited Miss LaValle today.  She’s not only a talented authoress, but a yoga instructor!

Lady B:  A what?

Leigh:  I thought I could share some relaxation techniques to help the rest of us servant-less mortals through the holidays.

Lady B: I do find ratafia to be relaxing myself.

Tessa nods enthusiastically.

Leigh: Well, yes, but there are other more healthful ways—

Lady B: Such as peering at a handsome pair of legs?  I find that relaxing AND stimulating.

Leigh: There are many exercises that can be both relaxing and, er, stimulating. The goal is to be happily peaceful, after all. Not asleep.

Lady B: I certainly do not wish my guests to fall asleep in my ballroom.

Leigh: Of course not. At least, not until after the turkey is served.

Lady B: So, what shall we do? I have seen those strange poses in naughty books…

Leigh: Nothing like that, at least not tonight.

Tessa: Too bad!

Miss LaValle demonstrates a yoga pose, to Lady B’s amazement.

Leigh, looking a bit harried: The best relaxation technique is one that is simple, available at all moments, and widely used by heroines everywhere. Breathing! Or, taking deep breaths, to be more precise. You see, the more oxygen we draw into our bloodstream, the less our heart has to work. Shall we try it?

Lady B:  Yes!  And I think all our guests should try along at home.

Leigh:  To begin, take a deep inhale of at least four counts. And when I say inhale, I do not mean simply pressing your bosom again your bodice to show off your pale orbs to their best advantage.

Tessa: But it works so well.

Leigh: Distracts the hero every time, I agree. But for tonight, let’s draw our breath all the way down into our belly, which will be soft and full.

Lady B: Not the easiest in a corset.

Leigh: And corsets are so relaxing? I thought not. We will breathe in for four counts, letting our belly open. Then breathe out for six count, particularly feeling our shoulders relax.

Lady B, taking a deep breath and exhaling: It is rather like sighing.

Leigh: Something else our heroines do so well. Taking five such breaths, with the exhale longer than the inhale, will help drown any unpleasantness.  The trick with the breath is trying not to hurry. It’s not a race at all. The more we can focus our mind on what we are doing, the more effective the exercise.

Lady B: I do not exercise, as a rule. That is something for horses. But I do feel better. What else do you have to show us, Miss LaValle?

Leigh: If you want to increase your breath capacity, you can raise your hands overhead as you inhale and lower them as you exhale.

Tessa, grumbling: Impossible in these sleeves, as gorgeous as they are.

Leigh: Yes, they are gorgeous, if a bit poufy. When one is feeling rather poufy themselves, basic side bends and gentle twists are a wonderful way to relieve pressure in the stomach. Another motion, one most effective at restoring the nervous system, is a forward bend. I would recommend performing it in a seated position, taking care to let the head relax toward the heart as you reach for your toes.

Lady B: My toes! I cannot remember the last time I touched my toes. One has servants for these things.

Leigh: That is too bad. Four breaths in a comfortable seated forward bend (perhaps with knees bent) can change everything.

Lady B: Everything?

Leigh: Everything. It is very calming. Conversely, a back bend is enervating and brings energy to our nervous system. It can be performed after a seated forward bend by placing your hands on the floor behind you and lifting your bosom to the ceiling.

Lady B: I always lift my bosom to the ceiling.

Leigh glances at Lady B’s bosom and quickly away:  Lastly, no matter the time of the year, remembering what we have to be grateful for is always a wonderful way to unwind. For me, I am grateful you have invited me to your illustrious ballroom. Thank you for having me!

Tessa:  Thank you so much for joining us, Leigh!  I have a whole week with the darelings home from school, and I’m going to need some relaxation techniques.

Do you know who else could use some relaxation techniques?  Cat Raybourne, the heroine of Leigh’s fabulous novella The Misbehaving Marquess!  Her wandering husband has just returned–and he wants more than cup of tea.  The Misbehaving Marquessis available digitally for just $0.99.

Having awaited the return of her husband for half a decade, Catherine Raybourne, the Marchioness of Foster, has no intention of reconciling with her misbehaving marquess. But when he insists he needs an heir-immediately-she must confront her own lingering desires. Can she protect her heart while attempting to win his once again?

More about Leigh:  Leigh LaValle lives in the Pacific Northwest with her family. When she is not writing, mommying or reading, she is rarely seen cleaning. More often she is found hiking or, when she is really lucky, in the white powder of the ski slopes. She is also a devoted yoga practitioner and instructor.  Find her online at www.LeighLaValle.com.

When the hustle and bustle of the holiday season gets to you, what do you do to unwind?  Yoga? A hot bath? Ratafia?

Leave a comment, and you could win digital copies of Leigh’s The Misbehaving Marquess and The Runaway Countess!

Lady B and I sit in the Ballroom, anticipating our latest guests. It took not a little convincing for Lady B to allow the rather notorious Zoë Archer into the ballroom. After all, the last time Zoë encountered Lady B, we all gathered in a rather disreputable part of town, to meet the highly scandalous Leo Bailey (from Zoë’s Demon’s Bride). Though Mr. Bailey had a magnetic presence and a fine pair of muscular thighs, after that day, Lady B would often refer to Zoë as “that improper Archer woman.”

But when I informed Lady B that Zoë was bringing a genuine American cowboy with her to the Ballroom, well, Lady B did make a few noises of doubt, but she was certainly intrigued.

Lady B: Are those boots I hear stomping down my fine parquet floor? They certainly don’t sound like a pair of Hessians!

I believe those are a working man’s boots, Lady B. Cowboy boots.

Lady B: Good heavens! I pray the wearer of those boots isn’t also sporting a pair of spurs. My Aubusson carpets will be shredded.

Fortunately, when Zoë and her guest appear in the doorway, the man isn’t wearing spurs. He is, however, clothed in the unique style of the wild American West: a long duster coat, and the aforementioned boots. In his weathered hand, he carries a Stetson hat. I was rather disappointed to see that he didn’t have a six-shooter strapped to his thigh, but I suppose our English constables wouldn’t look kindly on a man strolling down Bond Street carrying a revolver.

Is this him? The hero of Lady X’s Cowboy? (I’ve heard of this man–Zoë’s first hero now reprinted in all his digital glory–and I’ve been dying to meet him!)

Lady B’s eyesbrows arch.

Zoë: Lady B, may I present Will Coffin. Will, this is the esteemed—and feared—Lady B.

Will: An honor, ma’am. You don’t look like, what was it you said, Zoë? “a dragon in pearls.”

Lady B gasps in indignation, her fan waving furiously, as Zoë makes a choking sound. But then Mr. Coffin winks, and the seas calm. Indeed, it seems a Herculean effort to remain out of temper with Mr. Coffin present. For all the tales of hardened gunfighters, there’s a distinct ease and sense of equanimity about this cowboy, with humor glinting in his bright blue eyes. Further, he’s exceptionally handsome, and his muscular, rangy physique bespeaks a life of demanding labor.

I see Lady B trying in vain to glimpse Mr. Coffin’s calves, but, alas, he’s wearing long trousers. But whatever she does manage to discern about our cowboy’s legs, they seem to suit Lady B, and she settles back in her chair imperiously.

Lady B: You are a long way from home, Mr. Coffin.

Will: Call me Will, ma’am.

Lady B: Very well, William—

Zoë: It’s just “Will,” Lady B. The man who named him never got around to the “iam.”

You said “the man who named him.” Does Mr. Coffin, I mean, Will, not have any parents?

Will: No, ma’am. I was orphaned when I was just a little tyke.

Lady B and I express our condolences, but Will seems unperturbed by his lack of parents.

Lady B: What brings you to London from Texas?

Will: Oh, I ain’t from Texas. I’m from Colorado.

Lady B: Don’t be ridiculous! All cowboys are from Texas! I read it in a periodical somewhere.

Zoë: I’m sorry, Lady B, but America is a big place—

Lady B seems highly vexed that the notorious Zoë is contradicting her, so I immediately step in and ask Will why he’d travel all the way from Colorado to London.

Will: It’s on account of me bein’ an orphan, ma’am. See, my folks came from England and settled in the Rockies, but they were killed in an accident, leavin’ me on my own. A miner found me and raised me like his own, until I decided I wanted to light out and start cowboyin’. Been livin’ most of my life on the trail. Well, old Jake—he was the miner who raised me—he went on to his reward not too long ago, and left me with a little bit of money. He was a good feller, Jake, and before he died, he said I should try to find my family. He was worried that, with him gone, I’d have nobody.

Lady B: That’s quite sad, Will, but haven’t you some farmwife back in Texas.

The normally good-humored cowboy’s face darkens.

Will: No, ma’am. I’m what you might call a restless spirit. Can’t seem to settle anyplace long enough to find a girl, and the ones that I’ve met, they’re awright, but none of ’em have any real spark, if you get my meaning.

Lady B: I’m not sure that I do. You Americans talk very strangely.

I ring for tea, and Lady B, myself, Zoë and Will refresh ourselves. The china cups and plates look miniscule and liable to break in Will’s large, callused hands. I cannot help but notice that beneath Will’s ebullience is a kind of melancholy, as if he wasn’t entirely certain of his place in his world.

Please forgive my impertinence, Will, I say, but I was wondering if perhaps Lady B and I might be able to use some of our connections in Society to help you locate your remaining family.

Lady B: That’s a splendid idea. I’m glad I thought of it.

The cowboy brightens, but he looks slightly reluctant to take up my offer.

Zoë: I was hoping you might make that suggestion. That’s why I brought Will here today. I knew you couldn’t resist an opportunity to show everyone how well-connected you are.

Lady B: Miss Archer, you are, without a doubt, the most audacious creature I’ve yet encountered!

Zoë: Thank you, Lady B. I do try.

Will: If you’d do that for me, ma’am, you’d make me as happy as a fox in the henhouse after the dog died.

Both Lady B and I are stunned into silence by this American’s colorful way of speaking. We resume our tea, and, in due time, everything has been consumed.

Will: I appreciate you ladies lookin’ into my family. If y’all don’t mind, my legs are getting twitchy, especially on account of me not bein’ on horseback for weeks. I’d better light out of here before I start kickin’ like a mule.

Zoë: Will, you don’t know London very well. I’ll come with you.

Will: That’s awright, Miss Zoë. I don’t mind a bit of new territory. Who knows? Maybe I’ll find myself a little adventure.

I wonder where he’s off to. In fact, where would you take an American cowboy in London? We’ll be giving away an e-copy of Lady X’s Cowboy to one commenter!

Our guest today is Miss Megan Mulry, who has brought the hero and heroine of her new release A ROYAL PAIN to meet Lady B. I adored A Royal Pain and so did many others. As Hester Browne, New York Times bestselling author of Swept Off Her Feet, put it. “Megan Mulry’s vivacious Bronte is every Englishwoman’s nightmare—the straight-talking, hot-blooded, all-American girl who bags the Duke! Now, if only all English aristos could be as delicious as Max… “  To read an excerpt visit Megan’s Website.

Welcome to The Ballroom, Megan. I’m thrilled to have you here. I can’t wait for you to meet Lady B.

Megan: I lied to Max and Bronte and told them it was a Regency costume party in modern-day Mayfair, rather than a time-travel affair that would transport them back to Regency London through the coat closet. Don’t tell!

Lady B: Welcome, Miss Mulry. Introduce me to your companion.

Megan: Thank you for inviting me to the Ballroom, Lady B.

Megan curtsies and whispers to Miranda, “Pssst shall I tell her now or later that it’s Ms. Mulry? Hasn’t Gloria Steinem visited the Ballroom, yet?” Miranda inconspicuously kicks Megan in the shin.

Megan: [wincing] Please allow me to present Maxwell Fitzalan Heyworth, the Duke of Northrop and…[looks around for Bronte]

Miranda: Your Grace.

Max: Please call me Max. It’s true that I’m a duke, but these days we prefer to keep a low profile.

Lady B: Miss Neville! You have brought an impostor into my Ballroom. This man is not the Duke of Northrop. I know the duke well. In fact Bernie is in my card room now. I shall send for him and prove it.

[Megan continues to look worriedly around for Bronte, then notices a commotion at the entrance of the ballroom as the 21st-century Duchess of Northrop, neé Bronte Talbott, attempts to fling her arms around the neck of the man she believes to be her husband. Cut to ballroom entrance.]

Bernard Heyworth, 12th Duke of Northrop: My dear, you are quite alluring, but I fear you have mistaken me for someone else.

Bronte: [removes arms from his neck and fists hands on hips] Max! It’s me, Bronte! Mistaken you for…wait a minute, when did you change your costume?

Bernie: Well, let me think. [ taps his sideburns] I returned from riding in the park, then went to my club and then for a hand of cards, and then here, so I probably changed into this attire at half past six. How does that signify?

Bronte: Max! Why are you talking like that? You sound so poncy and stuffy, like the hero in that Miranda Neville book I was telling you about!

Bernie: Aaah, very well then, so we do share a mutual acquaintance after all. Miss Neville is across the ballroom speaking to Lady B. and introducing her to–my word! What am I doing over there?!

Bronte widens her eyes then plows through the ballroom, tugging the 12th Duke behind her.

Bronte: Max! Where have you been?! Why is it so hot in here? All these candles are ridiculous! Why don’t they turn on the air conditioning? Why didn’t you tell me you had an identical twin? And Megan, I thought you said this was going to be a costume party, not a torment!

Megan: Bron, about that—

Bronte: And this dress is an atrocity! What woman in a million years would let herself be hog-tied with her chest falling out. [tugs at her corset and tries to tuck her bosom back into place, then slowly looks around to realize the entire ballroom has fallen into silence.]

Miranda: Lady B., please allow me to present Bronte, Duchess of Northrop.

Lady B.: Bernie, dear, I thought that tawdry divorce with Elizabeth Bingham was finalized years ago—

Bernie: [feigning disinterest and glancing at his gloves] Yes, Heliotrope. Last I heard my former Duchess had become the Countess of Lucan and decamped to Paris. I have not remarried, thank God.

Lady B.: [resumes waving fan vehemently] Then who, pray tell, is this?! [snaps fan shut and uses it to point at Bronte.]

Bronte: [standing up straighter] I am the wife of the 19th Duke of Northrop! Who, pray tell, are you?!

Lady B.: Miss Neville! Really! Remove this virago from my presence at once!

Miranda: She’s from the 21st century.

[A murmur of whispered gossip begins to spread around the ballroom as the band begins to tune up for a waltz. Bronte clasps her hands together excitedly.]

Bronte: Oh, Max! I love this song! Let’s dance! [Turns to Bernie and gives him a kiss on the cheek.] Sorry for the mix-up before!

Max: [smiles at his great-great-great-great-great-grandfather as Bronte pulls him toward the dance floor]: Let’s have a drink on the terrace after this set and meet properly.

Lady B.: Well! If this an example of 21st century manners I am sorry for you. Ladies ordering men to dance with them. And touching their bosoms in public. And tugging a man on to the dance floor! I never have any trouble getting Lord B to do what I want, but I assure you my methods are far subtler.

Miranda: [mutters] I haven’t noticed Lord B doing a lot of dancing.

Megan: I am so sorry to have caused any offence, Lady B.–

Lady B.: Sorry indeed! You are the one who created such a foul-mouthed guttersnipe?

Megan:[blushing] I suppose I did. But she has a good heart and she loves Max, so that must account for something.

Lady B.: Love. Pish-posh. [stares out at the dance floor where Max swings Bronte through the dance] I suppose there are worse things…

Megan tugs at Miranda’s gown and whispers. “Let’s go! I can’t handle this kind of scrutiny! Max and Bronte can find their own way back to the 21st century through that coat closet!”

Miranda: We must be off, Lady B. Thank you for inviting Megan and her creations.

Lady B.: Yes, yes. [dismisses Megan and Miranda with a light lift of her fan]

[Back hall near the time-travel coat closet]

Megan: Miranda! I am so sorry that was such a disaster! Now do you see why I had to put all of that Regency goodness into the 21st century? None of my characters would survive an hour around here! [Dives head first into the coat closet.]

Do you think you would be a social pariah or a diamond of the first water if you time-traveled back to Regency London? And if you met your ancestor, what would you ask him/her? Megan will send a copy of A Royal Pain to one lucky commenter.

Another especially glittering night in the Ballroom, everyone wearing their finest. In autumn jewel tones, natch. Lady B is discreetly eyeing a young gentleman’s legs in very snug pantaloons when I drift over, waving my fan. I notice our Patroness has a particular gleam of pride in her eyes tonight. And I suspect I know why.

Gaelen: I trust you are pleased with my offering this evening, my dear.

Lady B: Indeed. Lady Halifax will be positively green with envy that our new guest came to my Ballroom instead of elsewhere today–ha! Another coup. But I suppose I have you to thank for it, Ms. Foley.

Gaelen: You certainly do! Ah, I jest. Anything for you, Lady B.  It was rather clever of me. Why, she here comes now!

<Squawk! Who, then?>

Gaelen: Quiet, Albert! Only one of the most exciting new stars rising in the Regency firmament these days–our special guest of the day–Maya Rodale!

On Sale Now!

Welcome, Maya! ((air kisses, dahlings)) And congratulations on your wonderful new book, Seducing Mr. Knightly. (A November Top Pick from RT! from HarperCollins/Avon) We’re so happy to have you here.  I understand both stars of the story will be dropping by tonight, as well?

Maya nods, and I do the formal intro’s betwixt the author and Her Ladyship.

Psst – Readers  - While Her Ladyship is grilling Maya on the diverse topics on which she grills every new visitor, I wanted to tell you in an aside that Maya Rodale has also written a non-fiction book championing romance novels, which is another reason why we love aside from smashing talent and general adorable-ness. Check out the vid:

Gaelen: (I told you you’d like her! Well, it looks like I’d better save the poor girls from Lady B’s interrogation. Come with!) Grabbing your arm and dragging you about as I am wont to do. 

We can hear the question Lady B is asking as we join the pair engrossed in conversation. I can see Maya has found favor in Her Ladyship’s eyes and that is something. Not that I’m the least bit surprised.

Lady B: And what is  your favorite part of writing one of these books of yours, my dear?

Maya: Though perhaps I shouldn’t make such confessions on short acquaintance, I must admit that my favorite part of writing is turning in a manuscript and going to have my hair done by a handsome man at a fancy salon. Though lolling about at home, reigning as Queen over fictional worlds of my own creation is a close second.

Gaelen: Hear, hear. I’m all for lolling about and salon/spa days!  Maya, you’ve written some nonfiction, as noted, and some shorter works, including a novella in an anthology with our own Katharine Ashe and

Now Available

Miranda Neville, as well as another great favorite around here, Caroline Lindon, entitled ONCE UPON A BALLROOM. And obviously we love that title. But what you’re best known for is your marvelous Writing Girls Series. What’s it all about?

Maya: The Writing Girls series is an ode to some of my favorite things: scandal, tabloids, humorous heroines and seductive heroes. The novels feature four daring Regency-era ladies who write for the most popular newspaper in town—I do trust that Lady B is an avid reader of The London Weekly. Of course, the stories would not be complete without the dashing rogues who are in turns outraged and delighted (wink!) by the heroines.

Writing Girls author Maya Rodale

Gaelen: Gasp! Don’t look now, but here comes Annabelle, heroine of Seducing Mr. Knightly! I’m so excited to meet her. Shh, act natural.

Welcome, Annabelle! Well, I thought I had the coolest job in the world.  But you get to tell people what to do all day! You’re an advice columnist! Is that the best gig on the planet or what?

Annabelle is beaming modestly.

Lady B: I’ll ask the questions here, Miss Foley. Now, then, let me have a look at you, gel. Hmm. Unrequited love. Very painful.

Annabelle: What? You know about that?

Gaelen: Annabelle, Lady B. knows all.

Lady B: Now then, Miss Swift, how in the world did you come to find yourself writing for The London Weekly, and what has you so fixated on your handsome employer?

Annabelle: Hello…What? I’m sorry but Mr. Knightly is just over there, leaning oh so seductively [Sighs]. There are two instances when I have displayed something like daring in my life. The first when I entered a contest and to my surprise, won the position of advice columnist for The London Weekly. The second instance occurred when I asked my readers on advice for how I might finally, oh finally, capture Mr. Knightly’s attentions. He’s always so intensely fixated upon the newspaper. Can you just imagine if he loved a woman with that intensity? [Sigh. Again.] I do…

Gaelen: Now that I see him, I can’t blame you one bit. Hubba…

Later that night: We find Lady B deep in conversation with Derek Knightly, the swoon-worthy hero of Maya’s book.

Lady B: And what what was the moment you finally opened your eyes and realized that Miss Swift was no ordinary girl?

Derek Knightly:  Does Miss Swift seem different to you? [Gaze drops to Miss Swift’s rather low cut bodice]. I vow, she’s changing every day. I used to think of her as “the quiet one who doesn’t cause trouble” and now everywhere I turn…she’s TROUBLE. Tempting, maddening, taunting TROUBLE. But the day she fainted into my arms truly opened my eyes to her. I knew she feigned that faint, and I knew it was part of her ruse to seduce that “Nodock” as she referred to him in her column. But once I held her in my arms there was no turning back.

Gaelen: Sigh.

Annabelle comes over near Derek, smiling a little too much. He in turn gazes charmingly at her.

Gaelen: Ahem! I  say, maybe we should test Annabelle’s Advice Columnist skills! That would be fun! Annabelle, what say you?   Anyone have a question, problem??

Lady B: Ugh.

Gaelen: You have in one mind?

Lady B: No doubt you are all too familiar with my Problem. Everyone knows about…

Monty.

Lady B: Right, then. Here’s my question for you column, gel. ‘Dear Annabelle, a young, ahem, gentleman of my acquaintance has a habit of rather wild behavior–

<Squawk! Bad nephew! He’s trouble! Rakehell!>

Lady B: Gaelen, who taught Albert how to say Rakehell?

Gaelen, guiltily: Ummm…..

Lady B: Never mind. Quiet, bird! As I was saying, how do I convince him that it is high time he settled down and took a wife?

Annabelle: How does one convince the sun not to rise or the seasons not to turn?! Trying to convince a wild rogue to settle down and marry is a daunting and may be an impossible task.  However, if the gentleman becomes convinced the matter is his idea…well, just try to dissuade him of it then!

Gaelen, applauding: Nicely done, Miss Swift! And congratulations on the fake swoon, by the way. Brilliant! Quick thinking, too.

Maya: Dear readers! Any swooning occur in this ballroom? Tell me, would you ever dare to fake a faint?

Leave a comment and you’ll be eligible to win a signed copy of Maya’s previous novel, The Tattooed Duke!

Congratulations to Robin D, winner of Vanessa Kelly‘s holiday Regency His Mistletoe Bride!

Thanks to everyone who came to our early-bird Christmas party yesterday. Join us again on Mondays, Thursdays and Saturdays as Lady B and the authoresses of the Ballroom celebrate At Home Month all November long with more fabulous guests and giveaways!

Vanessa, gazing about the ballroom at the lavish Christmas decorations:  Wow!  You gals really know how to throw a holiday party.  Look at all that mistletoe. I’m betting there’s going to be a bit of action in the window alcoves later this evening.

Award-winning author Vanessa Kelly

Katharine:  No doubt a’tall. (mumbling) Especially once Tessa gets her hands on the Wassail bowl.

Vanessa, squinting:  Say, what is Tessa doing over there by the refreshment table?  Is she spiking the punch?

Katharine:  Look!  Here comes Lady B.  My lady, may I present to you a fabulous friend and authoress, Vanessa Kelly?

Vanessa, attempting an awkward, New Jersey curtsy:  Lady B, thank you so much for inviting me.  I hope you don’t mind that I brought a few friends along.

Lady B:  It looks as though you’ve brought an entire regiment, Miss Kelly.  Since it’s the holiday season, however, the more the merrier.  Who is that young lady hiding behind that column?

Vanessa:  Oh, that’s Phoebe Stanton, the new Countess of Merritt.  She grew up in a small Quaker village in America and she’s not quite comfortable at these big London parties.

Lady B:  A Quaker village?  How remarkable.  Come forward, gel, and let me get a good look at you.

Phoebe:  Good evening, Lady B.  I cannot tell you how much I am enjoying your lovely party, especially the decorations.  I would like to do something similar when my husband and I return home to Mistletoe Manor for Christmas.

Lady B:  Mistletoe Manor!  Delightful name for an estate.  And I must say, you have lovely manners for a colonial.  I quite approve of that modest neckline on your gown too.  It’s shocking how many ladies seem to be falling out of their bodices this season.  They’ll all be taken with the chills.

Katharine, mumbling:  Or taken in quite another manner . . . Ehem! That is, the gentlemen do seem to like it.

Lady B:  That doesn’t make it—(peers through her quizzing glass at the refreshment table). Is that a Wassail bowl?  I do so enjoy a nice cup of Christmas punch.

Katharine:  We used your old family recipe to make it up, Lady B.  There’s an awful lot of brandy in it.

Available now!

Lady B:  Nonsense.  You can barely taste the brandy in that recipe.

Katharine:  Must be all that hard cider drowning out the brandy’s flavor.

Lady B:  Precisely. Miss Ashe, who is that young man lurking around the refreshment table?

Phoebe, looking over her shoulder:  Oh, dear.  That is my cousin, Robert Stanton.  He is truly very nice, but—

Lady B:  Is he pouring something into the Wassail bowl?  Why is he whispering to Tessa in that sinister manner?

Katharine:  Hey, Phoebe!  Isn’t that your husband heading our way?

Lady B:  That strapping young man is your husband, Lady Merritt?

Phoebe:  Yes, that is Lucas.

Lady B:  If he’s your husband, why are you blushing?  Oh . . . newlyweds, of course!  And those Stanton men—rakes and rapscallions, every last one of them.  Miss Ashe, introduce me at once.

Lucas, stalking up:  Phoebe, we’re in for it now.  Robert just spiked the Wassail bowl with gin, and that recipe was potent enough to begin with.  This ball is turning into a damned bacchanal.

Katharine, sotto voce: Yay!

Phoebe:  Lucas, your language!  Whatever will Lady B think?

Lady B:  Lady Merritt, I think I’d like to meet your husband.  Young man, you fill out that coat remarkably well.  You were a soldier, were you not?  I can tell by the shoulders.

Lucas:  I was, but I’m not sure what that has to do with my coat or my shoulders.  If you don’t mind, Lady B, it’s time I take my wife home.  Your party seem to be getting rather out of hand and Phoebe’s not used to this sort of thing.  Your husband, for instance, is unconscious on a divan behind that potted plant, with a parrot sitting on his chest.

Wassail Bowl (without Robert’s gin)

Lady B:  Really?  How very odd of him.  Lord B, that is.  Not Albert.

Phoebe:  But Lucas, I’m not ready to go home.  I want to stay and hear the Waits.

Katharine:  The whats?

Phoebe:  The Waits.  The local villagers who come in to sing Christmas carols.  They’re called the Waits.

Lucas:  Absolutely not.  They’re usually the worst ones for over-imbibing, with very unpleasant results, if you get my meaning.

Lady B:  A choir of tipsy carollers . . . Horrifying.

Katharine, whispering to Vanessa:  She totally loves it.

Lucas:  It’s time to go.  (Gives Phoebe a smoldering look as he leads her away.)

Katharine:  Me thinks the carollers were a cover story.

Lady B, fanning herself:  Charming man.

Phoebe, waving over her shoulder:  Thank you for the lovely party, Lady B!  Goodbye, Katharine!

Lady B:  Lord B used to make the most transparent excuses to—

Katharine:  To . . . ?

Lady B:  I’d better go see to him.  (Bustles away.)

Katharine:  Well, Vanessa, I guess that leaves me, you and the Wassail bowl.  Robert, save some for us!

Lord B cannot possibly be passed out on a divan because of a bit of brandy. But as we all move into crazy holiday mode, some of us are prone to go a little batty, it’s true. What’s your first must-do task of the holiday season this year? One randomly chosen commenter today wins an autographed copy of Vanessa Kelly’s His Mistletoe Bride. 

Here’s the yummy back cover description of His Mistletoe Bride: 

When Major Lucas Stanton inherited his earldom, he never dreamed his property would include the previous earl’s granddaughter. Phoebe Linville is a sparkling American beauty, yes, but with a talent for getting into trouble. Witness the compromising position that forced them into wedlock. Whisked away to Mistletoe Manor, his country estate, it isn’t long before she is challenging his rules—and surprising him in and out of bed . . .

Phoebe has no intention of bowing to Lucas’s stubbornness even though he offers all that she wants. His kisses and unexpected warmth are enticing, but Phoebe is determined to show the Earl of Merritt what real love is all about. And if that takes twelve nights of delicious seduction by a roaring fire, she’s more than willing to reveal her gifts very slowly . . .

And here are few other places you can find Vanessa online: Facebook,  Pinterest, Twitter, Vanessa’s Blog, Rock*It Reads.

“Miss MacLean!”

I turn and to see Lady B bearing down on me from across the ballroom. Oh, dear. What did I do now?  I paste a bright smile on my face. “Yes, Lady B?”

“You know it is At-Home Month, Miss MacLean.”

“I do.”

“And, as such, I expect all you authoresses to invite interesting other authoresses to join me for the month. Here. At Beaufetheringstone House.”

“Are you suggesting that we are not interesting in our own octet?”

She cuts a look at Sabrina, chatting with a nearby potted fern. “I would not say uninteresting.”

I point to Katharine, chatting to a ghost (leftover from Halloween?) in the corner. “No. We bring the interest.”

Lady B raises a brow. It occurs to me that she doesn’t always understand me. “Yes. Well, in any event, it is November, and I was promised interesting authoresses.”

“And I have delivered,” I say with pride, as Anna Campbell bursts through the bunting and into the ballroom. She waves madly at us and calls out, “Hello!”

Lady B looks to me. “She sounds . . . foreign.”

I ignore the words as Anna arrives. “Miss Anna Campbell, may I present Lady Beaufetheringstone?”

Anna snickers.

I nudge her with an elbow. “It’s not spelled like it sounds.”

“I would hope not!” She whispers before turning back to our hostess. “Lady B! Thank you for having me here to drink tea and dish the dirt today!”

“Dish the what?” Lady B looks to me.

“It’s an expression! An interesting one, don’t you think?”

Lady B lifts her lorgnettes. “Hmmm. You are an authoress?”

“I am!” Anna exclaims, “I’ve been dying to come here and make my curtsy! Cue creaking knees! I’ve waited so long, I’m not the spry young debutante I was when I first launched my assault upon society!”

Lady B’s eyes go wide. “Did you say you were called Campbell?”

“I did!”

“Anna Campbell of the soprano solo at last week’s Puckleton-Puckley musicale?”

“I see my reputation precedes me.”

“I hear it was indeed an assault on society.”

I step in. “Lady B!” This is not a good beginning to At Home Month.

Anna can take care of herself, however, “Goodness me, people can be cruel! I almost got that high C – at least the cracked chandeliers indicated that was the case!”

“Lady B, Anna is the author of the recently released Seven Nights in A Rogue’s Bed.”

Lady B cracks a smile. “Only seven? Too bad.”

Anna chortles. “Oh, I knew that we would be friends, my lady.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself Miss Campbell. Now. I’m trying to place that accent . . . Wales?”

Anna shakes her head.

“Not Ireland.”

“No, my lady.”

“Or that dreadful American South?”

“No, my lady.”

“Well, don’t keep me guessing, gel!”

“Australia.”

There is a pause. “Dear me. With the criminals?”

“Lady B!” I exclaim. After all, Anna is very nice. Not at all a criminal. I don’t think.

“Precisely!” Anna interjects. “I thought all you high falutin’ ton types might be interested to know more about the up and coming colony out in the South Seas.”

“High Fal-whating?”

“Falutin’!” Anna crows.

Lady B looks confused. I turn to Tessa, who is thankfully nearby. She passes me a glass of ratafia, which I down. She refills. Bless her.

 “You see, Australia is in many ways a creation of the Regency!” Anna continues on her historical lesson. “Captain Cook—”

“Lovely legs, him.”

A light flares in Anna’s eyes. “Reaaally?”

Lady B nods once. “Very nice. Go on.”

Anna does. “Well, Ol’ Lovely Legs discovered the East Coast of Australia and claimed it for Great Britain in 1770 and it was settled as a penal colony in 1788, but it took a few years to find its feet.”

“Not many women there, were there?”

“No, indeed.” Anna leans in, “The odds were pretty good you’d find a handsome young man if you went looking.”

It’s Lady B’s turn to look pensive. “Reaaaally.”

I need more Ratafia.

“We were lucky that an architect of genius Francis Greenway decided to forge a check in 1812 and hit our shores in 1814. We were doubly fortunate that Greenway arrived when the man called the Father of Australia, Lachlan Macquarie, a Scottish general whose career took place mostly in India, was governor.”

“Did he have nice legs?”

“Very.” Anna doesn’t miss a beat.

“Wait a second,” I interject, pointing to a painting nearby. “That man does not look like he has nice legs.”

“Where did that painting come from?” Lady B looks surprised. It occurs to me that the changeable nature of the ballroom is still weird to her.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I will most certainly worry about it. Some criminal snuck in and installed a painting!”

“Are they still criminals if they bring something?” Anna asks.

We’re all flummoxed.

“Nice legs, you say?” Lady B asks.

“Very,” Anna repeats. I ignore the fact that he couldn’t have possibly had nice legs. “Macquarie was the first person to look at the shambles of Sydney Town and recognize that a future nation lurked under this mixture of drunken soldiers, convicts and ex-convicts. He felt that a great city deserved great architecture and he commissioned Greenway (Greenway’s the other picture!) to design a number of buildings that still adorn Sydney, including a beautiful church, an impressive convict barracks and a charming gothic folly of a stables for Government House that for many years functioned as the NSW Conservatorium of Music. I’ve got photos I took many years ago of the Hyde Park Barracks and St. James’s Church. As you can see, they date from my little-known “one leg shorter than the other so everything slopes” period.”

“What’s a photo?” Lady B asks.

“Don’t worry about it,” Anna and I say.

“Sadly,” Anna continues, “the powers that be in London didn’t share Macquarie’s vision for the future of Australia. They howled with horror at how much money he was spending adorning a place they judged merely as a remote location for dumping people too wicked for Britain’s pristine airs.”

“There’s always room for wickedness, I say,” Lady B says.

Anna smiles. “I thought you’d feel that way, my lady. Nevertheless, Macquarie was recalled in disgrace in 1821 and his protégé Greenway fell from favor with him.”

“How tragic.”

“Indeed! Macquarie was a broken man after his return to the U.K. and passed away in 1824. He’s buried on the Isle of Mull on a plot of land that belongs to the Australian Government, a fact which I find very moving.  Both men are regarded with great admiration and affection in Australia. I lived in inner Sydney for eleven years and I loved that their Regency legacy was all around me.”

“That’s a lovely story, Miss Campbell, but I’m afraid you’re mistaken. Macquarie is quite alive! It’s only Eighteen hundred and–”

Uh-oh. That pesky time-space continuum strikes again.

“Lady B!” I jump in. “Tell us more about Captain Cook’s legs…”

—

As you can probably gather, Anna is a bit of a Macquarie groupie. Do you have a historical figure you admire? Do you have a historical figure you despise? And do you think my singing really WAS that bad at the musicale? The cats liked it. I distinctly remember them joining in. And the dogs. And the horses!

One lucky commenter will win a signed copy of SEVEN NIGHTS IN A ROGUE’S BED from Anna!