“Oh, Lady B! I’m so happy. Tomorrow’s a release day for me.”

“I’m so glad to hear it, Miss Dare. Who are the lucky couple this time? Another of those charmingly…unique…Spindle Cove ladies, I presume.  And does she get another rakish viscount? A taciturn officer, perhaps?”

“None of the above, my lady. This time, I’ve paired Miss Diana Highwood with the village blacksmith, Aaron Dawes.”

“The blacksmith?” Lady B sputters.

Despite Lady B’s obvious surprise, she’s still taking this much better than the heroine’s mother will.

“Yes, that’s why the book is called Beauty and the Blacksmith.”

“But Miss Dare, where would a gentlewoman and a blacksmith have any opportunity to become acquainted, much less fall in love?”

“At the smithy, of course. You see, Diana’s been infatuated with Aaron for ages. She brings every scrap of metal she owns to the smithy, just so she’ll have an excuse to sit and watch him work. She’s broken her necklace three times now by smashing it with a rock, just so Mr. Dawes can mend it.”

“Ah,” says Lady B. “I do know well the silly games young lovers play when they want to find time together.”

“Do you?” I sidle close, sensing a juicy story. “Do tell.”

“Once, at a ball in my first season, I developed a potent infatuation with the most handsome gentlemen I’d ever seen. Never in my young life had I glimpsed a finer pair of legs! I thought I noticed him admiring me too, but my dances were already reserved for the evening. Every last one, taken! By a line of boring old men my mother had chosen.”

(I make a mental note to ask about Lady B’s mother on another occasion.)

“I just knew I had to talk to that man,” Lady B says, leaning close. “Whether we met on the dance floor, the gardens, or somewhere else. I sensed that my future happiness would depend on it.  I was desperate, so I…”

She whispers the rest to me behind her raised fan.

“No,” I say.

“Oh, yes.”

I can’t help laughing. “Did you ever tell Lord B the truth after you were married?”

“My dear girl. What makes you think the gentleman in question was Lord B.?”

I am shocked. Shocked.

But I approve.

“Say, Monty,” I ask, “what’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever done to impress a lady?”

Monty lifts his head to answer. Even from across the ballroom, I can see that fresh bruises cover his face. “Well, let me think…” he begins.

“Never mind,” I say.

I mean, really. He must have so many stories to choose from! We could write about it for a month. Oh, wait. We did.

What about you? What’s the strangest, silliest, or most outrageous or embarrassing thing you’ve ever done to get the attention of someone you fancied?

And what bold ploy to catch a gentleman’s attention do you think Lady B whispered behind her fan?

Thanks so much to everyone for sharing your crazy travel stories this past Thursday!  It certainly made my own flight delays seem a great deal less traumatic.

I apologize for the lack of responses after about mid-day on Thursday.  Whether it was Lady B or the internet gremlins, I somehow managed to get myself locked out of the Ballroom while I was en route.  (I suspect Lady B.)

The winner of The Ashford Affair is… Geraldine Lucas!  Congrats, Geraldine!  You should be hearing from me shortly….

I am really not sure how my airline managed to route me from Scottsdale to Ann Arbor via the Ballroom, but I have my quilty Vera Bradley bag over my shoulder, and I’ve just managed to clear Ballroom security (limping a bit as I wiggle my feet back into my black leather wedges), when I hear the pitter patter of slipper-shod feet approaching.

And we’re not talking dainty, little Cinderella-sized feet here. It’s more fee fie fo fum.

In her usual, dulcet tones, Lady B barks, “Miss Willig, you are scurrying.”

So much for making it to my gate without Lady B seeing me. “Is that so scurrilous?”

Lady B presses her eyes shut in an expression of extreme weariness. “And now you are punning.”

Fair enough. I could point out that she’s been speaking in italics, which you can only really get away with if you’re Anne of Green Gables, but that would require explaining Anne of Green Gables to Lady B, and, at the moment, I just don’t have the time. With Lady B, it’s always easier to just go the mea culpa route straightaway, without passing Go and without collecting two hundred guineas.

“Sorry,” I say, with what I hope is a convincing air of contrition. “It’s just that my new book, THE ASHFORD AFFAIR, just came out on Tuesday, so I’m in the middle of book tour right now—”

Lady B cuts me off with an imperious wave of her lorgnette. “Book what?”

“Tour,” I say meekly, backing away towards the door, the colorful paisley satchel out of which I’ve been living for the past few days slung over my shoulder. “Actually, I’m supposed to be in Michigan right now to give a book talk, so if you’ll excuse me….”

Lady B draws herself up to her full height, which is pretty impressive when you add in the ostrich feathers. “What is this tour of which you speak?” she demands.

“It’s something authors do,” I say, in the hopes that she’ll decide to ask someone else. I look around to see if Sarah or Kate might be lurking behind a potted palm, but, unfortunately, they seem to be actually working on their books, well away from the Ballroom fray.

Lady B is not to be swayed. “Miss Willig, I have learned that there are MANY strange things authors do. Many. Strange. Things.”

She speaks with such conviction that I’m almost tempted to drop my overnight bag and ask her what she means. But the clock is ticking… and Lady B is still speaking.

“I have not asked you, Miss Willig, about any of THOSE things. I have asked you about this… ‘book tour’,” Lady B says, pronouncing the term rather like the King of Siam when he’s particularly annoyed with Mrs. Anna.

I surreptitiously check my watch. I have to be at Nicola’s Books in Ann Arbor at seven o’clock in the evening real time, so, allowing for the time space continuum and the occasional wrong turning around Victorian London on the way to modern now, with a slight possibility of Hogwarts… I really should be getting going.

But Lady B is in the way.

“It’s one of those rites of book passage,” I explain hastily. “Authors go from place to place talking about their books—sort of like mummers. Or wandering minstrels. Except that we don’t sing. Usually. Except when large quantities of alcohol are involved.”

Lady B strikes her best Mrs. Siddons pose. “Why are you not touring through the Ballroom? Am I not worthy of your time and attention? After having housed you, clothed you, fed you my very own ratafia….”

There’s a dangerous glint in her eye. One might even call it militant.

I so regret having given her that sword parasol for Christmas.

“Er…. I didn’t want to bore you?” I venture. Lady B doesn’t exactly look mollified, so I quickly add, “And the book isn’t really the right time period. It’s set in 1920s England and Kenya and 1999 New York, so it’s at least a hundred years out of the way.”

“I shall be the one to determine what bores me,” Lady B declares. (And, yes, she usually does.) She sets her arms akimbo, and says, in chilling tones, “All right, Miss Willig, TOUR THE BALLROOM.”

I don’t think she’ll be amused if I simply take a turn about the room, so, with Albert squawking sardonically above me, I take out The Ashford Affair and begin to read the Prologue.

Lady B interrupts about three lines in. “Is that all?”

Her reaction makes me think of Elizabeth I, promised the riches of the new world by an enterprising courtier, instead being presented with a bushel of potatoes. And some weedy stuff.

I mark my place with my finger. “Usually there’s also a Q&A at the end.”

Lady B waves a dismissive hand at me. “Go along, Miss Willig.” As her long train brushes the floor, I hear her mutter, “I thought there would be more mumming….”

As I make a run for my plane, what are your craziest travel stories?

(And, authors, what are your best book tour stories?)

I’ll be giving away a copy of THE ASHFORD AFFAIR to one person who comments on this post today!

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

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

“Miss Willig!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kenya, 1926

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which time period would you most like to visit?

“I’ve heard a rumor, Miss Darby.”

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

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

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

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

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

Ohhh. That.

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

She is definitely in a huff.

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

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

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

“Enough with the excuses, Miss Darby.”

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

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

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

And then starts to read. Aloud.

“Emily Anderson, right?”

There . . . attraction almost all gone.

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

Almost.

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

“I will definitely see what I can do.”

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

“Miss MacLean!”

I leap to attention at the refreshment table, where I’m snacking on lobster patties and chatting with Sabrina, quietly. I wasn’t expecting any hullabaloo at this ball, as I really honestly haven’t been doing anything to deserve it. My latest book came out this week–so I’ve been extraordinarily good. I’ve written blog posts and posted giveaways and tweeted and facebooked and traveled to Rhode Island, and I am quite certain that I haven’t caused any trouble at all. Not even the kind that Lady B always seems to pin on me.

“Yes, Lady B?” I say, popping another lobster patty into my mouth. After all, it’s release week. And these things are buttery and lovely. I deserve one. Or ten. Or more.

“Miss MacLean, it seems I have misplaced my lorgnettes.”

I hesitate, knowing that I can’t say, So?, and instead settle on, “Oh, that does sound dreary. How can I help?”

“Miss Neville thought you might have access to another set.”

“Of glasses.”

“Quite.”

I tilt my head and consider the lady. “You are aware that I am not an eye doctor.”

LOST: Lorgnettes. If found, please return to Heliotrope, Lady Beaufetheringstone

“I am. But Miss Neville suggested that someone might have left a pair of spectacles somewhere in or around your current festivities.” She pauses. “Festivities to which I am told all your fellow authoresses were invited and somehow…I was not.”

I clear my throat. “Festivites?”

Sabrina coughs and excuses herself. I look after her longingly. Traitor.

Lady B looks irritated. “Do not play coy with me. Some kind of bespectacled bonanza.”

Bonanza? How does Lady B know that word?! “Oh! You mean Girls Who Wear Glasses Month!”

“I am quite sure I don’t understand that descriptor, but it does sound as though you might be able to help me with replacing my lorgnette for the evening.”

“Of course!” I say. “I’ve got dozens of ladies in lenses all month long — and lots of awesome giveaways of books! You should come join us!”

Lady B looks at me as though I am vermin. “I haven’t need of books, silly girl. I’ve need of spectacles!”

I nod once and head to a nearby table, where I shoved my bag when I came in. I bypass the laptop case, the iphone, the iPad and other things before arriving at what I am looking for. A large box of back up eyeglasses.

I know. You’re saying, that’s crazy! Why would she have that? Well let me tell you–when you’re doing a book tour that requires multiple cities, having a few pairs of eyeglasses to ensure that you can absolutely see everytime there’s something *to* see is critical.

Me-ow.

I offer Lady B a pair of cats’ eye glasses. You know the ones. Bedazzled and bedazzling.

“Dear God. You cannot expect me to affix those to my face.”

I consider the frames. “Why not?”

“Because they look ridiculous.”

“Oh, but lorgnettes are very stylish.”

Lady B’s back goes up. “I beg your pardon, Miss MacLean, but they *are* quite stylish.”

“Lady B,” I begin carefully, knowing that I must tread lightly, “I think you ought to reconsider the lorgnette, honestly.”

“Whatever for?”

She’s clearly worried that girls who wear glasses don’t get passes.

“They’re getting a bad rap. The lorgnettes.”

“What kind of bad rap?” (Again, I’m impressed she understands the word.)

“Well,” I say, pointing across the room. “Not many of these women stand up for the cause of spectacles. Take her, for example.” I point across the room to a sad looking brunette with a lorgnette draped down her bosom.

“She looks miserable.”

“She’s probably deciding which is worse, wearing those glasses or being blind.”

“It looks like she’s chosen blind.”

“Yes. My point exactly. You should try something new. Fresh.”

She casts a strange gaze at the cats’ eyes. “Something like these?”

“They’re very posh.” I nod, assuring her. If Sabrina hadn’t left ten minutes earlier, she would have agreed. I’m certain of it.

She seems skeptical, but leaves the lenswear on. “It is helpful to have them perch on the ears.”

“Right?” I say, “They keep your hands free. For other things!”

Lady B narros her gaze on mine. “For example?”

“For example,” I reply, producing a copy of One Good Earl Deserves a Lover from my diaphanous skirts, “Reading.”

***

Do you wear glasses? Did you always want to? Either way…who is your favorite lady in lenses? Share in comments for a chance to win One Good Earl Deserves a Lover (US Only)! And be sure to join me at macleanspace.com all February long to win books & prizes as we pay homage to bespectabled beauties!  

Today I’ve brought the hero and heroine of The Importance of Being Wicked to The Ballroom. I’m a little nervous because last week Lady B got her knickers in a twist (though she does not, of course wear knickers; that would be anachronistic) about Shana Galen’s courtesan heroines. Since this was followed by an incident involving Monty, the second footman, and a masked lady of easy virtue, she announced that The Ballroom was becoming Undesirably Raffish and we all have to Behave Ourselves. Being Lady B, she failed to provide explicit details about how we are supposed to reform. I find it hard to believe she has become an advocate of unspiked ratafia and rational conversation, but you never know with her.

Lady B: Miss Neville! I’ve heard things about your guests today and I am Not Amused.

Miranda: Really? You couldn’t possibly object to the Duke of Castleton. He never misbehaves, plus he’s a duke and very good looking. Nice legs.

Lady B: Yes, yes. Castleton is all very well. But Caro Townsend? Hardly heroine material. She consorts with artists, spends too much money, and gives wild parties.

Miranda: And your problem is?

Lady B: I don’t have to explain myself, neither do I have to receive her.

Miranda: As it happens, you already have. Or maybe you will. I get confused about the time-space thingy. Castleton and Caro attend a ball in your house in the course of the book.

Lady B: Harrumph. Since you’ve already written it, there’s not much I can do. But I can and will refuse to invite them again.

Miranda: You weren’t always so stuffy, Lady B. I’m in a position to know. The Importance of Being Wicked is set in 1800, when you were the newest and most dashing hostess on the London scene.

Lady B: I did cause quite a stir.

Disporting at a Masquerade

Miranda: There’s a scene in the book when a certain lady, who may or may not have been wearing peacock colored gloves, disports herself at a public masquerade.

Lady B: (aside) Ah, memories. (to Miranda) It wasn’t I and you had better not have said so.

Miranda: I name no names. But. It isn’t too late to insert the identity of the lady.

Lady B: The book has already been printed.

Miranda: I have one word. Digital. It’s easy to change things these days. [hums and adjusts her gloves] If Castleton and Caro are allowed into the ballroom now, I shall be too busy to attend to the matter.

Lady B: Since you ask, I suppose I can receive Mrs. Townsend. As a favor to you.

Miranda: (aside) I have a feeling I will end up paying for this. (to Lady B.) You are ever the gracious hostess. Allow me to present the Duke of Castleton and Mrs. Caroline Townsend.

Lady B: The lady appears to have forgotten her bodice.

Caro: It’s the latest fashion from Paris and hardly needs any fabric. Since I’m always trying to economize, I had an entirely new wardrobe made up. Can you imagine the savings?

Castleton groans.

Lady B, distinctly thawing. You make a very good point. I shall mention the idea to Lord B. next time he wishes to retrench. Do you have any other advice?

Caro: Charades always make a party go. My guests enjoy costumes. It’s a great excuse to dress as members of the opposite sex.

Lady B: For ladies to display their legs and gentlemen to cover them is against nature.

Caro: My cat always attends my parties, just as Albert adds a certain something to your balls

Lady B: I wouldn’t dream of entertaining without Albert, but he Does Not Like Cats.

<squawk squawk squawk>

Caro: Don’t worry. Tish always stays at home in case someone needs bail. It’s not uncommon for at least one person to be taken up by the Watch after one of my dinners.

Lady B: I’ve always heard that prisons are quite uncomfortable.

Caro: Most important of all, the first thing you do when you arrive at a ball is find an empty room or large cupboard in case you wish to be private.

Castleton: Caro, I think it’s time to let Lady B. see to her other guests.

Caro: Don’t be stuffy Thomas. But since you ask so nicely, I discovered a dark antechamber with a very comfortable sofa.

What do you think makes a party go? With holiday season coming up, Lady B (and the twenty-first-century authoresses) could use your tips. One commenter will win a signed copy of The Importance of Being Wicked.

One more thing, my cat Ernie has made a video about how he inspired Caro’s pet.

Congratulations to LilMissMolly for winning a signed print copy of my new ghost novel, Captive Bride!

A lord, a lady and a ghost.

Thanks to everyone for all the fun yesterday. Lord Iversly had a wonderful time with you, though he’ll never admit it because that’s just the sort of ghost he is.

Though Captive Bride is a full-length novel, I published it as an inexpensive e-book for only $1.99. Many of you who prefer print requested that I make it available in paperback form, so I’ve been able to do that for $11.95. It is now available through Createspace (where the shipping is rather dear) and will soon be available via Amazon.

Happy Halloween romance and adventure!

Warmest wishes,

Katharine 

We’ve had vampires. We’ve had modern people. We’ve had ballroom guests from all over the world. 

Jousting knights in the 15th-century

But for the first time ever I introduce to you—right here in the ballroom—a medieval lord! Oh, and by the way, he’s a ghost. 

Me: Welcome to the ballroom, Lord Iversly.

Iversly: Charmed, my dear.

Me: Everybody, this is Lord Rhys Iversly, the villain of my new Regency ghost novel, Captive Bride. Although I don’t think he’s a villain at all, really. Just terribly tormented by an awful incident in his past. His living past, that is. Before he died, you know, and started haunting a castle.

Iversly: Good of you to clarify that.

Me: Speaking of clarity, let’s be very clear here: I can’t see you. And if any of our guests can see you that means they’re—

Iversly: Maidens.

Me: So, lovelies, I won’t be testing anybody about what Rhys looks like here today, k? Let me just assure you, he’s tall, dark and a wee bit forbidding.

Iversly: A wee bit?

Me: I’m biased toward your better side.

Iversly: Foolish female.

Me: I knew you’d say that and I’ll let you get away with it because you’re medieval. But you can’t hide the truth. You’re a noble fellow, Rhys, no matter what you wish everyone to believe. And I know why.

Iversly: Managing female.

Halloween happily ever after!

Me: Job description of an author! But let’s get back to the point. You’re from the Middle Ages. The star-crossed lovers of Captive Bride, Bea Sinclaire and Lord Peter Cheriot, on the other hand, exist here in the space-time continuum locale that is Regency England.

Iversly: Do recall, madam, that I also exist in the Regency era.

Me: Yes, but you’re four hundred years old.

Iversly: Nay. I am five and thirty.

Me: A) You’ve been on the earth in some form or another since the early fifteenth century, which means you are in fact four hundred years old, and B) it’s so incredibly nice to talk with a ballroom guest that understands the space-time continuum!

Iversly: I live it every day.

Me: (bouncing up and down a little on the balls of my feet) Which is why you do what you do in Captive Bride for Bea and Peter!

Iversly: I haven’t an idea of what you speak. Women are irrational.

Me: No we aren’t. We’re fabulous. And so are you. You’re the anti-hero I always dreamed of.

Iversly: I would bow, but it would be pointless.

Lady B: Miss Ashe, with whom are you speaking?

Me: Lord Iversly. He’s a ghost.

Lady B: (Lifts her lorgnette and peers at the space in front of me.) Lord Iversly, are you there, or is this gel gammoning me? My authoresses like to tease.

Iversly: Madam, it is my pleasure to make your acquaintance.

Me: Oh, that was a lot more polite than he usually is, Lady B. You’ve already impressed him!

Lady B: (purses her lips) Miss Ashe, this is unusual.

I shrug.

Lady B: My lord, can you dance?

Iversly: At present I lack appropriate footwear, my lady.

Criccieth Castle, inspiration for haunted Gwynedd Castle in Captive Bride

Lady B: Dreadful. Then do go away and return when you’ve remedied that. This is a ballroom, my lord.

She leaves.

Me: Well, she took that pretty well, I think.

Iversly: Formidable wench.

Me: We think so too. But if you tell her that I’ll introduce you to a group of meddling kids and their dog Scooby-Doo, and you definitely don’t want that.

Iversly: I tremble.

Me: Sure you do. But Lady B does have a point. Those big ol’ medieval boots just ain’t meant for walkin- that is, for dancing. But before you rush off to get your ball shoes—

Iversly: I never hasten . . . anywhere. Not even to eternity.

Me: Oh, you poor thing! How can I make it better? Introduce you to a few lovely maidens, perhaps?

Iversly: Leave me in peace?

Me: I can’t. Not just yet at least. You see, in Captive Bride Bea and Peter ask you a few pointed questions about life in the other world. I’d like to open the floor now to our guests to interview you. What do you think?

Iversly: Given that you are my creator, your wish is my command, my dear.

Me: Wow, I don’t think any one of our heroes has ever responded to any one of us like that in this ballroom. Four centuries really do mellow lordly characters, don’t they?

So, lovely guests, Lord Iversly is now yours for the questioning! What would you like to ask that you’ve always wondered about ghosts or the afterlife, or are wondering about Bea and Peter’s romance in Captive Bride, or about haunted Gwynedd Castle, or anything else. One randomly chosen commenter will win a rare autographed PRINT copy of Captive Bride.

Captive Bride is available now for $1.99 as an e-book on most e-book platforms: Kindle, Nook, iPad/iBooks, Sony epub, and as a PDF to print from your computer. (It will be available soon directly from Kobo for $1.99 and in paperback for $11.99.)

Lady B: Who is that gentleman, Miss Neville? He’s a little countrified in his attire. It would appear he is wearing his father’s clothing. I haven’t seen anyone dressed like that in years, at least not in London.

Miranda: That’s because today we are in the year 1793, the setting for my new novella.

Lady B: Dear me. Wasn’t that the year those dreadful French murdered their king?

Miranda: Spot on, Lady B. But I can assure you no one is guillotined in this story. It takes place in rural Somerset, where very little of a violent nature ever happens.

Lady B: (raises her quizzing glass) He does possess rugged good looks and excellent legs. Is he a duke? As my dear father used to say, when you bear strawberry leaves you can get away with eccentricities of dress.

Miranda: Actually he’s a mere mister, Mr. Max Quinton.

Lady B: I must find him a partner.

Miranda: Max isn’t a great one for dancing – more of an outdoorsman. Besides, his heart was broken five years ago by Eleanor Hardwick and he can’t forget her.

Lady B: Cruel woman! Unless, of course, he deserved it.

Miranda: I’m afraid he did. He entered into a bet about her and she found out.

Lady B: Why do gentlemen do that? We do not like to be the subject of wagers. Before we were married, Lord B put something in the betting book at White’s about my peacock gloves and a stocking–I shan’t go into details. I refused to speak to him for a week. But I suppose Mr. Quinton was drunk. The combination of men and brandy always leads to mischief. We look over to the other side of the ballroom where Monty is entertaining some ladies with card tricks but he keeps getting muddled. My nephew should stick to ratafia, and then only when Miss Dare is absent.

Miranda: Allow me to present Mr. Quinton.

An 18th century angler. Do you think the ladies with him are keeping quiet? Somehow I doubt it.

Max: Honored to be in your ballroom, my lady. [he bows]

Lady B: Yes indeed, an excellent leg. Mr. Quinton, you are at a ball. You must dance!

Max: Thank you, but no. I only dropped in at Miranda’s request. I have to post down to Somerset on business.

Lady B: Business?

Max: And to do some fishing. Sitting by a river bank, angling for trout, makes me forget Eleanor for an hour or two.

Lady B: Men do like their angling. Almost as much as they enjoy drinking too much and making foolish bets. Lord B took me fishing once but never again. Apparently the fish do not like it when you speak. I can’t imagine why.

If you want to find out what happens when Max goes fishing, read the excerpt here.

What do you do to drive your troubles away? Do you have a hobby or pastime that makes you forget every worry, at least for a while? Two commenters will win a copy of my digital novella, THE SECOND SEDUCTION OF A LADY. I’ll pick the random winners tonight so you can have it in your e-reader by tomorrow when the novella is released. International entries are welcome for this drawing.