I am entering the Ballroom feeling rather sheepish today.  Apparently, someone forgot it was her turn to host Saturday Salon, and apparently that someone was… er… me.  I just realized it, just now. Yeah.

“I heard ewe messed up. Baaaad Tessa.”

Thank you, disapproving lamb. Your wool will go to good use today.

There is nothing to be done but apologize to you all and to Lady B, and I’ve come early today to do just that, and…

“But you aren’t Lady B.”

Poised before me is an straight-spined, regal lady of middle age, dressed in a gown of the finest watered silk. I know her at once from her elegant sweep of silver hair and the thick rope of rubies draped around her pale neck.

But I should know her anywhere. I created her, after all. She’s the Duchess of Halford. Or the Dowager Duchess, now that Any Duchess Will Do has come out.

“Your Grace.” I make my best attempt at a curtsy.

She inclines her head a quarter-inch. “Miss Dare.”

“Are you here to pay a call on Lady B?”

“Heliotrope is an old friend, as you know.”

I do know. And I also notice that the duchess is attempting to hide a strange, lumpy satchel behind her back. I spy the glint of a slender, silver needle protruding from the top.

“How is the knitting coming along?” I ask.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Not a flicker of emotion passes her face. Oh, she’s good.

“Of course you know what I mean. You can’t keep secrets from me. I made up all your secrets. I’m the one who made you a secret, compulsive knitter.”

A delicate scowl. “Knitting is common. Duchesses do not knit.”

“Duchesses don’t knit very well, you mean.” I dart forward and pluck something fuzzy and shapeless from her bag. “Oh, look. It’s an adorable pink-and-yellow whatsit.”

At last, she gives up the pretense, putting one hand to her aristocratic brow. “It’s appalling. Everything I make is appalling.”

“No, no. I think you’re improving. By the time actual grandchildren make their appearance, you just might have something usable.” I twist the pink-and-yellow fluff this way and that. “Is it meant to be a plaything in the shape of a cuttlefish?”

“It’s a cap,” she moans.

“Oh. Of course! Take heart, your grace. I made you a bad knitter because I am a bad knitter. I don’t even have the patience to attempt caps or cuttlefish. I just make shockingly bad scarves. See, look.”

The Woeful Scarves.

“These are the last two scarves–or mufflers–I made for my own children. See how one is much too thick, and the other is much too thin, and neither one is particularly even?  And they’re not properly finished at the ends?”

‘They are dreadful,” the duchess agrees.

“Yes. And to top it off, we live in Southern California, where they might actually need a scarf one week out of the year.  If that.  I am a poor knitter.  But I made these with love, and my children love them, and that is what matters.  Your grandchild will adore his cuttlefish cap one day, too.”

Are there things you do or make just for the love of it, even though you’re not very good?  Any crafting (or baking/sewing/artistic) disasters in your past to make the duchess feel less alone?  Feel free to post photos.

Side note?  I’m now obsessed with the idea of knitting a cuttlefish cap.

Today is an exceedingly busy day.   I have borrowed the Ballroom for a scene in my brand-new book, Any Duchess Will Do!  There’s so much to get ready.

I consult my list.  “Let’s see… We need to make certain the punch bowl is just so, and placed at the far end of the dance area… I must remember to tell the orchestra to play lots of waltzes.  Oh, and the doors to the garden have to remain unlocked at all times.”

“This Ballroom has doors leading to a garden?”  Lady B swivels her head, turning in all directions.

“It will by tonight,” I vow.  Some serious smooching needs to happen in that garden.  I hope the secluded bench I ordered has arrived.

There’s a commotion in the entryway.  “Oh, good! The workmen are arriving.”

“Workmen?” Lady B asks.  “And what, pray tell, are the workmen here to work on?  Other than door installation.”

“It’s the columns.”  I consult with my copy of Any Duchess Will Do.  “The ballroom scene in the book calls for Corinthian columns, and I’m pretty sure the ones pictured in our blog masthead are Ionic.”

Lady B tilts her head back, observing the soaring pillars.  “You’re going to remodel all of my columns just for one line in your book?”

“It’s not just the one line!  It’s a running joke.”

Lady B just shakes her head.  “A running joke indeed.”

My attention–fractured as it is–is stolen by a new arrival:  a slender young woman with light-brown, rather disheveled hair and a simple blue frock.

“Oh, huzzah.  You’re here!” I call out.

Lady B beats me to her.  “Oh, thank heaven.  At least Miss Dare saw fit to bring in extra domestic help.  What is your name, girl?”

“Pauline Simms, your ladyship.”

“Well then, Pauline, let’s take you to my housekeeper.  She’ll see you kitted with an apron, bucket, and scrubbing brush.  Goodness only knows what other preparations Miss Dare has planned for tonight’s ball.”

“Wait!” I interrupt.  “Pauline’s not here to work, Lady B.”

“But she’s a servant.  She said so.”

“She is a serving girl, yes.  But she’s also the heroine of the book.  She’s here because tonight she’ll be attending our ball as a guest.”

Lady B blinks.  “A serving girl…will be a guest…in my Ballroom?”

Albert squawks. “Inconceivable!”

Poor Pauline.  She’s a brave soul, but even she is starting to look a bit intimidated. I think it’s the grandeur of the room.  And possibly also the talking bird.

I put an arm around her shoulders to buck her up.  “There, there.  You won’t be alone.  You’ll get to wear a beautiful gown.  And Halford will be there, of course, looking handsome as anything.  It’s going to be marvelous, you’ll see.”

Pauline shakes her head.  “No.  It’s going to be a disaster.  It’s supposed to be a disaster.  Halford hired me specifically to be a disaster.”

I smile to myself.  Oh, just you wait.  It’s going to be disastrously romantic.

“Halford,” Lady B echoes.  “Not the Duke of Halford.”

“Why, yes!” I confirm.  “The very one.”

Lady B draws me aside.  “Miss Dare, you honestly mean to tell me the serving girl’s hero is a duke?”

“Don’t look so scandalized, Lady B.  You married beneath your rank, too.  I think it’s romantic when people fall in love with someone of a different class, despite all the social barriers.”

“There’s marrying outside one’s class, Miss Dare, and then there’s marrying outside one’s phylum. At least tell me the duke plans to bring his mother tonight.  I do so love a chat with Judith.  I’m sure she’ll have a great many woes to vent, if her only son has taken up with a housemaid.”

“Barmaid,” Pauline interjects, smiling a little and holding her chin high.

She’s looking more herself now, and I’m glad.  Tonight promises to be very entertaining.

She says, “I’m a barmaid, not a housemaid. And the duchess isn’t at all upset about my carrying on with her son.  In fact, it was her idea.”

“It was the duchess’s idea?” Lady B asks, pulling out her fan.  “Oh, Miss Dare.  I can tell there must be a story here.”

Yes, there is!  In fact, it’s a rather long story.  Nearly 400 pages, so I’ll spare you the rest of it right now.  But please do leave a comment about your favorite cross-class or Cinderella-eque love story, and you could win the whole copy of Any Duchess Will Do for yourself!  I’ll even sign it! 

And my deepest thanks to Lady B for lending me her slightly-modified Ballroom (and garden!) for one of my favorite scenes in the book.

The weather is gray today, and the guests are few.  Lady B. and I aren’t quite sure what to do with ourselves.

“I know,” I say.  “Lady B., why don’t you join me in a mental visualization exercise.”

Lady B. gives me a blank stare.  “What?”

“Just close your eyes. We’re going to play a lovely game of wishes.”

Lady B. obliges, but warily.

“Now,” I say, “imagine that you have the delight of owning your very own shop.”

Pauline’s dream bookshop would be just as cozy and friendly as The Shop Around the Corner–but catering to an older clientele

Her eyes fly open. “My very own shop?” she asks, offended.  “A delight?  I should never be so absurd as to willingly imagine myself in trade.  Am I to be lowered to such a demeaning state?  What a suggestion, Miss Dare.”

“I’m so sorry.  I didn’t mean to offend.  I’m used to it being a pleasant daydream–the idea of opening one’s very own shop.  I’ve always loved to sit and ponder what kind of business I’d create, if I had unlimited time and funds.  In fact, Pauline, the heroine of Any Duchess Will Do, shares my long-held dream of opening a little bookshop.”

Lady B. harrumphs.  “Dreams of shopkeeping may be all very well for you and your heroine.  But you are not a lady, Miss Dare.  I am assuming this ‘Pauline’ is not, either?”

“Oh, no.  Pauline is no lady.  Nor even a gentlewoman.  She’s a barmaid.”

“A barmaid!”

And perhaps a touch brighter and more organized than Embryo Concepts in Funny Face…

“Yes!  Oh, and by the way–I’ve invited her to come by the Ballroom next week.  You can ask her all about her shopgirl aspirations then.”

Lady B. shakes her head.  “I truly don’t think I shall.”

“Come along, my lady.  Surely it doesn’t hurt to imagine, does it?  Isn’t there a small part of you that loves the idea of a cozy shopfront, just full of shelves stocked with beautifully arrayed goods of your choosing?  The empowerment that comes with managing your own establishment?  The fun of welcoming customers and friends, tallying their purchases and making change?”

“What does that even mean, ‘making change?’”

“Never mind the details.  It’s all just imagining, in good fun.  For instance, you could have your own teashop!  Or a confectioner’s.  Beautiful, smiling people would come in all day long, and you would serve them iced cakes and lemonade, along with morsels of the latest gossip.”

“But I do all those things as a matter of course, during my mornings at home to callers–except here, in a gracious, well-appointed home.”

Travel books aren’t the sort she intends to stock, but good-looking, charming Brits are always welcome!

“You could open a milliner’s shop, or a mantua-maker’s!  You could be up-to-the-minute in all the latest fashions.”

“But I am up to the minute in the latest fashions.  I set the latest fashions.”

I bite my lip, thoughtful.  “Hmm.  But there are all sorts of shops in the world.  Wine shops, cheese shops, glove shops, shoe shops, flower shops, eel pie shops…”

A loud squawk jogs my thoughts.

“Thank you, Albert.  Even bird shops!”

What sort of shop do you think Lady B would be best suited to open?

And if you had the funds and opportunity, what sort of shop would you open?

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

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

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

“The blacksmith?” Lady B sputters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She whispers the rest to me behind her raised fan.

“No,” I say.

“Oh, yes.”

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

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

I am shocked. Shocked.

But I approve.

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

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

“Never mind,” I say.

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

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

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

Warning: This Saturday’s salon is brought to you by shameless
a) self-quotation
and
b) objectification

You’ve been forewarned. Read on if you’d like to be forearmed.

My new novella comes out next Tuesday – it’s called Beauty and the Blacksmith. Now, I always give each heroine I write a little piece of me. Sometimes it’s awkwardness around cute boys (Minerva, in A Week to be Wicked). Sometimes it’s a love of old books and the way they smell (Pauline, in Any Duchess Will Do). When it came to Diana Highwood, I gave her one of my most deeply personal qualities: an obsession with forearms.

From the first page of BATB:

Goodness. Just look at it. Thick as my ankle.

Diana Highwood took her glove and worked it like a fan, chasing the flush from her throat. She was a gentlewoman, born and raised in genteel comfort, if not opulent luxury. From an early age, she’d been marked as the hope of the family. Destined, her mother vowed, to catch a nobleman’s eye.

But here, in the smithy with Aaron Dawes, all her delicate breeding disintegrated.

How could she help staring? The man had wrists as thick as her ankle.

As always, he wore his sleeves rolled to the elbow, exposing forearms roped with muscle. He pumped the bellows, commanding the flames to dance.

But on reflection, I realize it really goes back further than that. My obsession with forearms was established in my very first book, Goddess of the Hunt. It’s pretty much all over for Lucy once she sees Jeremy with rolled up sleeves:

Clearly the sight of a well-muscled forearm incited a woman to utter depravity. How else to explain the invention of cuffs?

Okay, so maybe ALL my heroines are obsessed with forearms. Can you blame them? Let’s test this with a little visual feast of forearms. For, you know, science. Or something.

Matt Bomer’s thought bubble: Gosh, I have no idea how my forearms got this smoking hot.

I’m thinking Chris Hemsworth has been lifting more than bottles with those forearms.

Joe Mangianello is the boss of forearms.

Aww. Does Jason Momoa have a boo-boo on his forearm? Who wants to kiss it better?

You can’t say I didn’t forearm you.

We all know Lady B has a thing for a well-turned male leg.  Do you have a favorite body part you like to ogle … drool over … search obsessively on tumblr … admire?

“My dear Miss Dare,” says Lady B upon my arrival in the ballroom today, “are you well? You are looking rather…”

“Taxed?” I suggest.

“Yes. Just the word.”

I heave a sigh and sink beside her on a plush divan.

“Do put up your feet,” she urges.

“I don’t mind if I do. It is Tax Day, and I will admit, I’m feeling taxed in many ways, Lady B. I’m not sure I have the heart for much beyond a well-spiked glass of ratafia, a perusal of some fine legs, and–”

squawkMadlibs!squawk

“Thank you, Albert. Yes. On tax day, a bit of silliness will be just the thing. It’s been far too long since we’ve played cover blurb MadLibs.” (Or MadGlibs, as this untrademarked version is called!)

You know how these work, right? Fill in the blanks, hit the button, and please copy and paste your silliness into the comments! On Tax Day, we all need a good chuckle!

Read the real blurb for Tessa’s Any Duchess Will Do here.

Read the real blurb for Kate’s Let it Be Me here!

I spent most of my weekend at the wonderful California Dreamin’ conference, having a great time with my fellow writers and readers, and I confess, I didn’t start even thinking about this post until last night. My third-grader daughter was helping me make dinner, and I asked her if she had any ideas.  She offered to help me write it.

So here goes…

(If you hadn’t noticed, I always call my kids “the darelings” online.)

Me:  See, I need to write a scene that takes place in a ballroom.

Dareling: (thinks on it)  How about a young man and a young woman meet, and they dance.

Me:  That’s a good start.

Dareling:  And then after they dance, they discover that they’ve been next-door neighbors all their lives and never knew it!

Me:  Well….If they’ve been next-door neighbors all their lives, how did they not know each other?

Dareling:  Maybe they lived in the country, a whole mile apart.

Me:  And they still never met their nearest neighbor?

Dareling:  They were homeschooled.

Me:  Oh.  Okay.  I guess most people were then.  So we have the homeschooled young lady and gentleman, and they’ve danced and met, and now what?

Dareling:  Now that they know each other, they find a tree that’s halfway between their two houses, and they meet there every day.

Me:  I like this!  This sounds…really good.  Like, maybe better than my own current plot.  And what do they do at the tree?  Kiss?

Dareling:  No.  They read books.

Me:  Reading books is good, too. Very romantic.

Dareling:  And they talk about the books.

Me:  And then they kiss?

Dareling:  MOM.

Me:  Okay, okay.  No kissing.  So what happens next?

Dareling:  The girl finds out that she’s moving.

Me:  (gasp) Oh, no.

Dareling:  Yes.  To EUROPE.

Me:  (shaking head) Moving to the Continent.  That’s sad.  They’re going to miss each other.

Dareling: Yes.  But then the boy finds out that he’s moving to Europe too!

Me:  Well, that’s… convenient.

(I’m wondering if it’s worth explaining the idea of deus ex machina, but she seems eager to wrap this up.)

Dareling:  And now they’re next-door neighbors again, except really next door this time.  And there’s another ball, and they go to it and dance again.

Me:  And then do they kiss?

Dareling:  Yes, Mom.  They kiss.  But they don’t get married.

Me:  Why not?

Dareling:  Because they’re not ready.

Me:  I know this ending is not standard for romance novels, but as your mother, I approve.

Dareling:  THE END.

So there you go.  If next year, you see THE DESIRES OF A HOMESCHOOLED DUKE on the shelves, you know whom to blame.

Just so my younger dareling doesn’t feel left out, here’s a story about him I shared on Facebook last week:

Yesterday, I was having a discussion with my eldest about countries of the world and their capitals. My youngest said, “I know all the capitals of the world!” I was skeptical, because he’s just in 1st grade – but hey, maybe he’s a prodigy? So I asked him, “What’s the capital of Turkey?” And he said, just bursting with pride: “T!”
Yep. He knows ALL the capitals. All 26 of them. My little prodigy.

We all know kids say the darnedest things.  Do you have a story of your own kids or young family members offering pearls of wisdom?  Do share!

There could not be a better day for me to have Saturday Inspiration! Just yesterday, I was able to post my newest cover. The one for Diana Highwood’s novella, releasing April 30th.  Hooray!  Beauty and the Blacksmith….

In historical romance a lot of our heroes are dukes and viscounts and earls and occasionally untitled officers and/or gentlemen. Throw in a highwayman or pirate for variety.
But I can’t help it. I have a thing for blacksmiths, and I have long thought they are tragically underrepresented in historical romance. I had the best time writing a blacksmith hero of my own.

Just because it’s Saturday…

Here’s Thorin Oakenshield, working it:

Pound it, Thorin.

Any Game of Thrones fans out there? (MARCH 31 CANNOT COME SOON ENOUGH OMG) How ’bout a little Gendry?

The forge is a steamy place.

This deserves an Emmy for camerawork.

And ladies, I give you the one and only Tony Stark.

That Pepper Potts is a lucky girl.

So….
Am I the only one who digs guys who aren’t afraid to get a little hot and dirty to get the job done? (Well, I know I’m not the only one — because Miss Diana Highwood is into them, too.)

Which trades and professions would you like to see more often in romance?

Thank you so much to everyone who commented on my Monday post and got excited with me about Any Duchess Will Do.  The Random Winner Picking tool (I envision this looking like The Claw in Toy Story) has selected….

Cayenne!

(See what I did there?  I made her name cayenne red. Hee.)

Congrats, Cayenne!  I’ll be emailing you directly for your address.

Everyone else, please do not give up!  Right this very moment, the lovely Avon Romance folks have a GoodReads giveaway going.  They are giving away forty (yes, 40!!) copies of Any Duchess Will Do!  Just click here and enter by the end of the week.  I think you have to be a GoodReads member to enter, but if you’re not already a member, you should join! It’s fun!  Please come send me a friend request, if you do join or are already a member.  And also feel free to join my GoodReads group, if you feel so inclined. 

This month, many of the authoresses have been sharing sneak peeks into future works.  Today’s my turn!

I received a very special package in the mail just the other day, and I can’t wait to show Lady B.

“Lady B., look what came for me in the post last week! It’s so exciting. I have an ARC!”

Lady B. presses a hand to her throat.  “Oh, dear.  Please tell me we’re not having another ship crash into the ballroom.  I have not forgotten Miss Noble’s stunt with that frigate.  On particularly warm days, the drapes still smell of brine.”

“Not an ark, Lady B.  An ARC.  It’s an Advance Reader Copy of my next book, Any Duchess Will Do.”

“Ah,” says Lady B, taking my precious volume in hand.  “ARCs sound much more pleasant than arks.  At least, tidier in the ballroom.”

I nod.  “They hardly ever smell of brine.  And I don’t get these ARCs very often anymore.  Not printed on paper, anyway.”

“Well, what would they be printed on, if not paper?  Animal skin?”

“No, no.  Usually the preview copies aren’t printed at all anymore.  They’re just sent electronically.”

“That Inner-netting again?”

“Precisely.  So I was wonderfully surprised to have these actual paper copies arrive.  And I immediately opened one and laughed, because for the first time I saw what excerpt they’d chosen for the teaser page at the front of the book.  It’s, ahem, just a little bit salty.”

Lady B. glares at me.  “Salty! I was promised no brine.”

“Different kind of salty, my lady.  Go on, read for yourself.”

(And if you care to, you can read for yourself in the snapshot below.  If you click, you can see it enlarged.)

Here’s the blurb for Any Duchess Will Do:

What’s a duke to do, when the girl who’s perfectly wrong becomes the woman he can’t live without?

Griffin York, the Duke of Halford, has no desire to wed this season—or any season—but his diabolical mother abducts him to “Spinster Cove” and insists he select a bride from the ladies in residence. Griff decides to teach her a lesson that will end the marriage debate forever. He chooses the serving girl.

Overworked and struggling, Pauline Simms doesn’t dream about dukes. All she wants is to hang up her barmaid apron and open a bookshop. That dream becomes a possibility when an arrogant, sinfully attractive duke offers her a small fortune for a week’s employment. Her duties are simple: submit to his mother’s “duchess training”… and fail miserably.

But in London, Pauline isn’t a miserable failure. She’s a brave, quick-witted, beguiling failure—a woman who ignites Griff’s desire and soothes the darkness in his soul. Keeping Pauline by his side won’t be easy. Even if Society could accept a serving girl duchess—can a roguish duke convince a serving girl to trust him with her heart?

Do you have a better word to suggest to Griff, other than “flutterings”?  (I mean, really.  Flutterings.  Hah.)

Or failing that, do you have a favorite Pygmalian or Cinderella-esque romance, where a girl starts from the lowest of circumstances and rises to the highest echelons of society?

One commenter will win an Advance Reader Copy of Any Duchess Will Do!

Edited 2/19: Thanks for all the great comments!  I’ve had so much fun reading them.  I’ll keep this open until midnight Eastern tonight, and then I’ll draw a random winner and post.