“Miss MacLean!” Lady B calls out from the opposite end of the grand foyer of Beaufetheringstone House. “What is that thing you are dragging about?”

I brush the hair back from my face and pretend not to be too grateful that she stopped me. The house doesn’t have an elevator, you see. “Lady B! It’s a suitcase.”

“A case of suits?” She’s confused, and I’m realizing suitcase is etymologically off.

“A valise.”

Her eyes go wide. “It’s blue.”

“Yes.”

“And it is on wheels.”

“That part is rather useful, when stairs aren’t involved.”

She ignores me. “But surely you aren’t missing tonight’s ball. I have plans. Albert shall be very put out if you’re not there.”

I hesitate. She only invokes Albert’s happiness when she’s very serious. “Well, Lady B–”

She gives me the look. “You are leaving.”

“I have to,” I explain quickly. “I’m going to a conference.”

“With whom are you conferring?”

“Well, there will be a few thousand people there.”

Her brow furrows. “The host must have the largest ballroom in London.”

Uh-oh. When Lady B gets competitive… “It’s not actually in London,” I say, trying to move us away from giant ballrooms. “It’s in Kansas City.”

She blinks.

“Missouri,” I add.

“This event isn’t even hosted by a peer? You’re choosing this Miss Ouri’s soiree instead of mine?”

Oh dear. “Missouri isn’t a person, Lady B. She’s a place. It’s a place, I mean.”

She looks unconvinced. “Explain.”

“I’m going to a very large…” I pause, considering the words. Convention clearly doesn’t work. Party will no doubt set her off. “Event. For authors and readers. The RT Booklovers convention.”

“It’s for your…writing?”

“It is!” I say, grateful. “In a place called Kansas City. In the United States.”

“You’re going to The Colonies.”

“Just for a few days. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“I am not an idiot, Miss MacLean, it shall take you months to get there.”

“Not–” I pause, knowing in 2013, won’t work. “–necessarily.”

She gives a little huff of displeasure. “I don’t like it.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ll bring you back some barbecue sauce.”

“What kind of queue?”

I shake my head. “You’ll see when I get back. And I’ll bring you some free books, too! Maybe some pictures of ladies in wild costumes!”

Her brows snap together. “This does not seem altogether businesslike.”

I’m quietly grateful for the lack of the Mr. Romance competition this year. And I’m just going to skip telling her about the Faery Ball.

**

Are you at RT this year? Be sure to come say hi to me! Have you ever been to a reader convention? What did you like about it? If you haven’t been to one, is it the kind of thing you think you’d enjoy? 

The enormous man, tall and broad, with skin dark as midnight, did not reply, instead silently indicating that she should walk ahead of him into the dark hallway with a seriousness that suggested it would be a mistake to…

“Miss MacLean!”

The door opens with vigor, and I jerk up from my notebook, my pencil sliding off the page as a hunk of hair falls across my face. Not in an attractive, heroine-like way. In an I-cant-see-a-thing kind of way. Dammit. I thought she wouldn’t find me here. I picked this cupboard for it’s roominess. it fits me, several linen tablecloths, a stack of well ironed napkins and a candle. And my notebook. And a pencil.

I was looking for quiet. And definitely not looking for Lady B.

My mother is English, however, so I know how to fake it till I make it. I paste a smile on my face. “Lady B!”

“You are missing the ball.”

My father is Italian, though, so I find myself gritting my teeth. “Am I?”

Her blue gaze narrows. “You are.”

I have never been good at faking it. My shoulders slump. “I know.”

Her lips purse. “What is it, gel? Miss Neville has brought gentlemen in BOOTS. It’s quite diverting.”

This does not make me feel better. “It sounds like it. Except, you see, I can’t go. I have to stay here. I have to work.”

She looks to my notebook. “Work on what?”

“My book. I’m on deadline. And, you see…” my voice lowers to a near whisper, “The book is quite late.”

She does see. “Well. Are you nearly finished?”

She does not, however, know that that precise question is not something to ask a writer on deadline. You see, probably, to the general outside observer, I am nearly finished. But I feel like I’ve half of Africa to traverse before I’m done. North-to-south Africa. Not the easy way. It occurs that the other way isn’t easy either…but I’d take it.

“I am…getting there.”

“Hmm. And when do you think you will get there?” This woman has clearly taken lessons from my mother on how to ask all the wrong questions.

I sigh. “Before the next ball, I’m hoping. But today…I need a little bit of time in this cupboard, if you don’t mind.”

She leans in, tilting her head to look at my notebook. I cover the page with my hand instinctively. She looks up. “Will it be quite salacious?”

I think of leather straps and bathing chambers and boxing rings. “If it is ever finished, my lady, it will be.”

Her eyes light. “And am I in it?”

I smile. “In fact, you are, and it’s quite a scene.”

She nods, her decision made. “Then I shall leave you to it.”

The door to the cupboard closes with a snap.

–

When you are nearly at the end of a project — what do you need to get it done? Absolute silence? Chocolate? A week in a posh hotel? Massages? A large man with a whip? 

“It isn’t Saturday, you know, Miss MacLean.”

I know this, of course, because I have about thirty different ways of looking at a calendar, but I know better than to say that to Lady B. “I thought it might be fun to show some of my inspiration for my books today, Lady B. I know it’s an unexpected thing for a Thursday, but who needs a Saturday Salon for a slideshow?”

“A what now?”

“A slide show. It’s a…” I hesitate. “Nevermind. Have a look at this.”

“Oh, my.”

“I know.”

“He’s quite handsome.”

“He is. And he’s the inspiration for Temple.”

“You mean the Killer Duke?”

“Precisely.”

“The fighter.”

“The very same.”

“My goodness, Miss MacLean, you do always bring the scandal to the ballroom.”

“I do what I can, my lady.”

“I’m afraid I can’t have the Killer Duke in the house. Lord B would have a difficult time with it.”

“I assure you, Lady B, Temple wouldn’t dream of coming here.”

Lady B’s gaze narrows. “And why is that? He can’t possibly think he’s too good for us.”

“Oh, no, he doesn’t,” I rush to assure her. “He just knows…well…his place.”

“And that is?”

“The boxing ring of The Fallen Angel.”

Her voice goes quiet and fills with scandal. “The casino.”

“The very same.”

“You’re familiar with it?”

“I am…it’s very…memorable.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, the art for one.”

Lady B looks skeptical. She hadn’t been looking for that answer, clearly. “The art.” She’d been looking for something more scandalous.

“Absolutely. Take this painting, on the wall of Cross’s office.”

“Good heavens! The Earl could use something slightly less…macabre now that his wife is increasing, don’t you think?”

I smile. “Well, the Countess of Harlow doesn’t exactly mind it.”

“No,” Lady B says, “She’s an odd enough girl that she would like it.”

I’m pointing to another picture. “This one is in a room off the Duke’s chamber.”

Her brow rises. “And why would you know anything about the Duke’s chamber?”

I blush. “Suffice to say, I’ve spent some time in there.”

“With a killer?”

“He’s a very nice killer.”

She does not look like she believes me. “Nice.”

“Well, to me.”

“I hear he likes ladies of a…certain ilk.”

I’m fairly certain I’ve been insulted, because Temple is a halfway decent guy and doesn’t mistreat the prostitutes as the club, but I decide not to get into it with Lady B. “The point is, Lady B…I’m writing, and I need stuff like this to help move me forward. In fact, I keep them all in one dedicated location.”

“Oh, yes. I’ve heard you all speaking of that. Thanks to your Inner Netting. And your Parasols.”

I am used to Lady B discussing the Internet, but the rest…I blink. “Our parasols?”

She waves a hand. “Or your petticoats. Or pincushions. Something like that.”

My brow furrows. And you didn’t think that sounded off?

She cuts me a look. “It’s not as though you authoresses haven’t sounded off before, Miss MacLean.”

It’s a fair point. “I think you mean Pinterest.”

“Oh, and that doesn’t sound off?”

**

Do you guys use Pinterest? I’m obsessed with it. If so, what do you use it for? If not, what social media stuff do you use? (Besides hanging out here, of course!)

I’m currently working on the third Rules of Scoundrels novel, No Good Duke Goes Unpunished.

The book is Temple’s story — Temple, the broad-shouldered, broken-nosed bare-knuckle boxer who handles security at the casino. Oh, and who is known across London as the Killer Duke. Needless to say, Temple’s like no other hero I’ve ever written — extraordinarily physical and filled with emotion that he can barely hold on to, which makes for a rather unpredictable hero.

As I’ve been writing about a fighter, I’ve been doing a lot of research on fighting in the 1830s and in general. I’ve learned some wild things–some of which will end up in this book and some of which will likely never see the light of day: The way fighters used beeswax to stop their teeth from cutting their cheeks; the way they wrapped their knuckles in long strips of linen in precise, perfect patterns; the fact that true bare-knuckle matches lasted 80-100 rounds and that boxing gloves were actually designed to pack heavier punch and make fights more quick and brutal–not to to protect fighters as you might imagine.

I’ve been reading books and watching movies and thinking about fighting a lot as I craft Temple and his story. Movies like Snatch and Knuckle (the Irish travelers have kept bare-knuckle boxing alive and held most closely to its original origins) have been a huge inspiration, and I must confess I’ve watched this clip from the first Sherlock Holmes movie more than I’d like to admit:

Colum McCann writes in his introduction to At the Fights: American Writers on Boxing:

“Writers love boxing, even if they can’t box. And maybe writers love boxing especially because they can’t box. The language is all cinema and violence….what you have with a fight is what you have with writing, and they each become metaphors for each other: the ring, the page; the punch, the word.”

It’s true, of course.

When I came at Temple’s story, I knew I would have to learn about fighting…I just didn’t know I would learn to love it so much.

–

Is there a sport that really speaks to you, either as a spectator or a player? 

“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.”

“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.

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?”

“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!  

To the untrained eye, it appears that Monty and a Vegas showgirl have escaped a large showgirl competition with Harold. But the truth is, we’re in Brazil, and the Vegas showgirl is either Brazilian or Australian of American. Whatever she is, she’s heavily tanned. And whitened. And tightened. And Montague Moylan-Hazwell is pretty well flummoxed by them. And even more flummoxed by the vehicle they’re attempting to foist upon him.

“Get on!” The feathered female is yelling, pushing him toward a very handsome, very un-Regency-era motorcycle.

“I beg your pardon,” Monty cries as Harold clings for dear life to his shoulder, “What is that…thing?”

The showgirl gives him a look–as though he’s grown a dozen heads. “It’s a motorcycle, you dummy! And if you don’t get on it and take a hike…you’re going to have to deal with…” She points down the dark alleyway to a group of silk-clad gentlemen coming up the street, a-la West Side Story but with more…well…Portuguese.

Monty doesn’t like the look of them. After all, over the last month, he’s met with extravagant dancers and George Lucas and volcano sacrificers…and he’s come to know what dangerous looks like. And in this case, danger is garbed in silk and dancing shoes. They’re snapping their fingers and moving in formation.

It’s a problem.

Only slightly less of a problem than the fact that Monty doesn’t know how to operate a motorcycle. In fact, he’s never even seen a motorcycle, due to the fact that he’s from the Regency. And…time is…well…usually not so bendy. The silk clad gangmembers are grand jette-ing closer and the showgirl realizes that it’s time to take matters into her own hands.

She leaps onto the bike and repeats, “Get on!”

“My lady!” Monty says, all propriety, “I cannot straddle that…thing…with you…it would be…incredibly disrespectful.”

She cuts him a look. “More or less disrespectful than The Fancy Feet Gang killing you?”

He considers the question briefly, then hops onto the motorcycle. “Less. But only slightly.”

“Yeah, I thought so,” she says, and takes off through the streets of Rio, ignoring the way Monty cries in surprise and clings to her for dear life.

“This thing goes faster than any horse I’ve ever ridden!” He yells into her ear.

She screams back at him, “That’s because it has the power of 123 horses!”

“What mad place is this? And what did those men want?”

She laughs and opens the throttle through Rio’s central market, dodging donkeys and bystanders, and nearly running them straight into a banana cart. “This is Rio, Montague…and those men want your treasure map.”

“I don’t have a–”

“Of course you do. It’s in your breast pocket.” She takes a particularly dangerous turn, leading them onto a dirt road headed up the cliffs on the outskirts of the city. Once they’ve righted themselves from the precarious tilt, Monty risks a look into his breast pocket.

“I had no idea…where did it come from?”

“Volcanoes, Amazons, Wookies, who cares! What’s important is that you keep it safe. It’s worth a fortune.”

“How did you know it existed? How do you know who I am?”

She checks the mirrors to be certain no one is behind them and pulls over to the side of the road, climbing off the motorcycle before turning back to Monty and clasping his face between her palms. “I know because you’re a legend. With all of us. The fated marzipan hatbox. It’s you.” She presses a long, lingering kiss to his lips, then pulls back and whispers, “At another time…in another world…”

Engines sound in the distance, coming fast and furious from the direction of the city. Monty pulls her to him, ready to take a second kiss. A third. More. He’s not choosy, and she’s wearing virtually nothing. She stays the movement. “We can’t. You have to save yourself…and the map, Monty.”

She points into the darkness, away from the city. “As fast as you can, down that road. Don’t stop until daylight and they shan’t catch you. I promise.”

“What of you?”

She smiles, her sequins shimmering in the moonlight. “I will survive.”

“I don’t even know your name,” he said softly.

“Harley,” she said. “Call me Harley.” The engines are coming closer now, and she kisses him–fierce and quick–once more. “Go. Now. And don’t forget me.”

As if that could happen. Monty turns to the bike and eases it into acceleration, pulling away as she calls out “Goodbye! Until next January!”

Whatever that means.

Full throttle, down the road. He takes the words to heart. Follows them to a tee–faster and faster, The Fancy Feet Gang closer and closer, desperate for his treasure map…

Until he goes right over a cliff and into thin air.

And lands, sans-motorcycle, in the middle of the Beaufetheringstone Ballroom.

“Good heavens! Montague!” Lady B approaches, extracting her lorgnettes to have a good long look at her nephew. “Wherever have you been? It looks as though you were chased through a holly bush!”

He brushes his fingers over the cut on his eye and the mottled bruises across his cheek. “I’ve been…Aunt Tropey…you wouldn’t believe it.”

Lady B raises a brow. “No. I don’t believe I would. Please go tidy yourself. People will arrive any moment. We’re to have a ball for Miss MacLean. She’s a new book out, and I’m told I am mentioned in it. I can’t very well have you scandalizing the guests.”

Monty smiles and begins to make his way to the ballroom door, wondering how it is that he’d experienced such remarkable things over the last month. Perhaps he dreamed them. Perhaps worse.

His hand drifts absently to the inside breast pocket of his coat, grazing the parchment there. What in– He extracts the paper. An old, creased map. With a large red X in the center.

Treasure.

His next adventure, no doubt.

**

Welcome back to The Ballroom, all! Monty is here–bruised as ever thanks to his insane motorcycle leap!

Tell us, what’s the one daredevil stunt you’d like to try? Bungee jumping? Motorcycle racing? Hang gliding? 

 

 

 

It’s January 3rd, and we’re all back to work. I am in that frenzied place where I have a book releasing (We Interrupt This Sentence for a Shameless Plug–One Good Earl Deserves a Lover, out January 29th!) and a book due (No Good Duke Goes Unpunished, out when it’s finished!), and I can’t really think intelligent thoughts. And so, I read People Magazine. And US Weekly. And anything else I can get my hands on — assuming there are more pictures than words.

The benefit of these less-than-cosmopolitan–ooh, Cosmopolitan!–reading materials is that I am very up on the handsomest men of the time. And I’m developing a sound appreciation for those who I might not have cared much about earlier. I’m looking at you, Channing Tatum.

“My word! That man isn’t wearing any clothing!”

“I know! But there are worse things, aren’t there, Lady B?”

Lady B extracts her lorgnettes from her reticule and takes a good look. “My word.”

I have come to realize that when Lady B says “my word,” what she really means is, “I haven’t any words.” 

“I know.”

She points to another picture. “And who is that?“

“Ahh…he’s a particular favorite of mine.”

She cuts me a look, “Am I misunderstood in thinking you are married, Miss MacLean?”

“Not at all, but I am able to peruse the menu, am I not?”

“As long as you dine at home.”

We share a grin. “Precisely,” I say. “That, is Bradley Cooper.”

“He is a handsome devil.”

“Great smile. And he speaks fluent French.”

“Mmm. Tres bon. Perhaps we should have Misters Cooper and Tatum to a ball? It seems the thing, considering they lack titles. And clothing.”

“I think that would be a very generous invitation, my lady.”

“Turn the page.” Far be it from me to disobey the Baroness. “Dear me…there appears to be an epidemic of nudity among these men.”

“Tragic, don’t you think?”

“Terribly. Now those are lovely legs.”

“This is Daniel Craig. He plays a very famous spy.”

“On the stage?”

I hesitate. “Sort of.”

“You’d think he’d have enough money for clothes.” She lingers over the image for longer than is necessary, then snaps her head up. “Miss MacLean! This magazine is positively pornographic!”

Hmmm. Regency propriety returns. “Not really, I mean…you can’t see anything you couldn’t see on one of your garden statues.”

“My garden statues are not flesh and blood.”

She’s got me there. “Trust me, my lady…at some point…these pictures will be tame in comparison to the others in print.” (I’m looking at you Prince Harry.)

“Well they are most certainly not now. I believe I shall have to confiscate this magazine.” She pauses. “For your own good.”

I stifle a grin and relinquish my People. “If you must…”

I don’t have the heart to tell her I get another issue tomorrow.

–

Happy New Year, Ballroomies! Tell me…who’s your hottie of choice these days? Post a pic for extra fun!

Most of you who are reading this are reading it while I’m on a plane. And, as I’m writing this well ahead of the time you’re reading it, I can only hope that I have Internet access in the sky and can reply to your comments! But yes…it’s the 22nd of December and most of the universe (it seems) is in an airport, on a train or in traffic! Holiday travel is upon us.

It’s worth noting that there are few things I like less than holiday travel, as it all-too-often involves airplanes and the ever-present possibility of there being a winter storm while I’m in an airplane. That said, it occurs to me that holiday travel  in 2012 is definitely better than holiday travel in 1812 for any number of reasons, not the least of which was this:

Traveling in the winter in a carriage could not have been a picnic.

Oh, I know what you’re thinking, “But Sarah! Surely you’ve read the novels! Surely you’ve written the novels! There’s always plenty of room and a virile, warm male willing to cuddle beneath a toasty traveling blanket!” To that I say, in novels, yes. But in real life? It was cold and drafty and cramped and I’m guessing that warm virile male was just as grumpy as I would be and decidedly not in a cuddling mood.

Also, it doesn’t have much shock absorption, and the roads…well…let’s just say that if you were traveling any real distance through cold, wintry England, you’d bounce around in there. And not in a good way.

Add to it the fact that if it did snow (very possible in late December in central and northern England, the riders had to disembark and walk while the poor horses yanked the carriage through the snow. So now it’s cold, you’re wearing a dress, and you’re walking. Yikes.

All this is not to say that I either a) apologize for writing so many scenes in what seem to be clown-carriages, or b) plan to stop doing it. BUT…it is to say that I am, I suppose, grateful that I am right this very minute, traveling across a country in five hours instead of five months  (assuming 20 miles a day…which is the general rule), albeit in a metal tube.

So…here’s to advances in travel! I hope yours is easy and safe…and ends with lots of love and excellent gifts.

–

Are you a holiday traveler? Or one of the lucky ones who gets to stay home and have everyone come to you?

It’s December…and you know what that means! It’s time for trees and menorahs and snow and singing and sledding and weeks off from work and school and presents! And it occurred to the Ballroom Authoresses this year that we were terribly rude last year and forgot to give Lady B Christmas presents. We’d had a whole thing planned out for Boxing Day 2011, but it ended up being a rather late and liquored evening on Christmas Day, and we forgot.

So, this year, we decided to go all out, and make sure we delivered our gifts to Lady B early in the month.

“…to avoid the cold shoulder she can so expertly deliver,” I’m explaining to the rest of the group when the Lady in question materializes at one end of the ballroom.

“I beg your pardon, Miss MacLean?”

I look up from where I’m arranging paper-wrapped boxes beneath the Ballroom Christmas tree, and mutter, “Good lord. The woman has ears like a…like a…”

“Hawk?” Kate offers, from where she is adding her package to the stack

“I think that’s eyes.” Miranda says.

“Owls have excellent hearing,” Tessa adds, opening a bottle of ratafia.

“No doubt, but I don’t think that’s what I was thinking.”

“Actually, the best hearing is often attributed to the tiger moth,” Katharine pipes in.

“Fine,” I say, rising from the foot of the tree. “Then the woman has ears like a tiger moth.”

I turn to find Lady B standing directly behind me. “You’d best remember that, gel.”

“Lady B!” I cry, “You’re just in time!”

She looks to the tree. “I see you’ve brought another needley plant into the house.”

“I have!” I say, quite proud of myself. “And this time, it’s trimmed with presents!” 

This seems to mollify the Baroness.

I leap to add, “Presents for you!”

The authoresses beam.

“Would you like to open them?”

“I suppose I might have the time for one or two.”

“Or eight?” Lauren suggests.

“Or eight,” Lady B agrees.

“Excellent!” I’m thrilled that we’re off the tiger moth at this point. “We all thought long and hard about the best gifts for a lady of discerning taste…”

“You really shouldn’t have spent your hard earned money on me.” Lady B demures, every polite.

I refrain from telling her that we agreed on a $25. limit on gifts, and instead wave at Kate. “You start!”

Kate presents her gift to the Lady, who tears at the wrapping with gusto. Opening the small, flat box, she peers in and says, “How lovely!”

“This bronze ladies’ watch is fashionable as a necklace or as a pocket piece. I thought it might help you to keep time when time in the Ballroom starts to get…”

“Wibbly-wobbly?” The lady finishes for her.

Kate nods. “Precisely.”

“Thank you, Miss Noble. I shall wear it with pride.”

Kate blushes. “Thank you, my Lady.”

I wave Gaelen forward. “Knowing your penchant for sweets, my lady…” she trails off as Lady B rips at packaging to reveal a small gold box. “I thought you might enjoy this…er…new delicacy.”

“Godiva? Like the nude woman?” Lady B raises an eyebrow. “Miss Foley, is this quite appropriate?”

“Oh, totally!” Gaelen says.

Lady B peers into the box. “Brown balls?”

Miranda snickers. “A wonder that name didn’t stick.”

“Truffles, my lady,” Gaelen clarifies. “Chocolate truffles.”

“Chocolate is a liquid, Miss Foley,” Lady B says. “I should know. I drink it every morning. It’s my very favorite warm beverage.”

Gaelen smiles “Try one.”

Lady B bites into one truffle carefully, skeptical for less than a second before she closes her eyes and moans her pleasure. “Oh, my. Oh…MY.” The Lady pops one more into her mouth. “They’re HEAVEN!”

Gaelen grins. “I thought you’d like them.”

Lady B speaks around a mouthful of chocolate. “What else have you brought me?”

“Ooh! Do me!” Lauren leaps to gather a long, slim box and set it on Lady B’s lap. The Baroness reluctantly relinquishes the Godiva, but not before sneaking another into her mouth. “This one is from Miss Gwen and me, Lady B…I noticed you envying hers…”

Lady B opens the box and lets out a little squeal of happiness. “My very own sword parasol!”

“For warding off those Ballroom fashion infractions!” Lauren adds.

“It’s perfect, Miss Willig. Precisely what I wished for.”

“My turn!” Tessa is getting excited. Or, she’s ready for Ratafia. She points to a small, thin box beneath the tree. “That one!”

Lady B claps her hands. She’s getting excited, too. Or she’s ready for Ratafia. Once the package is in hand, she tears at the wrapping and opens it to reveal…”Quills!” She turns to Tessa. “Do you expect me to draft my own novel, Miss Dare?”

“I’m hoping for a memoir, honestly, my lady…but these are no ordinary quills. They’ve got ballpoints!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Er…I mean to say…they’re self inking!”

“Self-inking? You mean I don’t need an inkwell any longer?”

“You don’t!”

“How very clever!”

“Isn’t it, though? Farewell ink-stained fingers!”

“The one downside to so many balls…no longer!”

We all lean forward to watch Lady B test the quill on a swatch of wrapping paper, signing her name, Heliotrope, Lady Beaufetheringstone, in wide, sweeping letters.

“And there’s more in the box!” Tessa can’t contain herself.

“So there is! The lady reaches in and extracts several long, red tubes. “It’s…” she lifts it to her nose. “Wax?”

“For sealing envelopes! You just put them into your glue gun…” Tessa trails off.

“Which gun?”

“Uh-oh.” Sabrina looks up from where she is feeding Albert lobster patties.

Tessa looks like a deer in headlights. “You’re…glue gun?”

There is a long pause before Lady B says, “Hmm. I shall have to ask Lord B about this glue gun. He shall be very grateful for the wax, no doubt, Miss Dare. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Tessa says, sounding immensely relieved. She looks around. “Who’s next?”

“I shall go,” Miranda volunteers, handing Lady B another small box.

The lady is getting into it now. “How wonderful you all are!” She peers into the box. “Apothecary viles!” She lifts one sparkly vile and reads closely. “China glitz? Is it from the Orient, Miss Neville?”

Miranda leaps in. “Indeed it is! For painting your toenails!”

Lady B’s eyes go wide. “Only the most scandalous ladies paint their toe nails, Miss Neville.”

Miranda grins. “We shan’t tell if you don’t! I thought you might like gold and silver and – for that holiday je ne sais quoi – red and silver glitter.”

Lady B giggles. FULL ON GIGGLES. “I shall enjoy that very much.” She looks around, right at me. “Miss MacLean? Did you bring me something?”

The Baroness has become rather forward.

I smile. “I did, Lady B.” And I’m really quite proud of this one. I pluck my package from the boughs of the tree and hand it to her, the ribbon flying away instantly.

“Oh!” Lady B says, lifting the long silver chain from the bed of cotton inside the box. “It’s a necklace! And is that…” she peers closely. “Is that one of Albert’s feathers?”

Albert squawks. Thief!

“I didn’t steal it,” I assure him. “I simply retrieved it from the floor after your last run in with Harold!”

Albert does not look pleased.

“Oh, tosh, Albert. It’s lovely,” Lady B says, putting the necklace on. “I shall have a piece of you with me whenever I wear it!”

The bird flies to Sabrina, who consoles him with lobster.

Lady B turns to Katharine. “I am ready for you now, Miss Ashe.”

Katharine leaps to deliver her large, flat package. “I have several of these, and they’re very useful.”

Lady B tears the paper and reveals a lovely large Tall-Ships Calendar. “What a handsome calendar! How clever, with the different pages for each month! This is quite lavish, Miss Ashe. I shall be able to keep track of all my balls quite easily now.”

Miranda snickers again, but just barely before Lady B adds, “Tell me, what does 2013 mean?”

We all look to Katharine as she answers easily, “It’s the year.”

Lady B’s eyes go wide. “The year?”

Katharine realizes what’s she said. “For…yaknow…future planning.”

Lady B laughs. “Rather far into the future, my dear.”

Katharine laughs with the Baroness…a touch too loudly. “Right! A fine jest, don’t you think?”

Lady B nods and turns to Sabrina. “And you, Miss Darby?”

Sabrina plucks her box from beneath the tree. “Here you are, my lady…”

The box is barely in the Lady’s hands before it’s unwrapped and she’s holding a small rectangle of plastic. “How interesting! Is it a machine?”

“It is!” Sabrina says. She lifts a pair of headphones from the packaging and places them to Lady B’s ear. “Don’t be alarmed, my lady. It won’t hurt you…just listen!” She pushes a button on the walkman in the BAroness’s lap and we all watch as Lady B’s eyes go wide in shock.

“It’s music!” She yells at the top of her lungs. “IT’S PLAYING IN MY HEAD!”

Sabrina explains to the rest of us… “It’s a mix tape of Christmas Carols and Czech pop songs. I figured  and give her a Walkman, to introduce her to the “old fashioned” way of sharing music.”

Thank goodness we saved Sabrina for last…Lady B is lost to us…amazed and entranced by the music in her head.

And who can blame her? Walkmen are pretty cool.

—

Ok readers! We gave Lady B eight presents under $25. What’s your favorite gift under $25.? Share in comments — we could all use some good ideas this holiday, I’m guessing!

It’s National Novel Writing Month, which is always an exciting time for writers, whether you’re working on your first book or your fifteenth, it’s always good to have a reason to put words on the page! The goal of NaNoWriMo is to draft a novel in one month. It sounds scary, I know, but the project is really manageable — if you commit — 50,000 words in 30 days or 1667 words each day for the month of November.

So many writers I know have done NaNoWriMo and ended up selling their books, and so many others have used the month as an opportunity to try something new. As for me, I’m using this November to try drafting a novel — which is not something I ever actually do — I am an obsessive revise as I go-er. But this month, I’m using my new AlphaSmart (which Eric thinks came directly from 1983), and I’m only writing forward — not back. It could be a disaster, but at least at the end of this I’ll have words to revise (which is my favorite part)!

If you’ve already joined NaNoWriMo this year, awesome! Good luck, and friend me over there (I’m sarahmaclean)! We’ll track words together and cheer each other on!

If you haven’t, there’s still time! I can’t recommend it enough…it feels awesome to be working toward a common goal with so many other writers who know how hard the work is and know exactly what you’re going through!

This is an awesome opportunity to try something crazy. I mean, think about it…this time next month, you could have 50,000 words toward a full book!

I leave you with the fortune cookie fortune that is taped to my computer monitor: “Begin…the rest is easy.”

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Are you NaNoWriMoing? Share your screen name (and a little about your project!) in comments so we can all be buddies! If you’re not planning to write this month, do you ever think about writing a book? What kind?