Today I am happy to reveal the cover for THE RUIN OF A ROGUE. The male model on this one certainly captures the perfidious sexiness of Marcus Lithgow while …

Lady B: Miss Neville!

Miranda: Good evening, Lady B. I’m unveiling a cover.

Lady B: That man is wearing a boot–

Miranda: Two, actually, though I grant you that one of them is particularly prominent.

Lady B: –in bed.

Miranda: I am sure you have learned, through consorting with writers, that the covers of novels do not always exactly represent their contents. I am bound to say that although there is a scene in The Ruin of a Rogue where Marcus brings Anne dinner in bed and he is wearing boots at the time …

Lady B: Never mind that. I have no objection to boots in bed. In fact [Lady B appears on the verge of blushing, a somewhat alarming sight] I have, in my time, been Duchessed.

Miranda: Uh, has Lord B been created a duke? Seems rather unlikely, though well deserved, of course.

Lady B: I am referring to the activities of the First Duke of Marlborough (an ancestor of mine). His wife reported that “The Duke returned from the wars today and did pleasure me in his top-boots.” Hence, among the cognoscenti, it is known as “duchessing” when the gentlemen is – ahem – too eager to waste time undressing.

Miranda: Wow, Lady B. That is really hot.

Lady B: When John Churchill wed Sarah Jennings it was a true love match. After his death, the Duke of Somerset proposed to her and she turned him down with these words:

 ”If I were young and handsome as I was, instead of old and faded as I am, and you could lay the empire of the world at my feet, you should never share the heart and hand that once belonged to John, Duke of Marlborough.”

There’s nothing like the romantic story of the Marlboroughs to remind us that, whatever anyone says, historical romances featuring incredibly hot dukes are FRIGGING REALISTIC. Also boots in bed. If you haven’t ever seen it, rent the DVD of the TV series The First Churchills. I promise you will enjoy the scene when John Neville, IN HIS BOOTS, leaps on Susan Hampshire ….

 So let’s talk about love scenes. So we like them better with clothes, some clothes, no clothes? Any particular favorites you wish to recommend?

While dear Monty has held our attention for many weeks, an important milestone went slightly overlooked in the Ballroom.  (Well, it had to be.  We couldn’t leave Monty in the middle of that Argentinian dance floor, after all.)  This past Monday, Jan. 28^th 2013 was the 200^th anniversary of the first publishing of the book that launched a thousand ‘ships, Pride and Prejudice.

Jane Austen, as drawn by her sister Cassandra

I can imagine dear Aunt Jane, in a cottage in Chawton, clutching a newly bound copy of the 3 volumes of her second novel and squeeing.  Or, whatever the 1813 version of squeeing was.   Did she think the story of Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy would capture the imagination for over two centuries?  Did she know that she put indelible characters to the page, and would enrapture millions (and spur a costume-theater industry that gave birth to the Great Wet Shirt Scene of 1995?)

We all know it.  We’ve all read it.  We’ve all watched it.  (Some of us even work on adaptations of it.)  But for each of us, the story is personal.  I asked my fellow authoresses what Pride and Prejudice means to them.

Katharine Ashe:

Pride and Prejudice was the third adult romance I ever read, after M.M. Kaye’s The Far Pavilions and Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, and I adored Lizzy. Her intelligence, wit and rejection of society’s most noxious values helped forge my ideal of a great heroine. And Jane Austen’s writing is, of course, delicious. Whenever I am especially starved for wonderful, clever prose, I reread P&P and am nourished again.

Delicious prose certainly helps inspire us authors (and Katharine knows from delicious prose).  Meanwhile, both Sarah and Sabrina seem to be obsessed with a certain scene (that isn’t actually in the book.  At least, not so explicitly dishabilled).

Sarah MacLean:

Aside from allowing me my first taste of wet Colin Firth, Pride & Prejudice is one of the books that made me believe that romance was something worth celebrating. The first proposal remains one of the greatest moments in romance for sheer heroic stupidity, and the second for glorious, wonderful, reconciliation and finally finally getting happily ever after. I would be lying if I said I didn’t pay homage to both those scenes in my books (with stupid heroes and happily ever afters). Thank you, Aunt Jane, for the powerful lesson in love–and how to write it.

Sabrina Darby:

From Laurence Olivier and Greer Garson trading barbs over archery, to Colin Firth emerging wet from a pond, to a improv show in the middle of Hollywood, to the worst play adaptation I’ve ever seen, Pride & Prejudice‘s ability to entertain no matter how adulterated is a testament to Jane Austen’s storytelling abilities.

WET DARCY *fans self*

Somehow I missed the play adaptation!  Even if it’s horrible, I think I need to see it.  For reference. However, Miranda Neville and Lauren Willig started early in her Austen-obsession.

Miranda Neville:

I came to P&P sideways. I can’t remember how old I was – maybe 12? – when I found a ratty paperback of a dramatization in my grandmother’s attic. There were only three sisters (like the Lizzie Bennet Diaries!) but the story was all there. I was instantly hooked so Granny gave me the book. Surprise! Five sisters. After glomming the other five books I wept at the paucity of her output. I wrote an essay for university entrance on why I’d rather discover a new Jane Austen novel than her diary (arguing the opposite way for Shakespeare).

I don’t know how many times I’ve read P&P since then. (I may approach the 200 claimed by Meg Ryan in You’ve Got Mail.) I always seem to find something new. And boy, could Jane Austen write dialogue! She’s an inspiration to me in so many ways, but above all in the way she makes conversation carry the story. Time for a re-read

Lauren Willig:

It’s hard to remember a time when Jane Austen hasn’t been with me.  But I do have a very vivid recollection, somewhere around fifth grade, of reading Pride and Prejudice for the first time.  My father, seeing me with the book, asked me what I thought the setting was. “England,” I said.  I was eleven.  The “duh!” was implied. He started talking about class and hierarchy and the low gentry versus the high gentry and blah, blah, blah.  I went back to Elizabeth and Darcy. Silly parents, couldn’t they see that it was a love story?  In my righteous adolescent scorn, it took me a few years to realize that my father had been right, too: that there was brilliant social criticism woven into the fabric of Lizzy and Darcy’s love story.  The story works on so many different levels, all of them seamlessly stitched together.  Let’s raise a glass to Jane Austen, who showed us all just what romance literature can be.

While we find this story very close to our hearts, the hands down winner for Austen-phile is Tessa Dare.  Here’s why:

Tessa Dare:

The hows and whys are a long and complicated story, and I won’t bore you with all the details, but the conclusion is simple:  P&P is the entire reason I am a historical romance author today.  What do I not owe that book?

In my high-school yearbook, I listed “Elizabeth Bennet” as the person I admired most.  Yes, I was that *that* girl.  It took Colin Firth to make me a true Darcy fan.  But boy, did he ever.  My son’s middle name is Austen.  I have the Jane Austen action figure in my bathroom!  (Do I win yet? Haha.)

Yes, Tessa.  You win.  As for me, I wasn’t quite as early to the Austen pond.  I was 15 when I first read the book – it was assigned for English.  Even though it’s language was heavy and seemingly ancient, I couldn’t stop reading.  There was something about her voice.  Then, when I was 16, I saw the 1995 Colin Firth version.  I stayed up all night, watching all 6 hours.  Then, I kept watching it, over and over and over (I had the box set) and over.  It’s the story that made me dream of my own Mr. Darcy – and let me tell you, when I passed one-and-twenty and he hadn’t shown up yet, I was displeased.  But most of all, it is a story that makes me aspire.  Aspire to be a better writer, a more astute observer of life, and more willing to see my own flaws.

So we all raise a glass to you, Aunt Jane, and say congratulations –and happy 200^th!

Like I said, we all know the story – so what does Pride and Prejudice mean to you?

“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!

 Shhhh It’s quiet in the Ballroom. We are sitting around in a candlelit circle telling ghost stories in ominous tones. Lady B. is clutching her Paisley shawl against her mouth as Monty endeavors to scare the ladies into fits of terror, in the hope that we will all go rushing into his arms like shivering helpless females. (Well, he can hope, anyway…)

Good Evening, Ballroom Friends, and Goodnight to those of you who are just settling into your coffins to avoid the new day’s sun.

Well, it’s Gaelen here, in an October mood…

The dark and brooding side of the Regency world is a flavor of historical romance that I love exploring in my stories, especially in my Inferno Club series.

For example, in my new release, My Scandalous Viscount, my heroine gets locked in the hidden labyrinth inside the Order’s headquarters, Dante House. She worries that she won’t be able to find her way out and could up as a bloodied ghost haunting the mansion by night. And then there’s the wax museum she visits later on in the story, an homage to Madame Taussaud’s ofLondon.

WHICH, by the way, now here’s a good, gothic, creepy “aside” for you.

Madame Taussaud was an art teacher to the little princesses inVersaillesat the French Revolution. You can imagine her dilemma as soon as the Revolution took place. See for yourself what happened to her…

But–with kudos aside to the hardest-working woman in wax sculpture–I digress.

Gothic elements also reared their dark, fearsome heads in my last book, #4 in this series, My Ruthless Prince. Our tortured-hero Drake lead readers down, down into the dark cavern-sanctuary inside a mountain that once served as a temple for the evil Prometheans. Dare I mention the dungeon he spends some time in, located in the bowels of the foreboding castle nearby?

The Inferno book with the most gothic elements, however, is My Dangerous Duke. In this one, hero Rohan actually owns a haunted castle, though he’d never admit aloud that he actually does believe the Gray Lady is real. Then, later, he and heroine Kate must venture into the fabled Alchemist’s Tomb, full of deadly clockwork traps and puzzles that require quick thinking if the pair intend to get out alive.

Did You Know… the English traditionally used turnips, not pumpkins, for their jack-o-lanterns on All Hallow’s Eve? Click the picture if you’d like St. Martha (Martha Stewart/photo cred) to teach you how to carve turnips for your own Old World style jacks.

Readers seem to relish these elements, and no wonder!Englandhas a great ghost-story tradition and a proud heritage of tales of the supernatural. Nearly every stately home in the National Trust claims at least one ghost. There are haunted shops, haunted squares, haunted churches, haunted libraries… Of course, my historical romances don’t contain any actual paranormal elements. They just have, at times, a spooky, ominous tone and I try to create an aura of palpable danger.  But ultimately, like Mrs. Radcliffe, I like things to have a logical explanation.

(At least that’s the case in my adult writing. In my YA/Middle Grade series, the Gryphon Chronicles, co-written with my husband under our E.G. Foley  pen name, ghosts, witches, and all sorts of spooky supernatural bits abound. One of my personal favorite passages in the Lost Heir, in fact, is where pickpocket Jake spends a night in jail and meets the Ghosts of Newgate Prison! He is able to see ghosts, y’see.)

Gaelen: Ah, here comes Lady B. now. Is story time over so soon?

Lady B: I should hope so. My awful nephew gave me palpitations of the heart with his bloody tale! He tells it much too gleefully. I’m not sure I approve.

Gaelen: But Lady B. the Sensational is all the rage, as I’m sure you are well aware, being in the first stare in all matters, yourself.

Lady B: True. But nevertheless, I have asked Lord B. to go round the house and check all the windows. I don’t want BATS or some other nasty questionable Creature of Darkness getting in. One can never be too careful.

Indeed. What about you, Fair Reader? Do you enjoy reading dark & spooky tales or watching movies/TV shows with supernatural elements?

Do you read Paranormal romance? And what about straight Horror novels/movies? I can’t do them, myself.

Harry Potter is about as dark as I care to go! I’ve tried to watch a few horror movies, but what happens to me is that I close my eyes at the bloody parts and then end up imagining something worse than what happens on screen, and then have nightmares about it! I prefer the kid version of spookiness, laced with humor. *g*

What’s the most terrifying movie you ever watched? Do you wish you hadn’t watched it?? And WHY do you think people want to be scared in their entertainment??

Happy Weekend, Ballroomies! First, I have some leftover business from my last post, Seducer & the Snoop, in the form of a winner of my giveaway contest. Woot!

BN100, please email me your full name and mailing addy ~ you’ve won a signed copy of My Scandalous Viscount! Huzzah!

NYTB! Aww yeah.

Another huzzah to Beau & Carissa for a fine showing on the NYT, USA Today and Bookscan bestseller lists this week and yes I’m going to crow about it. *g*But enough of all that! Lady B would not approve. (She is off today, in the genteel town of Bath having a spa day – of which I am wholly envious. She’ll be back Monday.)

Today I have some historical inspiration to share with you that came in handy while I was trying to visualize the opening scenes of my novel, which take place at Covent Garden Theatre. By dumb luck actually I happened across the “I Remember Nelson” miniseries on Netflix.

Historical purists, you will be in ecstasies.

Yes, it’s from 1982, but it’s a Masterpiece Theatre production from the BBC; the costumes are drop-dead gorgeous, the historical setting is so real, and the dialogue is excellent, especially the heart-wrenching arguments between the publicly celebrated but privately tormented war-hero Nelson and his wronged wife.

“Emma Hart (maiden name) in a Straw Hat” by George Romney

What plain, dutiful woman can compete with the likes ofthe ravishing and flamboyant Emma Hamilton, after all? It really makes you feel for this poor woman, the cheated-on wife. It’s a very flawed, human angle on the demigod Nelson that you wouldn’t normally think about.

Yes, he saved England by destroying Boney’s navy, but he was also an unrepentenant adulterer who even hints to his distraught wife that maybe they could do an open marriage…? (“Ew.”)

Speaking of flawed, our dear Lord Byron even has a cameo later in the series.

Part 1 opens with the clever device of a festive Pantomime show recapping the major life events of the Hero of the Day ~ and Horatio himself is in attendance, looking like he’s suffering a serious case of PTSD, poor man. This is just all good stuff. But the main reason I wanted to point you toward the miniseries is so you could check out the hustle and bustle of a night at the theatre, particularly the richness of lighting, scenery changes, costuming, voice warmups, and props and actors being hustled about by the director backstage.

Interior of the 2nd Covent Garden Theatre after the fire that destroyed Handel’s organ – not that organ, people, come on!!

Though it’s only a brief portion of Part 1 and hardly consequential to the plot, it is SO entertaining. It makes you feel like you’re really there in 1800 and shows you aspects of Regency life that you’d probably never think about unless you were writing about theatre folk. At least I didn’t think about them, since my opening scenes centered on action happening in the audience, not backstage.

Besides that, the auditorium pictured in the film is nothing so grand as Covent Garden, but nevertheless, it’s jolly good fun, as you can see below.

If you love Regency movies, you should definitely look it up on Netflix and it’s also available on Amazon in DVD or streaming video. I think you’d love it. Somebody put this segment of it up on Youtube, but the sound quality is bad – which is just as well, since the only kind of pirates we like around here are the swashbuckling kind.  However, I wanted you to at least get a look at it and see how well worth your time it is. I found it extremely inspiring. Take a peek and make sure to turn up the volume, it’s very quiet ~ and Enjoy!

If they made a stage show based on the events of your life, would it be a tragedy, a comedy, or a farce? What would be the style/model of show you would tell the director to start with? Hmm…I think I might go with Lord of the Rings as the basic model to start for the Tale of Gaelen. Indeed, I have my suspicions that the whole short, jolly, fun-loving but fiesty Foley clan may have some Hobbit blood… What about you??

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.

Princess Caroline, painted by Sir Thomas Lawrence

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.”

Marquita Valentine

“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?”

Chatsworth House (Someday it will be mine! All MINE! Um…)

“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?”

Chatsworth library (This too shall be mine. I tell you.)

“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—”

The Maze in the Chatsworth Gardens (Excellent for dalliancing, which doesn’t seem to be a verb, but it really should be, shouldn’t it? Let’s start a petition.)

“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!  

Zoe and Christian, MFEO

“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.

Lady B: Miss MacLean! What are all these people doing in my ballroom? And what on *earth* happened to your face?

Sarah: Oh, Lady B! I’m so happy you joined us! We are –

Lady B: It’s rather difficult *not* to join you, gel; you’ve commandeered my ballroom. And it’s not even a day when you are usually *here.*

Sarah: Right. About that.

Lady B: And don’t think I didn’t notice that you entirely missed the ball yesterday. There were guests looking for you.

Sarah: I know. And I’m so so sorry about that. I do have a –

Lady B: I hope you have a very good reason for it. And for the abomination that is your maquillage this morning.

Sarah: I do! In fact, it’s the same reason! It’s the Jubilee!

Lady B (blinks): I beg your pardon?

Sarah: The Queen’s Diamond Jubilee!

Lady B: Which Queen?

Sarah (blinks): Queen Elizabeth!

Lady B: Miss MacLean, are you quite well? I believe the paint on your face…it’s possible it’s turned you quite addlepated. Queen Elizabeth has been dead for several centuries.

Sarah: Not that Queen Elizabeth, Lady B…the next one. Queen Elizabeth the second.

Lady B: Miss MacLean, I understand that you Americans think you know everything, but I assure you, I am a loyal subject of King George…who, despite sharing in your affliction now and then, remains our sovereign.

Sarah (pauses, considers her next words): Totally. But eventually, there will be a Queen (who’s a pretty nice girl). Two of them, actually, and some kings in the middle. One of whom will abdicate.

Lady B (eyes wide): Surely not.

Sarah: Oh, he will. And it will be a thing. In fact, it will be for an American divorcee.

Lady B: Now I *know* you’re mentally ill.

Sarah: It’s quite a story, actually…ends with a war and a stutterer. And there’s a fabulous movie starring Mr. Darcy.

Lady B: From the novel?

Sarah: Sort of. Yes. (Realizes the train is off the rails) But never mind, my lady, all this will happen a while from now. And the long and the short of it is…there will be a Queen who wears awesome hats. And carries a purse that contains who knows what. And who ultimately has a Diamond Jubilee. And actually has fun at it.

Lady B: My goodness!

Sarah: I know!

Lady B: You expect me to believe that a Queen will carry her own handbag?

Sarah (nodding): It’s a mystery to us, too. Anyway, there will be a week of celebrations, and I’ll get distracted by all the flags and royals and pomp and circumstance and miss a Thursday Ball. And then…well…then we have this conversation.

Lady B: And you arrive painted in the colors of the British flag?

Sarah (smiles): I do. But check out the others! There’s Gaelen in go-go boots, and Lauren in her faux crown, and did you see Sabrina’s shoes? And Tessa’s lips? And Kate’s incredible coat?

Lady B (considering the group): Dear me. That coat is falling apart.

Sarah: I think it will be ok. It worked for David Bowie.

Lady B: For David who?

Sarah: It’s not important. What’s important is that we have Jubilee fever!

Lady B (looking down her nose): I’m going to guarantee it’s *some kind* of fever.

Sarah: You really don’t believe me!

Lady B: I’m afraid I do not. The most I believe at this point is that you require a rest.

Sarah: Well…considering the jubilee is over and I’ve been furiously following it for more than a week, you’re probably right.

Lady B: Miss MacLean…I’m always right. You may use one of the rooms abovestairs. But do wash your face before placing it upon my linens, will you?

***

Do you have a favorite photo/video/moment/outfit/souvenir from last week’s Jubilee celebration? Share it in comments (photos welcome)!

Greetings, lovely guests! The other day I was reading about the Golden Horde, and—

Miss Ashe, we have barely finished mending the place after that ship incident Miss Noble instigated. If you invite an army of Mongolian barbarians to my home I will shut my doors to you forever.

Oh, hello, Lady B! <looking around confused> What are you doing here today?

<lifting her lorgnette> Upon the previous occasion I consulted with Lord B, this was still my house, Miss Ashe.

Ha. Er. What I mean is, you’re not usually here on Saturdays. But no matter, I digress! Speaking of the Golden Horde, as you know when I’m not in the ballroom I’m teaching history—

Lord help us all.

—and last term I taught a course on the interesting ways in which medieval Christianity is represented in modern fiction and film.

You are a remarkably peculiar gel, Miss Ashe.

I know! It was so fun. My students researched and wrote fiction too. One project was about Christian missionaries to the Golden Horde, and it reminded me of how in the Middle Ages Christians told stories of the Mongolian invaders that included thoroughly scandalous details.

Finally a topic of interest.

Gorgeous however remarkably uncomfortable birthing table

It was rumored that even the womenof the Golden Horde were savage warriors and that they didn’t pause in their fiendish invasions even to give birth, but bore their children from the saddle. Isn’t that fabulous?

It sounds remarkably uncomfortable.

I daresay. But it got me thinking about scandalous professions for women.

All professions for women are scandalous.

I know you don’t really think that. After all, you share your ballroom with authoresses!

Lady B casts me a look that suggests I’ve just made her point.

But it’s a time-honored reality, my lady. Women have forever been pursuing professions that society considered scandalous. Why, just remember all those mistresses Sabrina brought to the ballroom.

squawk! Scarred for life! squawk!

And speaking of women using their feminine wiles to advantage, one of my favorite ancient plays is the political comedy Lysistrata in which the wives of leaders of the embattled Greek states withhold sex until their husbands call a truce in the war.

Behind the scenes politics. Impressive.

Wasn’t it? And in the Middle Ages there were cross-dressing monks — women in disguise for years and years! — and a famous woman soldier or two as well.

squawk! Pre-guillotine days! squawk!

Jeanne d'Arc, icon for French feminists and fascists alike

Yes, Albert, unfortunately Joan of Arc’s military cross-dressing got her burned at the stake in France. But there’s another famous medieval cross-dressing Joan. The legends call her Pope Joan. They discovered she was a woman when she sat down on the papal throne and the bottom fell out of it, revealing the truth.

One wonders why the witness had his head beneath the throne.

Doesn’t one? Those crazy medievals! In fact, just the other day I came across some lovely ladies on twitter— er— that is, at the park chatting about yet another medieval woman whose behavior scandalized everyone. Now… who was that queen…

Ashlyn Macnamara: Eleanor of Aquitaine. She was queen of two kingdoms consecutively, started a civil war between her sons and her husband, and rode bare-breasted to the crusades with her ladies in waiting to rouse the soldiers’ spirits.

And other parts! squawk!

I daresay.

Ah, and here are the very lovely ladies I was tweeting— that is, strolling with the other day! Lady B, may I make you acquainted with Ladies Ashlyn Macnamara, Alyssa Alexander and Tracy Brogran? And you already know Anna Randol (who visited us in January with her dreamy warrior-poet hero!).

Of course I am acquainted with the Dashing Duchesses, you silly gel. Who isn’t?

Katharine: <beaming at the duchesses> It’s wonderful to have you here today, ladies. Will you do me the honor of adding to my list of professions of a scandalous nature for ladies?

Tracy: Well, I’ve heard from a very reliable gossip that there’s an Englishwoman trying to gain admittance to a medical school in New York. Can you imagine? Elizabeth Blackwell is her name. She lives in the Americas now, no wonder. But it’s said that she was allowed entrance only because the administrators thought for certain her application was a ruse.

Tell me the poor gel is at least married. On the other hand, if she isn’t, my fourth cousin thrice removed, that fellow just over there staring down Mrs.

Alice Guy-Blache, the first female cinema director

Cres-

Tracy: Elizabeth chose to never marry. Imagine? A maiden, traveling back and forth between the Americas and our homeland, encountering all sorts of riff-raff. I’m certain she encountered the most nefarious of ne’er do wells. But she did manage to establish quite a few dispensaries to aid the infirmed.

<squawk!> Learning opportunities all round!

Ashlyn: And a chance to ogle a few, er, legs.

Lovely.

Anna: At least she was mending people. Alessandra Giliani in the 14^th century— did you ever meet her, Lady B?

Perhaps there is a reason I do not normally attend Saturday salons.

Anna: Alessandra carved them up. She’s credited with being instrumental in developing a way to map the human circulatory system. On cadavers no less. All before she was 19.

Alyssa: Medical school! Anatomists! But no! <fanning herself while searching for her smelling salts>  But they weren’t the only women comfortable with a blade.

Do tell. I fear you will whether I allow it or not.

Alyssa: Rumor has it that the Assyrian Queen Sammuramat (also Semiramis) gained the throne in a most nefarious — though clever — way. After impressing the current king with her strategic battle skills, she asked if she could be queen for a day. She promptly had him beheaded, poor sap, and ruled for another couple of decades.

Remarkably clever gel. Though most unpleasant for the king, I should think.

Alyssa: He clearly did not think through her request, alas. And since the rumor is her son had her beheaded, well, she had her comeuppance.

squawk! What goes around, comes around.

Alyssa: Indeed, indeed. I must say, it is only rumor, however. The Greeks rewrote her history a couple of times. But the scandal sheets are always more fun than the truth. <wink> So I shall follow the scandal.

Tracy: Follow the scandal? Shame on you, Lady Alyssa! <she lowers her voice> Come sit by me, will you?

Boudica on her chariot, trouncing the Romans.

Ashlyn: If we’re going to mention ladies of a military bent, we can’t leave out Boudica, who led an uprising against the Romans. Of course, they took her kingdom away from her, had her flogged and raped her daughters, so some might say they had it coming.

Anna: Or Fu Hao in Shang Dynasty China. Queen, military leader, and high priestess. Trounced the barbarians so soundly they never attacked again. Over a hundred swords, axes, and spears were discovered in her tomb.

<peering through her lorgnette> Fond of weapons, was she?

Katharine: Which puts me in mind of ladies of the sea, with great big gun arsenals at their disposal.

Anna: Ah, those sailors with their large cannons…oh, you meant actual cannons. <clears throat and sips tea>

Tracy: Have you seen the size of their balls? Enormous. The cannon balls, I mean. <fans herself and looks askance>

Aarrr! squawk!

Katharine: <endeavoring with no little effort to maintain my Serious History Professor-like mask> Yes, indeed, Albert, there was a remarkable number of women who devoted their lives to sailing ships, including female pirates like the infamous Anne Bonny and Mary Read, close friends and both fierce buccaneers.

Alyssa: Scandal! <gasps> How fun!

squawk! Walk the plank! squawk!

Katharine: Neither met a happy end. But that’s what you get for breaking the law.

Ashlyn: Thus, Boudica.

Katharine: Quite! But some ladies like my own Viola Carlyle in How To Be a Proper Lady worked their shipcraft within the confines of the law. Viola is a privateer. Everybody here knows what a privateer is, right?

The duchesses and Albert nod.

Good heavens. Yet another ponderous lesson in history approacheth.

Katharine: Very funny, my lady. A privateer is—

A thief with license! squawk!

Ashlyn: The bird speaks the truth of it.

Katharine: Exactly. As Violet la Vile, Viola is commissioned by the state of Massachusetts to scout out nere-do-wells and haul them into port. And if she wins a lot of booty from the ships she brings in, well that’s how she pays her crewmen.

Flag of the state of Massachusetts which flies above Viola's ship

Anna: <whispering to Albert> Do you suppose she wears trousers? Or has she learned to scramble around in the rigging in her petti…<realizes everyone’s staring, sips tea> I said, isn’t your hero, Captain Jin Seton, a privateer too?

Katharine: Ah, yes! But he holds his commission from the British Navy.

The plot thickens! squawk!

Katharine: As sorry as I am to deviate from speaking of a delicious hero for even a moment, we’re getting away from the point of this writer’s inspiration post. After all, the reason I wanted to talk about this is because of the amazing courage, bravery, and plain old chutzpah these women had to do what they did.

Tracey: Miss Blackwell says, “If society will not admit of women’s free development, then society must be remodeled.” Perhaps she’s on to something.

Katharine: Like Viola, overturning societal conventions. Why just look at her. She’s ripping his “bodice”.

Bodice ripping: The good kind

squawk! No guts, no glory! squawk!

Katharine: Precisely.

Thank you to Ashlyn, Alyssa, Tracy and Anna for visiting the ballroom and inspiring us today! I hope you’ll all dash over to The Dashing Duchesses blog and pay them and their sister duchesses a call. But before you go, tell us what is the most scandalous job you’ve ever had? If you’ve been modest in your employment, then what’s the most scandalous job you could dream of having if you could do anything without suffering any consequences? 

Lady B has a Turner in the library.

I shouldn’t be surprised, of course, as Beaufetheringstone House is modeled on Hogwarts, and therefore has something for everyone. Today, I’m looking for art and, as it’s the Regency, of course there’s a Turner somewhere in the house.

But here’s the thing. Lady B has my favorite Turner in the library. Snowstorm. Which is peculiar, as it wasn’t completed until 1842, and therefore should not be hanging in the library of Beaufetheringstone house. I’m getting used to the whole bending of space and time thing (I mean, Kate crashed a SHIP into the ballroom last week, and you’d never know it today), but it’s still strange.

I’m considering the strangeness when the lady herself graces me with her presence.

Lady B: I should have known I would find you here. You authoresses like libraries overmuch, you know.

Sarah: Is it possible to like libraries overmuch?

Lady B: I just said it was, Miss MacLean. Are you ignoring me again?

Sarah: Not at all, my lady. I’m simply distracted by this stunning oil.

Lady B: Ah, yes. The Turner. Lord B has always liked the boy.

Sarah: Lord B has excellent taste.

Lady B (preening): I’ve always thought so.

Sarah: Do you know him?

Lady B: Lord B? I should hope so.

Sarah: No, my lady. John Turner.

Lady B: I met him once. Very odd. Those with artistic bents often are, you know.

Sarah: Yes. I’ve heard that. I turn back to the painting. You can tell he’s a genius. It’s in the brushstrokes. The whole painting looks like it’s moving. No wonder he’s called “the painter of light.” I mean, look at this! I sigh.

Lady B (blinks): Why, Miss MacLean, hark at you! Gone all treacly over an oil painting.

Sarah (blushes): Do you think he’d come to a ball? I mean, if you invited him?

Lady B: Gone all treacly over an oil painter.

Sarah: I have not.

Lady B: You needn’t deny it. I understand treacliness. After all. I’ve been treacly once or twice myself.

Sarah: Once or twice?

Lady B (grins): What Lord B doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

That phrasing sounds suspiciously modern, but I let it slide, as Lady B is still talking.

Lady B: Turner is a good looking young man, I will say. But very brooding–artists and all that–and an utter hermit. I suppose it’s to be expected, as he’s been trotted about since he was a child, exhibited at the Royal Academy when he was 15, own studio by the time he was 18, and now…well, the boy is everywhere.

Sarah: A veritable Doogie Howser.

Lady B: A who?

Sarah: Nevermind.

Lady B: He’s not German.

Sarah: Of course not.

Lady B: English, through and through. Born in London.

Sarah: Right.

Lady B: I’m told he keeps almost no friends.

Sarah: What about women?

Lady B (with a knowing gaze): Aren’t you married?

Sarah: What Lord M doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

Lady B: Well said! I couldn’t say for sure but I hear…

Sarah (leaning in): Yes?

Lady B (holding court): I hear he keeps company with a widow in the country. Very quiet life. Paints constantly, but won’t let anyone see him work–not even the woman.

Sarah: How very…

Lady B: Odd. I know.

Sarah: Actually, I was going to say mysterious. And heroic.

Lady B (eyerolls): Miss MacLean, aren’t you the one with the rules about cavorting with artists?

Sarah: Commandments, more like.

Lady B: I suggest keeping to them.

Sarah: But brooding is so… le sigh

Lady B: You’re going treacly again. And French. Esque.

Sarah: Apologies. So…that’s a no on the invitation to the ball?

Lady B: Most assuredly. Especially now. I’m afraid you’ll embarrass me.

–

Is there a person in the world who makes you all treacly with their talent? Someone you’d love to chat with at a ball? Someone who, perhaps, Lady B has connections to? Someone whom you might embarrass yourself over?

So you think you’re losing your head over your sweetheart?  Well, I’ll see your smarmy Vermont Teddy Bear and raise you a beheading. SAY WHAT??  Oh, Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone (a  little early).

Since the Great Holiday of Romance is nearly upon us, I found myself curious ~ proud History Dork that I am ~ about the historical truth behind St. Valentine’s Day and how all this got chocolatey-rosey goodness got started. Who was this Valentine fellow, when did he live, and how did he come to be the patron saint of this day of love? And did he really wear a diaper and go around shooting people with a bow and arrow?

Needing to know, naturally, I put it into The Google and could barely wait to come tumbling headlong into the Ballroom to tell you all what I’ve unearthed.

<Squawk! Beheadings Aren’t Romantic! Squawk!>

No, indeed, Albert, I quite agree. A stupid $100 Teddy Bear (and I’ve sworn to garotte my husband if he ever gets me one of these bits of clutter–CHOCOLATE, MAN, IF YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOOD FOR YOU)…as I was saying…the teddy bear is a far cry from the sentiments that motivated our Saint Valentine, who laid down his life for what he believed in.

Lady B: Ms. Foley, whatever are you on about today? Have you had too much of that horrid Colonial coffee you are always swigging?

Afraid so, dear hostess. I’m positively bouncing off the walls with it. But I can’t help it! I am eager to share with my fellow history lovers a glimpse into the world of Ancient Rome in the 3rd Century A.D. …

Lady B: Ahh, Italy! Now that Boney is quite thrashed, I plead every day with my Lord B. to convey me thither. How I long to feel the Tuscan sun warm my cheeks…

Egads, Lady B., you are waxing poetical.

Lady B: Isn’t that what Italy’s all about? Byron and Shelley are there…  

Yes, in our Regency day, certes, but in the 3rd century, you had to be careful to keep your head about you.

Lady B: You’re going to fill my Ballroom with tingling Gothic horror, I presume? Go on then, if you must…

It was a dark and stormy night — no wait, scratch that.

St. V. with Mary & Angel

 It was a secretive yet joyous occasion as the Roman priest, Valentinus, stood before a small, hidden gathering of believers to marry a young couple in the early Christian church. WHEN SUDDENLY – Roman soldiers burst in and began wreaking havoc on them. The wedding guests scattered; the groom was injured in the fracas, the bride barely escaped ravishment, but the priest, ah, the poor, brave priest, Valentinus, was arrested. The year was 269 AD, and to be a Christian was a capital offence. (“DRAMATIZATION”)

Valentinus was a priest of the early Church who was helping Christians survive during the persecution under the Roman Emperor Claudius II.

Not those Goths

Claudius, the villain in our story, was born 213 A.D. His parentage is not recorded. He served all his life in the Roman armies, fighting against the Goths, working his way up to become the commander of an elite cavalry force. Thanks to his troops’ devotion, he came to power during the chaotic rule of Gallienus. He was said to be one tough mo-fo, knocking the teeth out of a horse with one punch. (I suppose it tried to bite him?) It seemed he ruled his troops with an iron fist, and he brought this same sensibility to his rule when he became Emperor at age 55. His street name was Claudius the Goth.

Do all Roman emperors have a big head?

His rule only lasted two years. He died of smallpox while arranging a campaign against the Vandals, and his younger brother, Quintillus, briefly seized power before also being replaced by the Aurelian, “Restorer of the World.”  Claudius II was a middle-of-the-road persecutor of Christians, according to Church history. Aurelian, by contrast, led one of the ten great persecutions of the early Church. 

Gallenius, his predecessor, by contrast, had had a tolerant view of the Christians, but the Roman Senate had grumbled that Gallenius had not been devout enough to the Roman gods. Thus, to gain approval, Claudius wanted to show himself as more attentive to the old ways, and always consulted the Sybilline Books before a battle. [Sybil as in the Delphic Oracle, those prophetesses of Apollo, also devoted to the 'great mother,' Cybele, and Ceres, goddess of the harvest.]

One of Michelangelo's Sybils in the Sistene Chapel

When Christians refused to give honor to Apollo & company, it seemed to the leaders that they were undermining social unity (Roman policy was generally tolerant/inclusive of the gods of the many, many cultures they conquered–to be otherwise would have been too difficult). They simply added more gods into their total population of deities as they conquered new lands, but the Christians would not go along with this.

True, the Jews didn’t believe in multiple gods, either, but they didn’t go around trying to spread their faith. The Christians did, and so the Roman authorities saw them as a bad influence. Even the ordinary folk were frightened that these nonbelievers insulted the gods like Apollo, Mars and Jupiter, and would bring down punishment on everybody if they were not rebuked. So, the Christians had to be made an example of.

Imperial Dickhead, Nero

Lions, tigers and bears, oh my–though the punishment they received under Claudius the Goth wasn’t anywhere near the viciousness of the grand-baddy of them all, Nero. To get the flavor of what had already been done to Christians under Nero, listen to  the Roman historian Tacitus:

“Besides being put to death they [the Christians] were made to serve as objects of amusement; they were clad in the hides of beast and torn to death by dogs; others were crucified, others set on fire to serve to illuminate the night when daylight failed. Nero had thrown open his grounds for the display, and was putting on a show in the circus, where he mingled with the people in the dress of a charioteer or drove about in his chariot. All this gave rise to a feeling of pity, even toward men whose guilt merited the most exemplary punishment; for it was felt that they were being destroyed not for the public good but to satisfy the cruelty of an individual.” (Nero, pictured left)

Still, while Claudius II was a sweetheart compared to Nero, it was still a capital crime to be a Christian. The government could confiscate your property and threw your in jail, and then things got nastier from there if your still refused to give honor to their gods.

Into this alarming situation comes Valentinus, a priest who lives in Rome and finds a new round of persecution percolating when Claudius II seizes power. Legend has it he was caught marrying Christian couples, but one way or another, he was arrested in 269 A.D. and eventually brought before Claudius.

Claudius supposedly took a liking to him, but Valentinus went too far and tried to convert him. Claudius sentenced him to death. While in jail, according to legend, Valentinus healed the eyes of his jailer’s blind daughter. On the night before his execution, he wrote her a note along with this gift of healing, signed, “From your Valentine.”

Then the day came and it was time for his sentence to be carried out. But when beating with clubs was not enough to kill him, he was beheaded near the Flaminian Gate and is buried on the Via Flaminia, north of Rome.

Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales Guy, but you already knew that

Lady B: What a tragical history…! 

The lives of saints are steeped in legend and obscured by the centuries, but how their stories evolve is interesting, in itself. For example, some say the great English poet Geoffrey Chaucer and his circle (mid 1300′s) had a hand in crafting the story of Saint Valentine as it has come down to us today.  

How ever much of all this you do or don’t believe, archaeologists found a Roman catacomb and an ancient church dedicated to Saint Valentine, and in 496 AD Pope Gelasius marked February 14th as a celebration in honor of his martyrdom. 

Today, Saint Valentine is the Patron Saint of engaged couples, happy marriages, love, lovers, and young people. He is represented in pictures with birds and roses. (Thanks to Wikipedia, www.Catholic.org, which has a full battery of saint bios, and www.EarlyChurch.org.uk for info in this article.)

So the next time you hear some cynic scoffing about how Valentine’s Day is a made-up holiday invented by the Hallmark Greeting Industrial Complex, remind them that LOVE is and always has been worth celebrating, whether it’s the One True Love of some ordinary person’s lifetime or the love that inspires a saint to lay down his life. Indeed, if LOVE is not worth celebrating with a special day all it’s own, I don’t know what is.

So, what are you giving the one you love for Valentine’s Day this year? Even if it’s not a spouse/lover, it’s a chance to let our dearest friends/family know we love them. Have you got anything special planned? If you do, please share. I have no idea what to get my husband…I don’t want to have to resort to a Teddy Bear… (aw, lol, they’re not that bad, I guess, but I can’t see paying $100 for the dang thing…)