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

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

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

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

“Again,” squawks Albert.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When I arrive in good time for today’s ball, a footman directs me to the garden. I’ve occasionally snuck out during a soiree, but I haven’t had the chance to examine it in daylight. As I expect, it’s delightful. A couple of important scenes in my next book, The Ruin of A Rogue, take place in the garden of a London house but that of Beaufetheringstone House is much lovelier. Of course in helps that it’s May and not November. Still, for some things temperature isn’t important. As my hero Marcus Lithgow says, “For a rogue like me, there’s only one thing to be done with a pretty girl in a garden.”

It’s a gorgeous spring day. Lilacs and honeysuckle are heaped with flowers, drowning the London stench with the most delicious odor. A flagstone path winds through beds already aglow with spring blooms, and the first roses are in bud. Espaliered pears trees line a sunny wall. At the far end sits a miniature temple sits beneath a flowering tree.

“Good afternoon, Miss Neville.” Lady B is dressed in quite utilitarian fashion, a massive blue linen apron covering her gown and a lair of leather gloves like gauntlets reaching almost to her elbows. She wields a pair of shears that make me hesitate to get too near.

“I was admiring your garden, Lady B. You look busy. I hope you won’t think me impertinent if I say I am surprised to see you engage in any kind of domestic activity.”

“You are often impertinent, Miss Neville, and I choose to ignore it. [Completely untrue].”

“What are you doing with those?”

“What else would I be doing with pruning shears? I am pruning, of course.”

I notice a pile of branches on the ground next to a large rose bush. “Is it the right time of year to prune roses?”

“Growth follows the knife. Or in my case the shears.:

I am definitely not foolhardy enough to get into an argument with an armed peeress. “Will you give me a guided tour? I see a couple of statues in the corner. I recognize the parrot, of course.”

“Lord B had a statue of Albert made for my birthday a few years ago.”

With an almighty squawk Albert flies down from a tree and lands on his own head. “The sculpture is bigger than the original.”

“The size reflects Albert’s place in my affections. That is Sausage.” She points at the stone figure of a rather handsome dog.

“Sausage?” It’s not a dachsund.

“Lord B’s favorite hound.” She glances up at an upper window and waves. I spin around, hoping to get a glimpse of the elusive one but no luck. Of course.

“How did he come to have such a strange name.”

Lady B blushes. “It’s a private matter between myself and Lord B.”

Oh-kay. I quickly turn to the biggest pot of geraniums I’ve ever seen. “That is an extraordinary plant. How does it come to be so big?”

Lady B look a little worried. “I’m not sure. And the smell …”

Rashly I draw near and am nearly thrown backwards by an indefinable and quite unpleasant odor. “Whatever it is, it’s a brilliant fertilizer. Shall we hold our noses and investigate? Perhaps we could patent it.”

Lady B hands me a trowel, pulled from the capacious pocket of her apron. Gingerly I poke around in the soil around the roots of the geranium and discover

I love London gardens so I’ve provided a few pictures, none of them exactly like Beaufetheringstone House. When you’ve finished guessing the nature of Lady B’s Regency Miracle-Gro, tell us what’s blooming in your garden or window box now.

It’s Thursday, of course, and I’m comfortably ensconced in Lady B’s library reading and avoiding doing the very thing an artist is supposed to do at the home of her patroness.

Lady B looks very put out. Immediately I catalogue all the things I’ve done that she might be upset about: the continued mess in my room, the fact that I never did bring my latest hero to visit…

“Have you seen Monty?”

I blink. Monty? Why on earth would she be looking for Monty in the library? I think back. I remember seeing Harold the other day. And I’m fairly certain I saw Monty’s valet creeping down the backstairs with one of the maids. But Monty?

Now that I think about it, I haven’t seen him in at least several weeks. Perhaps, since Easter.

I shake my head slowly. Of course, now I am curious to know what the rapscallion has been doing. Surely if he’s been up to his usual sport of saving damsels who may or may not actually be in distress, we’d have heard something about it. Why, with the season in full swing, Lady B’s parlor has been nonstop filled with callers. Mostly mothers with their newly come out daughters…oh.

Maybe that’s why he hasn’t been around.

“I haven’t seen him, but I shall definitely keep my eye out for him. He can’t have gone far with Harold and his valet still here. Has he done something to upset you?” Clearly he has, but now I’m fishing for gossip. Because after all, there is nothing like Regency gossip!

“Upset? Do I look upset?”

I’m not certain what I’m supposed to say to that so I hold my tongue and wait for her to continue.

“No, Miss Darby, I am not upset. I am furious!” She waves a stack of invitations around wildly. “Do you know that I have been beset with the most insipid of conversations for the last three weeks? I already had a list of prospective wives for Monty, but naturally, all of London wishes their pale, quiet, brainless daughter to marry the Beaufetheringstone heir. And if the daughters weren’t bad enough, I have to deal with their mothers, who seem to conveniently forget that in our youth I thought them just as brainless as their spawn.”

“Monty is quite a catch,” I offer tentatively.

“Yes, he is. Despite his irregular upbringing. However, I have a list and if he refuses to abide by my wishes and pursue these particular women, then I demand he at least be present during these interminable afternoon visits. He simply cannot go about London at all hour attracting the wrong sort of woman.”

Now I’m even more curious.

“Who do you think would be the right sort of woman?” I ask. I’d love a peek at her list. After all, after nearly two years at Lady B’s I’ve met half of London and certainly all manner of heroines.

“Someone intelligent. Vibrant yet restrained. Who will know how to curb his more physical tendencies. Lady Arabella Prescott comes to mind as a possibility. Her parents are both brilliant. Lord B always agrees with Lord Prescott in parliament and Lady Prescott is a fabulous wit. From the little I’ve seen of the young Prescott girl, I believe she has inherited her parents’ intelligence.”

I actually haven’t met Arabella yet, and I have a strange feeling this list might hold even more surprises. What about all of you? What qualities do you think Monty needs in his future wife? And do you think he’ll bend to Lady B’s will?

“Merciful heavens!” exclaims Lady B. “Is that a door I see before me?”

Lady B went to the theatre last night, escorted by Lord B, and I’ve notice that it always seems to affect her speech patterns. Don’t even ask about what she’s like the morning after one of their operatic evenings.

“Four of them?” I offer.

I don’t know why I make it a question. There are unquestionably four portals plonked right in the center of Lady B’s otherwise pristine ballroom. Each is shaped differently: one is very art deco, another is the sort you might find on a Bath townhouse, one is Victorian faux gothic, and the final door is decidedly dark and creepy.

“I can see that,” says Lady B dryly. She has to raise her voice to be heard over the cacophony coming through the various doors. “But what are they doing in MY BALLROOM?”

Somewhat breathlessly, I manage, “It’s a vortex.”

Lady B turns sharply, peering behind the potted orange trees. “It’s that physician fellow, isn’t it?” she demands triumphantly. “The one with the sorcerer’s wand!”

“Er, no.” Ever since Dr. Who landed in the Ballroom by accident, Lady B has been keeping a weather eye out for him. She was just a little too intrigued by his sonic screwdriver—even if she does persist in referring to it as his wand.

Can you imagine Lady B in space?

I try to explain. “It’s not that kind of vortex. It’s a book vortex.” I gesture helplessly at the four doors. “Each of these is a book in a different stage of production—that I’m meant to be working on right now.”

From the art deco door comes the low whir of an early airplane propeller, a burst of jazz music, and the trumpeting of an elephant. “That’s blog posts about The Ashford Affair that I’m meant to be writing over there—and the one next to it are proofs for The Passion of the Purple Plumeria that I’m meant to be going through.”

That’s the Bath townhouse door, where the sounds of a furious swordfight can be heard. In fact, it’s so loud that it nearly drowns out the faint murmurs of genteel conversation from the faux gothic entry and the Bach toccata from the dark doorway.

“And the last two?” Lady B asks sternly.

“Revisions for my Victorian-set novel”—I gesture to door #3—“and, finally,”—door #4—“another Pink Carnation book, set in London in 1806. The hero is rumored to be a vampire,” I add, in the hopes of diverting Lady B’s attention. (I’ve seen the copy of Byron’s Giaour she keeps under her bed.)

It doesn’t work.

Lady B pulls herself up. “Bad enough that Miss Darby was dropping manuscripts all over the floor last week! Do you mean to tell me, Miss Willig, that you have invited the characters of not one, not two, not three, but FOUR books to the Ballroom all at once?”

I’m too tired to argue with her. “I didn’t invite them,” I say in despair. “And I can’t make them leave! They all say they won’t go until I’m done with them. But I can’t work on all four at once.”

“Then,” said Lady B imperiously, “you must work on one at a time.” She makes a little shooing motion. “Go on now. Get started.”

“Where?” I demand. The characters from all four doors are waving frantically, all trying to catch our attention, trumpeting out their various claims.

Oh, dear. In fact, they appear to have begun arguing amongst themselves, doorway to doorway. Is there going to be inter-book litigation? It’s like something out of a Jasper Fforde novel, only with no Thursday Next and the Book Police to sort it all out.

“Start at the beginning, of course,” says Lady B impatiently, like a souped up version of Maria von Trapp. “Which novel will be published first?”

“The Ashford Affair,” I say meekly. “It comes out in just two weeks, on April 9th.”

Lady B wafts me in the direction of the Ashford Affair door. “Go do your duty by those characters while I have a nice visit with that interesting Miss Gwen in Purple Plumeria. And Miss Willig?” She turns on one satin-shod heel. “By the time I get back, I expect ALL THESE DOORS TO BE CLOSED.”

I nod obediently. There’s no way I’m going to be done with “Ashford” promo, “Plumeria” proofs, Victorian Book revisions and writing a whole new Pink book by Thursday’s ball, but one doesn’t deny Lady B when she speaks in capital letters.

And she may have a point about that “start at the beginning” thing…. Even if only two of those doors are closed by Thursday, it’s still better than dealing with four.

I don’t know about you, but when I’m overwhelmed with too many things at once, my inclination is always to bury my head under the covers and try to hide from all of them.

How do you tackle multiple tasks?

Also, if Lady B were to have the chance to travel with Dr. Who, where do you think she would go?

“Miss Darby, what on earth are you doing?”

At Lady B’s voice I look up, and accidentally drop the sheaf of papers in my hands. They drop to the floor, joining the other thousands of pages that are in semi-assorted piles about the floor of my writing room at Beautheringstone House.

“Yesterday was the Equinox and the first day of spring. So I’m doing Spring Cleaning.” I feel quite proud of this because when not at Lady B’s, my tendency towards cleaning of any sort is very latent.

“It looks to me as if you are creating spring chaos.”

“Oh no!” As I am ensconced on the floor, I invite Lady B to sit down in my favorite writing chair, the one that is quite plush and velvety and allows one to daydream comfortably for hours. She picks her way across the cluttered floor. “Each of these piles represents an unfinished manuscript. And the only way I can consider them “cleaned” this year is if I finish them. So… one by one I shall make my way through these piles.”

“Are you saying that you will leave these piles on the floor until you finish the story within?” She’s looking around and I follow her gaze. There are probably two-dozen piles of varying heights. Oh…and then the assortment of unorganized papers I accidentally pushed under the bed. Hmm… what is that?

“Stand and deliver!” The carriage jolted to a stop and Livia winced as her head slammed against the padded wall of the carriage and her legs collided with Elizabeth’s.

“Miss Darby!”

“Oh, hmm?”

“Will the maids be able to clean this room or not in the next five years?”

Five years? I think she’s underestimating me. But at the same time, everyday a new pile of ideas does seem to appear in the room…

“And I thought today was the day you would bring your newest hero to visit. A Daniel something or other?”

Oops. That’s right. I was supposed to bring by Daniel Hartmann of Entry-Level Mistress. But I became so engrossed in the idea of “cleaning” that I completely forgot to summon—er—invite him.

“Next time?”

Lady B is giving me an extremely disapproving stare. But as all of us authors have learned in the last nearly two years, one way to distract her is to provide her with new reading material full of yummy heroes and heroines.

I pick up a story at random and hand it her. She arches an eyebrow but begins to peruse the pages. Then she makes a small noise that sounds suspiciously like a snort. She puts the manuscript to the side and suddenly Lady B is down on her knees on the carpet beside me, nosing through all my piles.

“Lady B?”

“Well, I certainly think as your benefactress, I have the right to choose which one you work on next. And to do that, I need to look at ALL of them.”

I glance once more at all the piles around me, wondering what will excite her. A valet hero? A duke in disguise story? A heroine who has been rejecting all her suitors only to discover the perfect man is the one she can’t stand? What do you think Lady B will choose? And what type of Regency do you want to read next?

“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!  

Once again I find myself in an upper chamber of Lady B’s house — this time not the country estate but in town — in a mad frenzy of packing. A huge traveling trunk is open on the floor, and Lady B’s maids are helping me fold gowns and petticoats and pelisses and what-have-you’s between sheets of tissue paper. Excitement buoys me.

Who *doesn’t* want this steamer trunk? I mean. Want.

“Miss Ashe,” Lady B says from the doorway. “Why are you not downstairs with the others at the ball?”

“I’m going on a journey!” I toss a tangled bundle of ribbons (I can never keep my ribbons neatly sorted) into the trunk.

She lifts her lorgnette and studies my overflowing luggage. “A journey to where, precisely?”

“Everywhere! I’m going around the world.”

“Good heavens, you have been reading your own books again, haven’t you?”

“No! Monty inspired me. His adventure simply enthralled me. I’ve been dying to see so many places I haven’t yet had the chance to visit, and to revisit old favorite spots. So I’m taking a page from his book and I’m going. Today!”

“My nephew is not precisely an ideal example for a gentlelady, Miss Ashe.”

Young Hugh. Add a pistol sash, cutlass and naval tricorn and . . . Oh captain, my captain!

“Why not? This is the 21^st cen— that is, the nineteenth century! Women were adventurers and explorers and ship captains then. And I’m not even going to do any of that. I’ve engaged a gorgeous ship, a fine crew and a tall, handsome and slightly autocratic shipmaster to carry me all over the place. I shan’t have to do any really dangerous work myself.”

“You will be traveling with dozens of men aboard a ship alone?”

“Uh . . . Um . . .” I grab a maid’s arm. “I’m taking Penny along as a chaperone. She’s really excited to go, isn’t she? I mean, aren’t you, Penny?”

Poor Penny’s eyes are as round as saucers (a line I’ve always wanted to write in a book but it’s so clichéd I can’t, so there, I’ve satisfied that urge).

“Yes, miss.”

She bobs a curtsey (another overused line, but now I’m on a roll . . .). But then she gives me this smile that says she’s been dying for an adventure too. We both wink.

“Penny! Miss Ashe! I won’t have it.”

We stare at her.

“Why not?” I say.

“Miss Ashe, you are an author. Authors do not hare about the seven seas on grand adventures.”

I exchange glances with Penny.

“Research!”

Lady B does not appear cajoled into True Belief.

La Recouvrance, a French topsail schooner. I know, I know, I’ve posted this photo before. But I really, really love this ship. Really.

“But you have responsibilities to attend to here. I imagine a journey around the globe requires months and months of travel.”

“Oh, a few. But that’s okay, you’ll all have a splendid time without me, of course. And I’ll send postcards to let you know how Penny and I are doing.”

“Post cards?”

“Letters! I’ll keep you updated.” I nudge Penny back toward the trunk. “So . . . if we’re all finished here, my lady, I’ve got to get this packing completed. My ship sails at dusk, and Captain Frye doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

“Very well. Good-bye, Miss Ashe.”

“Ciao, Lady B. See you in a few months!”

I throw another chemise into the trunk but my attention strays to the window. Outside it’s a fine and gentle English day, even here in London. But I’m dying for tropical sands, palm trees, snow-capped mountains, wild animals, exotic foods, bright sun on my face and ocean breeze in my hair.

“Now . . .” I murmur, because I can’t resist, “bring me that horizon.”

I’m off!

If you were packing for a months-long trip around the world, what one single item could you not do without? 

When I first ventured into the blogosphere lo these three long years ago, I was suspicious. That is to say, when a friend enthusiastically recommended her favorite blog and told me I would “love it beyond anything imaginable”

Nothing in the blogosphere compares. No. Thing.

and I immediately imagined a plate of double chocolate cake followed by a romantic comedy movie marathon and a massage performed by Hugh Jackman, I was not inclined to believe her.

I was not only suspicious of all the hoopla over blogs, I was insensibly naive. But I respected my friend, so venture into Bloglandia I did.

My first visit to a blog went something like this: I opened my browser, typed the url, and up popped a post about a topic having to do with an interest of mine, and I . . . Well, perhaps this will help explain my response:

And this is understating it.

I felt as though I had stepped onto a dance floor into the middle of a set for which I did not know the patterns, was not properly begowned, and had no dance partner.

So, because at The Ballroom Blog we want everyone who enters to be comfortable enough to waltz on their very first day here, I have gathered my sister authoresses to present a little primer for newcomers today. Also, it’s the beginning of the year, and sometimes beginnings require a wee bit o backstory.

First, please allow me to introduce to everybody Lady Heliotrope Beaufetheringstone (pronounced “Batman”), our hostess in whose London house we happily dance and gossip and get up to larks every Monday, Thursday and Saturday. Lady B, please meet our new guests.

Lady B: (peering through her quizzing glass) I don’t see anyone, Miss Ashe.

Oh, certainly you see all our wonderful regular guests! But our new visitors may still be a bit shy. Hiding behind potted plants, no doubt. Hopefully they’ll make their presence known in the comments section.

Lady B: I daresay.

She is, I believe, unconvinced. But I am not deterred.

Now, I should begin by telling you darling newcomers how eighteen months ago Lady B first invited Sabrina Darby, Tessa Dare, Gaelen Foley, Sarah MacLean, Miranda Neville and me into her ballroom–

Lady B: And I have regretted it since.

Miranda: We don’t believe you.

Sarah: She actually adores us.

Lady B: I adore your heroes.

Sabrina: Especially their legs.

Lady B: You authoresses and the disaster you regularly bring to my ballroom, however, I could do without.

Miranda: We still don’t believe you.

As you can see we amuse our hostess to no end. And since our happy debut, two other authoresses have joined our ball — Kate Noble and Lauren Willig — while dearest Ms. Foley recently left us.

<squawk!> SOB! <squawk!>

That’s Albert, Lady B’s parrot. He likes lobster patties and laments Gaelen’s departure, as we all do. But really I think this excessive show of emotion is an excuse to make us feel sorry for him because he now shares the house with another bird: Harold, Lord Montague’s toucan. But if I’m going to explain the birds I must first explain the people better, and I fear I’m making a hash of of things already. Ladies, please assist me!

Sarah: Of course, dear. Lord Montague is Monty, Lady B’s nephew and also–

Sabrina: Somehow–

Sarah: Lord B’s heir.

Kate: We’re still not certain how.

Lauren: Some of us are.

Miranda: Really?

Tessa: Don’t look at me. I just spike the ratafia around here.

Sarah: In any case, one day Monty showed up–

Sabrina: Unannounced.

Sarah: And threw Lady B into a tizzy.

Lady B: What on earth is a tizzy, Miss MacLean?

Miranda: Your usual state? Just a guess.

Lady B: Miss Neville, you can be replaced.

My father used to say that when we did something bad. I never believed him.

Miranda: Thus we come full circle.

Like in a dance pattern! Heh. And speaking of patterns, our regular balls are on Mondays and Thursdays. On those days we . . . um . . . er . . . well . . . What do we do on Mondays and Thursdays, ladies?

We all look around at each other.

Sarah: We post pictures of nearly naked men.

And sometimes entirely naked men. (chewing on my lip) 

Occasionally even clothed

Miranda: Handsome men in general.

Sabrina: We also like to throw parties and give away books.

Tessa: And invite guest authors to party with us.

Sabrina: Our characters like to visit, too.

Sarah: (muttering) And sometimes our characters won’t let us in.

In fact, many of our characters were first seen in public in this ballroom. Some showed up long before expected. Some were lured here under false pretenses. Others climbed out of broom closets or crashed through the wall in sailing ships.

This. In the ballroom. Quel disaster.

Others have been helped along by our wonderful guests. Some were born in the ballroom, and some characters have entirely come into being here.

Lady B: I have always been fashionably influential.

Not only that, my lady, you and your ballroom appear in many of our books.

Sarah: Like A Rogue By Any Other Name, and Miranda’s The Importance of Being Wicked, Katharine’s When a Scot Loves a Lady and How a Lady Weds a Rogue, Tessa’s Once Upon a Winter’s Eve, and Sabrina’s The Short and Fascinating Tale of Angelina Whitcombe.

As well as some books that have yet to appear on the shelves: Sarah’s One Good Earl Deserves a Lover and No Good Duke Goes Unpunished, Tessa’s Any Duchess Will Do, and my How To Marry a Highlander. 

Lady B: Good heavens, you are a prolific lot. I believe I chose my authoresses well.

Smiles all around.

Anything else we should share with our new guests, ladies?

Impressive image of a Historical Thing

Lauren: We should probably mention that we’re interested in history.

Indeedy. On the weekends in our Saturday Salons we share historical tidbits as well as other nifty things that inspire our books.

Miranda: Though, admittedly, the space-time continuum is somewhat fluid here.

At times we are even known to engage in a few, um, charming cultural anachronisms.

Tessa: Court, Consummate, Cut Direct!

Miranda: Regency Project Runway!

We are nothing if not au courant. 

Sarah: (grinning) Anachronisms schmachronisms.

Lauren: Apparently we invent words too.

Kate: Of course we do. We’re writers.

We do it all for the sake of our guests — the balls, the books, the characters, the parties, the games, the history, the nearly naked men — all of it! And for our dear Lady B, too.

To our wonderful new guests, please say hello by introducing yourselves in the comments. We’re so happy you’re here! We hope you’ll stay and wander about the ballroom for a bit, have a cup of ratafia, and ogle some handsome legs. 

And to celebrate you being here, one randomly chosen new commenter will win signed copies of books from all seven of us! If you mention in your comment the name of the friend that recommended The Ballroom Blog to you (and she visits today), we’ll give her a $10 gift card to B&N or Amazon. 

To our beloved longtime guests, which posts of the past year and a half do you think our newcomers simply must not miss? Share your favorites in the comments!

Beaufetheringstone House
1 January

My Dear Miss Foley,

I take to my writing desk on the first of each year to complete the correspondence that has lapsed between Christmas and New Year’s Day. As you must know, it is a terribly busy time–

<squawk!> Ratafia abounds! <squawk!>

–and invariably, my epistolary schedule suffers.

I have never, however, been required to draft my first letters of the year with such heavy heart. It is with great sadness that I write this letter — bidding you adieu. I–

<squawk!> AND ALBERT! <squawk!>

–and Albert, of course– we are simply devastated that we shall no longer have the pleasure of your regular company at Beaufetheringstone House. We recall with fondness the way you embraced your invitation to our little gatherings, introducing me immediately to “Regency whup-ass.” While I don’t use the term in general company, I have been known to ease it into conversation with Lord B when necessary.

<squawk!> Marriage requires compromise! <squawk!>

Aside from my own sorrow in missing out on your linguistic innovation, I know that your fellow authoresses–

<squawk!> The lessers! <squawk!>

–shall be devastated by your loss, as well. As they did not have a chance to bid you farewell in person at the last ball of 2012, I offered to pass along their written farewells here. You shall find them enclosed.

<squawk!> Peeker! <squawk!>

Of course, I had to be certain that these were the correct notes, and not for others on my correspondence list. From Miss Neville:

“Before I met Gaelen in person I thought she was clever, funny, a gorgeous writer, and beautiful. In real life I found all these things were true, plus she’s a tiny little thing. Tiny and fierce. She’s someone you’d want to have your back in a fight – and hope I always will. Gael, I’ll miss you chez Lady B.” – Miranda

Fierce, indeed. Surely those gentlemen wouldn’t keep your company if you could not handle them…as Misses Dare and Darby are keen to point out:

“Gaelen, it’s been a delight to mingle in the same ballroom!  And your heroic guests, so imbued with warrior spirit have been an inspiration.  I do hope you’ll return to visit often–and please do bring all your future heroes around, as well.  It would be cruel to deprive us!” — Tessa

“All I know is that we are going to have to make a valiant effort to scrounge up enough handsome, brawling heroes to take the place of Gaelen’s Knight Brothers and Inferno boys. The Ballroom just will not be the same without you! – Sabrina

“In the words of my forebears, Gaelen,
May the road rise to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
The rains fall soft upon your fields,
And until we meet again
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

And in the words of Bill and Ted,
Party on, dude!

We will miss you. Visit often!” – Katharine

I do not know the William and Edward to whom she refers, but I would like to extend an invitation to them to join us in the ballroom at any time. I do like a party. On.

“Gael, you know I’ve been your biggest fan since your very first book, and I feel blessed to have had 18 months of hanging out with you and your fab characters! I will miss your hilarious comments, your clever turns of phrase, and your instant back-up when we need it. I don’t know how we’ll fill your dancing shoes…and hope you’ll come back and visit any time you have a yearning for lobster patties and time travel! Much much love, Sarah”

I confess, Miss Foley, I’ve had a chance to read all of your books in the past few months, and I must disagree with Miss MacLean. I believe I might be your biggest fan.

<squawk!> And I! <squawk!>  

Albert quite likes them, too.

“I was so excited getting to know you on the blog, and you were a great mentor to help introduce a then-newbie like me to the art of the Ballroom. I will miss your constant good humor, and Lady B will be bereft if not for constant visits!” – Kate

Truth from Miss Noble. I haven’t any idea how we will all remain entertained without you. But, As ever, Miss Willig sees the silver lining in this tragic cloud.

“The only consolation for no longer having Gaelen’s wit and charm gracing the ballroom is that it will mean more of her books to enjoy!” – Lauren

Not simply consolation. More books are the only acceptable reason to decline my standing invitation, my dear.

We await them with equal parts excitement and melancholy.

Ever yrs,
Heliotrope, Lady B–

<squawk!>

–and Albert

–

Your turn, Ballroomies – Give Gaelen your farewells in comments.

One commenter will receive a copy of one of Gael’s books — winner’s choice! 

US only, to be chosen Wednesday.