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.

If you’ve read more than about one Regency-era romance, chances are you’ve come across a special license. You see there was this pesky law by which marriages couldn’t take place in England without the banns being published in the resident parishes of both bride and bridegroom three Sundays in a row. In addition, marriages had to take place in church and before noon. This is damnably inconvenient for the writer who wants her couple wed quickly and who doesn’t want the trouble of sending them all the way to Scotland where the laws were less restrictive

Doctors Commons in the early 19th century

Luckily for our desperate heroes (isn’t it always the hero who’s in a hurry?), there was a way out. You could apply to the Archbishop of Canterbury, the head cleric of the Church of England, for a Special License which allowed a marriage to take place anywhere and at any hour without a waiting period. This useful document was obtained from the Archbishop’s London offices at Doctors Commons in the City of London.

A few years ago I became frustrated by the fact that I didn’t know what a special license looked like. I couldn’t find a picture on line, or even the text. So during a trip to London I went to the source. Doctors Commons was demolished during the 19th century but the Archbishop has a nice little London pad at Lambeth Palace, just across the River Thames from Westminster.

I imagined a printed form in which the names were inserted, but I was wrong about that. The Lambeth Palace Library possessed no “blank” licenses, only a few dozen completed ones for marriages that had been performed in the Palace chapel.

Lambeth Palace

A license was handwritten on parchment approximately 18 inches wide by 12 inches high, quite an impressive document. All the couple of dozen I saw (dated between 1754 and 1806) looked much the same. In a couple of instances the names of the parties were written in different handwriting from the text (which was boilerplate, scarcely varying by a word) as though a clerk had prepared a blank license when he had nothing better to do. More often the document had been written all at once, not something that could be dashed off in ten minutes.

A license was signed by the “Register” and finished with the Archbishop’s seal, hanging from a ribbon or string  looped through holes in the parchment.

The men are described as either widower or bachelor, the women as widow or spinster. In the case of a spinster, the name of her father is given, for a widow, her late husband’s. For the man the father is recorded if he’s a peer or someone else notable. As you can see by the list of titles for the bridegroom in the following license, they seemed to like to make the whole business seem important.

Here is the text of a typical license, that for the 1806 marriage of Prince Bariatinsky to Lord Sherborne’s daughter. There is absolutely no punctuation and, yes, the word “Honorable” is spelled in what we would call the American way.

Charles by Divine Providence Archbishop of Canterbury Primate of all England and Metropolitan by Authority of Parliament lawfully empowered for the purposes herein written To our beloved in Christ John Prince Bariatinsky of Russia privy counselor to the Emperor of Russia Chamberlain and Knight of the Military Order of St. George and also Knight of Malta now of Sackville Street London a Bachelor and the Honorable [sic] Frances Mary Dutton of Sherborne in the County of Gloucester a Spinster daughter of the Right Honorable James Dutton Baron Sherborne Wheareas As it is alleged ye have proposed to proceed to the solemnization of a true pure and lawful Marriage Earnestly desiring the same to be solemnized with all the speed that may be that since your reasonable desires may the more readily take due effect We for certain causes as thereunto especially moving do so far as in us lies and the Laws of this Nation allow by these presents Graciously give and grant our License and Faculty as well to you the parties contracting as to all Christian People willing to be present at the solemnization of the said Marriage to Celebrate and Solemnize such Marriage between you the said contracting parties at any time and in any church or chapel or other meet and convenient place by any Bishop of this Realm or by the Rector Vicar Curate or Chaplain of such Church or Chapel or by any other Minister in Holy Orders of the Church of England Provided there be no lawful Let or Impediment to hinder the said Marriage Given under the seal of our office of Faculties at Doctors Commons this twenty first day of April in the year of Our Lord One Thousand eight hundred and six and in the second year of Our Translation.

I wish I had a picture, but I had no smart phone back then. Also, the library was very strict with scary Anglican librarians who were polite but firm.  They only let me look at one document at a time and I was too intimidated to ask for a photocopy.

 Since a special license allowed a marriage to take place at any time or in any place, where would you like to see our Regency couple tie the knot?

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

<squawk> You were pissed <squawk>

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

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

Now you’re talking like an American.

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

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

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

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

<squawk> word nerd <squawk>

I plead one hundred percent guilty.

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

Young Cricketer. “Yes, I cocked one off the splice in the gully and the blighter gathered it.” Father. “Yes, but how did you get out? Were you caught, stumped or bowled, or what?” When it comes to cricket, we’ll never understand each other.

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?

Among the (many) challenges of writing historicals, is the lack of photographs. What did people really look like? Our best sources are portraits and, let’s face it, they can look strange and unattractive to modern eyes.

The painter’s art can also come into a story, evoking emotions or providing a plot point: a miniature of an absent loved one or a portrait of a parent, perhaps. Remember when Elizabeth visits Pemberley in Pride and Prejudice?

Darcy’s portrait is a definite “moment,” a turning point in her view of him.

Elizabeth walked in quest of the only face whose features would be known to her. At last it arrested her–and she beheld a striking resemblance to Mr. Darcy, with such a smile over the face as she remembered to have sometimes seen when he looked at her. She stood several minutes before the picture, in earnest contemplation, and returned to it again before they quitted the gallery.

I’ve been thinking about another book. Not, mind you, the book I’m actually writing. Heaven forbid! I’m chasing plot bunnies for a book to be named (and hopefully written) later. I have this idea about a man falling in love with the portrait of an unknown lady and I’ve been looking for inspiration. Here are some of the candidates I’ve found.

Fragonard

Boucher

Reynolds

Romney – this is the famous portrait of Emma Hart who became notorious as Nelson’s lover Lady Hamilton

Which lady do you like? Can you imagine one of them inspiring a grand passion?

According to the handy weather gadget on my phone, it’s 32 degrees and sleeting in London. Sounds about right for February. As  Gilbert and Sullivan said about the month

For some ridiculous reason, to which, however, I’ve no desire to be disloyal,

Some person in authority, I don’t know who, very likely the Astronomer Royal,

Has decided that, although for such a beastly month as February, twenty-eight days as a rule are plenty,

One year in every four his days shall be reckoned as nine and twenty.

It’s isn’t a Leap Year. Thank God: no Olympics and no Presidential election and only twenty-eight days till we hit the balmy month of March.

Lady B: I like that rhyme. Is it being be performed at Drury Lane?

Miranda: Not yet. Wait around a few decades, Lady B., and you will be able to enjoy the glory that is The Pirates of Penzance. I almost didn’t make it today because we’ve had a lot of snow.

Lady B: Monty was one caught in a snow drift. I believe the dear boy was racing to the rescue of an unsuitable young woman. As usual he made a muddle of things.

Miranda: Isn’t it unfair to blame him for the weather?

Lady B: It’s his own fault for traveling by mail coach. I would never do such a thing. And to be entirely safe I rarely leave the house during the winter. Who knows what frozen horrors lurk in Bond Street?

Miranda: Speaking of frozen horrors, my next book takes place during the winter. I thought you might like to hear about it.

Lady B: Another? Goodness me, you Authoresses are all so busy. As the Duke of Gloucester said to Mr. Gibbon: “Another damned thick book! Always scribble, scribble, scribble!”

Miranda: My book isn’t nearly as long as Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, but there is a Roman aspect to the work. The heroine is the heiress Anne Brotherton, whose greatest ambition in life is to dig up a Roman villa. In this she is both helped and hindered by Marcus, Viscount Lithgow, a man in great need of reform and cold baths. In this little snippet (unedited and subject to change) they are looking for the hypocaust – which every schoolchild knows is the underground chamber used in Roman central heating. The English, alas, managed to lose this very desirable technology for the best part of two millennia.

Digging in ground softened by rain was easier and dirtier. Working side by side–Anne’s shovel technique had improved–they cleared the accumulated earth from around one column of bricks, about three feet tall.

 

“Remarkable,” Marcus said. “Very similar to ones I saw at Pompeii, though some of those still had the floor above them. Which way now?”

 

“Mr. Bentley speculated that the furnace was over there. I’d like to find it and see if we can work out how the hot air was projected between the columns of the hypocaust.”

 

“You’re in charge.”

 

Anne fussed about causing damage and her care was proven necessary when Marcus’s spade dislodged a small metal object, caked in mud.

 

“Let me see,” Anne cried, too excited to chide him. She knelt beside the hole he’d made, leaning in precariously. “There’re other things here. Perhaps we’ve found a rubbish heap.” From her voice he gathered she couldn’t imagine anything more thrilling. He admitted to some excitement himself.

 

“Careful there!” Too late. Scratching at a protruding knob with her fingers she lost her balance and toppled forward. His body stopped her descent. They ended up in the mud, with her half prone between his bent knees, her arms around his neck.

 

Her body heat seeped through their damp, filthy garments. Her floral scent, subtle and costly, pierced the ambient odor of earth and rain and rotting leaves. Her breath was warm on his chin.

 

“Uh…” She interrupted a long fraught moment and he wondered if she was as stunned and incapable of coherent speech as he was. Was that his heart hammering or hers?

 

He freed a hand to touch her cheek, pink and tantalizingly smooth, and she shifted a little, stirring his desire. The fact drew a low crack of laughter from him. It was impossible to imagine less propitious circumstances for love making.

 

“What?” Her lips parted. By God, she was a lovely thing.

 

“I was thinking how much I’d like to kiss you, and how ridiculous that is.”

 

“Why?

 

“Because we are lying in a mud hole and it’s raining.”

Will they find the furnace or will they be distracted doing other thing? You’ll have to wait until August 27th for the publication of THE RUIN OF A ROGUE. Meanwhile, have you ever dug up anything interesting? Speaking for myself, my garden yields nothing but rocks and the occasional rusty tool.

Monty and Harold, together with the feisty and scantily-clad Anisha, floating on a huge trunk, have reached the island of the Amazons. As half a dozen of the magnificent sun-bronzed creatures escort them into their town, Anisha whispers fiercely. “Do not tell them my name or I’ll slit your from throat to gizzard.”

Always joking, that Anisha, Monty thinks, but his attention is distracted. Having been properly brought up, he tries not to stare at the magnificence before him. But one part of his brain is trying to imagine what their new acquaintances would look like with both breasts bared.

“We will take you to She Who Must Be Obeyed,” an Amazon explains.

“Is Aunt Tropey here?” Monty asks. “How jolly!”

“Silence! Men should be seen and not heard.”

“Right. Sorry.”

The trio are taken into a magnificent audience chamber constructed from intricately woven gilt palm leaves. A beautiful woman subjects Monty to a thorough examination from head to toe.

Wish I looked better, he thinks, remembering that he isn’t allowed to speak.

“He’ll do,” the lady says dismissively. “Pity his face is messed up but the maids will see to that. The rest is good enough and he has decent legs.

Just like Aunt Tropey, but with fewer clothes.

“Take him away.” She seems to be in a very bad temper and Monty summons his courage to bear whatever indignities should follow.

Six young women subject him to brutal torture: a full body massage followed by a perfumed bath. Perdita, the youngest, prettiest maid with the softest hands applies a salve to his face and when he looks in a mirror he finds all his bruises magically healed.

“Uh, I say,” he whispers. “I can’t go out dressed like this. Where are my breeches?”

Monty displays his assets

Perdita giggles. “You look very fine. The queen candidates will be pleased.”

“What do you mean?”

“You are the next king of the island. The old queen resigns today.”

“No wonder she’s grumpy.”

“You will chose your consort and the next queen.”

“King, by Jove! How splendid.”

Perdita looks a little sad. I do believe she likes me. And I like her. I don’t suppose she’s a candidate.

He is left in an antechamber where he is reunited with Harold and the biggest bird he has ever seen.

<SQUAWK>

“What ho, Harold. Introduce me to your friend.”

<Hilowokamtago>

“Delighted to meet you, Hilo…. Whatever. What kind of a bird are you.”

“I am a roc,” the creature replies.

“You’re as big as an island. Mind if I call you Rocky? You speak English like a Londoner.”

“‘Ere, ‘ave a fig.” Rocky flaps his wings at a dish of fruit, the rush of air knocking Monty to the floor and Harold to the ceiling. “Sorry ‘bout that. I don’t know me own strength. I’d better warn you …”

But before Rocky can say more, the Amazon guards appear and lead Monty to the audience chamber where he is placed on a throne next to the bad-tempered beauty.

“Bring in the candidates!”

Three even more beautiful women appear, absolutely stark naked.

“Take this,” orders the soon-to-be-former queen, her peerless feature marred by an angry frown. She hands him a heavy golden ring engraved with runes in an ancient script. “This is the ring of power, know as The Preshus. Present it to your choice.”

The bachelorettes – er contenders -  begin to dance and Monty’s eyes are out on stalks.

“Shouldn’t I interview them?” he asks. “Ask them about world peace and their favorite cricket teams? I’ve always heard compatibility is important between spouses.”

“It matters little since you’ll only be wed for a year. My husband died last night.”

“I say, I am sorry. No wonder you seem out of sorts.”

The queen shrugs. “He lacked inventiveness. I’ll be happy enough taking one of the drones to my bed but I shall miss being She Who Must Be Obeyed.

Mont gives an involuntary flex of his muscles, forgetting that they can be seen by all. “I’ll endeavor to please my bride better, just as soon as I get back from a quick trip to England. My Aunt Lady Beaufetheringstone needs me, you know.”

“You’re not going anywhere. You will be king for the year of your wife’s rule, then you will be sacrificed to the volcano. Time’s up. Name the next queen.”

Monty looks wildly around the chamber. He sees Anisha among the gathered Amazons.

“Can’t do it,” he says with a burst of inspiration. “I’m already betrothed. To Anisha.”

A collective gasp arises from crowd.

“Seize her!” cries the queen. “Rahul will pay us in gold and slave men for her return.”

“Idiot!” cries Anisha. “I told you not to say my name.”

“You didn’t mean that about the gizzard, did you?”

Anisha is dragged from the chamber, screaming curses and threats.

“Choose!” screams the queen.

“I choose Perdita.” If he has to be wed for a year and then die, it might as well be to a nice girl not a Fury. “I want her or nobody.”

“This man is unworthy. Seize them both and take them to the volcano.”

A few hours later, Monty and Perdita, bound back-to-back, are suspended over the smoking crater. A candle flame licks the rope that holds them. Strand by twisted strand is consumed by fire until only a single thread keeps them from the fire pit.

“I’m sorry, Perdita. I meant it for the best.”

“It’s all right, Monty. I love you and I wouldn’t want to live without you.”

“Better to die together, than live apart.”

He gropes for her hand and the Ring of Power, the Preshus, which was clutched in his fist, falls into the inferno. A terrifying roar like the wrath of an entire Pantheon of Gods emerges from beneath.

“Now I’ve done it.”

The last thread of rope cracks ….

“Farewell, Perdita!”

A whoosh of air cuts through the din. Monty, Perdita and Harold escape on Rocky’s back as the island of the Amazons is engulfed in lava and ash.

“Oh dear! What will become of Anisha?” Monty wonders as the roc’s giant wings bear them safely out to sea.

Who is better suited to be Monty’s bride? The fiery Anisha or the gentle Perdita. What will Lady B. think? And what will Albert make of Rocky?

It’s about six months (in the 21st century; I won’t speak for Ballroom time) since Lord Montague Moylan-Hazwell (pronounced Marzipan Hatbox) burst into The Ballroom. Aside from the fact that Monty is Lady B’s nephew, we know that he has eyes as green as the grass at the Beaufetheringstone country estate (wherever that may be) and rich, wavy brown hair, with hints of coffee and mahogany. He likes to rescue damsels in distress and does so with more enthusiasm than skill. As a result, none of us has yet seen his face unmarred by cuts and cruises. His constant companion is a toucan named Harold and, lastly, he is Lord B’s heir. Though we have theories about how this genealogical aberration comes about, Lady B has not yet deigned to share it with us.

We’ve all been attempting to get close to Monty (ask Katharine about the buttons on his breeches) and each of us has learned parts of his story. Over the next few weeks we will piece them together into a coherent narrative (don’t laugh), filling in the gaps with help from our readers.

Our story begins in India, where Monty was banished by his father the duke. We’ve heard a number of highly plausible reasons for his exile but I had a hard time pinning Monty down.

*By the way, he tells me that Lady G. only invited him to her room to show him her etchings and Nothing Untoward happened.

Whatever the reason for his departure, he spent a few years in India eating curry, studying the Mahabharata, Ashtadhyayi, and Kama Sutra, and rescuing damsels. Apart from the occasional encounter with thugs and assassins, he managed to pass the time quite happily. Until, one day, he was sitting under a banyan tree, sharing a hookah with Harold.

Harold: SQUAWK

Monty: I agree, old boy. Remarkably fine shisha. Have another toke.

Harold passes out.

Lady B: Montague! Pull yourself together.

Monty: What was that?

A vision of Lady B appears in a cloud of smoke.

Monty: Aunt Tropey! I didn’t know you were in India.

Lady B: You must come home, Montague, at once. Lord B needs you.

Monty: Right-O, Auntie T.

So Monty packed his bags, tucked Harold (who has no head for tobacco) under his arm, and booked passage on the next boat to England. Unfortunately he became confused at the dock and, instead of boarding an East Indiaman, he found himself on a leaky tub captained and crewed by some very shady characters. They were well out into the Pacific Ocean before he realized his mistake. (He had also forgotten that he was in Madras instead of Calcutta).

Monty: Stop! I must alight. I cannot head across the Pacific for Aunt Tropey needs me!

Captain (a desperado with exotic taste in jewelry and mascara): Hahaha! We’ll drop you at the next island. Maybe.

Our readers will choose Monty’s destination. Meanwhile, Monty discovered that he’d loaded the wrong trunk at the dock. When he opened the chest in his cabin, what do you think he discovered?

Lady B often talks about redecorating the ballroom so I thought I’d look for some ideas. Regency era ballroom pictures are quite hard to find. As a matter of fact, few London houses had dedicated ballrooms. Real estate was expensive and not everyone wanted to give balls as often as our own dear hostess. Instead, the largest reception room would be cleared of furniture and carpets and set up for dancing. The pictures I found to inspire Lady B may be later and of (gasp) foreign origin.

A Medieval German ball. Wonderful colors.

The dastardly French knew how to do things well. This one is 18th century

Accidents in Quadrille Dancing, 1817. Here’s one Lady B would recognize. I think the couple in the middle have been at the ratafia. I like the gallery but the room itself is very plain.

The Royal Palace, Belgrade. Now there’s a place for a grand ball. I’m seeing ladies in huge crinolines waltzing to Johann Strauss

And from the US, The Tutweiler Hotel in Birmingham, Alabama. Southerners know how to party.

Vote in our poll for the one you think Lady B would like (or for your own preference!). Do you like to redecorate your home, or do you prefer to leave things as they are?

Last year I bribed Albert to give me a sneak-peek at Lady B’s Christmas letter.  I discovered that our esteemed hostess was not above embellishing the news of her myriad relations in order to provide her friends with sensational Christmas morning reading. This year she kept Albert locked up and I was forced to recruit Monty and Harold as spies. While Monty had his latest black eye attended to, Harold swiped Lady B’s draft and brought it to me hidden in his large toucan’s beak.

The sheet of paper was a little chewed up so I wasn’t sure I had read everything correctly. Until I discovered a copy of People magazine that one of the Authoresses had brought through the time-space continuum and left in the downstairs water closet. It appears that Lady B has been drawing on outside inspiration.

We can only guess which version of the various on dits will make the cut. I will let the Ballroom denizens make their choices and attempt to influence the final decision.

My cousin the Countess of Fecundlake was lately brought to bed. Since the last time I saw her she had swollen to the size of a small pony, I was not surprised to learn she had given birth to triplets, all daughters, much to the distress of Lord F.

My cousin Ferdie Moylan-Hazwell (pronounced Marzipan-Hatbox for those ignorant of the English language) recently made a surprising announcement.

Gels these days have no idea how to behave. In my day we merely danced, flirted, and exchanged opinion on the legs of the best-looking rakes.

It has come to my attention that a group of dandies held a contest to decide on the most fashionably garbed lady in London.

Duchess of Cambridge (Regency style)

Seriously readers. Do we have any doubt who Lady B will pick for the last one?

Lady B: Miss Neville?

Miranda: Yes, Lady B. (I thrust the Toucan-mangled letter into my reticule)

Lady B: Do you know the Duchess of Cambridge? Prinny’s brother Adolphus married Princess Augusta of Hesse-Cassel. The dear princess has no notion of color and goes in for Excessive Flounces. Not well-dressed at all. And to my knowledge she has never been known as Kate.

<squawk> pert bosoms <squawk>

Miranda: Kate, though a Noble name, doesn’t sound very Hesse-Cassel to me.

Lady B: What about Miss Victoria Beckham?

Miranda: She used to be a Spice Girl, runs a dress designing business and is married to a soccer player.

Lady B: What is soccer? Don’t answer that. The woman is In Trade and Does Not Count. I am not worried.

Miranda: What were you worried about?

Lady B: Nothing. Not a thing. I must go. I have a letter to write.

What’s the most exciting news that will/would appear in your Christmas letter this year?