Her hair was quite a mess, too.

Thus, I, Lord Montague Moylan-Hazwell, have taken it upon myself to rescue her as best I could from her woes, and took up my quill, to assume her responsibilities to the Ballroom today.

“Monty!  Monty, where are you?”

And I am doing so whilst hiding.

You might have noticed of late that I have been absent around the Ballroom, with merely a hint of my hessian clad heel here and there to tide you lovely females over.  But Aunt Tropey has made it impossible for me to move freely about the house!  I’ve event sent Harold to Spain for an early migration, so he won’t follow me around and give me away with a trail of toucan feathers.

“That boy, always being difficult.” I can hear my aunt shaking her head in disapproval.  It should be noted that I am hiding in the priest’s hole, that leads to look behind the eyes of an alarmingly lurid painting of cupids in spring romping over a pastoral countryside.

“Difficult!” is Albert’s answering squawk.  Then, I swear, the bird looks me dead in my cherub eyes.

Put ze candle back!

Damnation, I will have to abandon this spot for the secret room behind the library.  I suspect it was once a lab, but it hasn’t been used as such since the Ballroom had spent a season in Switzerland hosting a teenage writing camp.

“I have a dozen of the most eligible young ladies coming to call today, and my nephew, which I have so very kindly made heir to my husband’s fortune, cannot bother to pay even the slightest kindness to them!

“Marriage mart!” Albert squawks.

“Albert!  How dare you accuse me of something so base!  Of course I’m not putting Monty on the block for marriage.”

Both Albert and I both role our eyes at this one.

“But if he should happen to find one of the girls lovely…” Aunt Tropey says, letting her

I’m certain I will find one of the girls lovely.  I’m even more certain I will find them all lovely.  And therein lies the problem.

How can I possibly go on adventures to rescue as many damsels in distress as I can squeeze into my schedule?  How can I ‘have a way with the ladies’ when I am tied to merely one lady?

There is no fun to marriage. Marriage — I abhor the word!  All it means is growing fat and bored and taking a decided interest in dogs and hunting.  I am meant for a broader world!  And that world is meant for me.

“Well, he cannot dodge me forever,” Aunt Tropey says – with a markedly huff in her tone.  (There is no need to get huffy about it, Aunt Tropey.)   “Mark my words, Albert.  I will have that boy engaged to an appropriate young lady before this season is out!”

Oh, Aunt Tropey. We will see about that.

Oh, a challenge has been laid down!  Lady B declares she will match her nephew off before the season ends and Monty declares he will have none of it!  Who do you think will win… and how?

“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?

My very first romance novel, still on my shelf in rather battered and dilapidated form, was one set during the civil wars of the twelfth century, featuring Eleanor of Aquitaine in a cameo role, with lots of “By my troth!” and “By God’s wounds!”  Most of my subsequent romance reading was pre-sixteenth century: there was Jude Deveraux’s Velvet quartet (which I very cleverly managed to read backwards, from Velvet Angel all the way back to The Velvet Promise, which meant that I got to see the major plot threads in re-wind mode rather than the right way around) and Kathleen E. Woodiwiss’s Wolf and the Dove, and at least a dozen other Norman knight/Saxon maiden type novels of Wolf and Dove-ish ilk.

I know there was some eighteenth century that crept in there, in the form of Woodiwiss’s A Rose in Winter, a great deal of Scotland in multiple time periods– Julie Garwood’s The Bride, Elizabeth Stuart’s Heartstorm, and pretty much anything by Arnette Lamb– and, of course, Victorian Gothics featuring intrepid governesses beyond number, but I don’t recall reading a Regency qua Regency until the summer I was twelve.

When I spotted Judith McNaught’s Almost Heaven in the supermarket checkout line, I had no idea that it was going to be one of those books that would change my life.

I fell in love with Almost Heaven, with Elizabeth and Ian, with McNaught’s zany side characters and signature mix of humor and pathos.  In retrospect, McNaught’s Regency world isn’t terribly Regency-ish at all, but the basic trappings were there: the ton, the gossiping society matrons, the dukes, the dowagers, and the sharp-tongued chaperones.  It was Almost Heaven that led me to Georgette Heyer, via a McNaught endorsement on the cover of a Heyer reissue, and from Heyer to the entire Zebra Regency aisle in the bookstore.  Who needed those Norman knights with their bulging thews?  (For some reason, those medieval heroes always did seem to have thew bulge issues.)  There was an entire sub-genre featuring clever men with quizzing glasses and not a spare thew in view.

I abandoned the Victoria Holt knock-off I was writing at the time and started writing a McNaught knock-off instead.  (Which no one will see.  Ever.  With the sole exception of my ninth grade classmates, who may or may not have had bits read dramatically aloud to them on the bus during a class trip.  But that was a very long time ago, so it doesn’t count.)

And that’s the very long and roundabout story of how I came to the Regency, via Judith McNaught and the Fishkill ShopRite checkout line.

I’ve moved on to other favorite authors since then, but Judith McNaught’s Almost Heaven will always have a special place in my heart.

What was your first Regency romance?

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

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

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

“Again,” squawks Albert.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

That’s what I told my husband anyway, as he looked over my shoulder as we sat next to each other on the couch.   I had my computer open, as I always do, and paying very little attention to this latest episode of Doctor Who (I’ve seen it already, but the hubs hasn’t.  He has acquiesced to my demand that he watch the series.  Hey, I watched Lost for him.)

“That’s not research,” he says.  “That’s porn.”

“It is not!” I cry.

“It is.  It’s house porn.”

Yes, dear reader, open on my computer was a Google image search for “19^th century English country manor.”  But these aren’t manors.  These are mansions.  Dream residences.  Castles at a time when they didn’t build castles anymore.  (My theory: too drafty.)  Some background might be in order: We have recently begun day dreaming about a house, and therefore many of our computer searches of late have been floor plans and neighborhoods.  But these manor houses are a bit out of our reach.  (To be fair, I’m pretty sure they are a bit out of the average billionaire’s reach too.) Thus, I wouldn’t day dream about living there.  Of course not.  Except when I do.

“I am writing about a house party, and it is at a very specific kind of house.”  I tell him importantly.  “I was simply using visual aids.”

“You were cheating.”

“It’s not cheating, and it’s not porn.” I reply firmly.  Then, under my breath.  “Everyone does it.”

“Fine,” he says. “What does your house have too look like.  In your book,” he clarifies.

Oh.  Right.  My book.  I told him it was a very specific house, after all.

“Well it has to be ostentatious.”  I reply.  “A bit over the top.”

“You have chosen your category well then.  What about this one?”

The Manor House at Castle Combe

“That one might do,” I muse.  “I like the vines.  It has a bell tower, even – a little one.  But I think it needs to be bigger.  Plus I need some turrets.  I like turrets.

“Riiiiight,” the husband answers.  “For your fictional characters.  You could make it fictionally bigger, you know.”  He scrolls down a bit, and points to another one.  “What about this one.  Turrets abound.”

The Hunting Tower at Chatsworth House

“Turrets abound, yes.  In fact, I think it’s made up entirely of turrets.”  A shoot him a look.  He knows this look.  “And what about bigger? I don’t even think that’s a full-fledged house.”

“What about that one?  It’s perfect – grand, ostentatious, I think those things on the corner count as turrets, and it even looks familiar.  I could see you – er, I mean, your characters – living there.”

Highclere Castle

“Of course it’s familiar.  It’s Highclere Castle.”  Off his blank look, “It’s Downton Abbey.”

Downton Abbey, it has to be said, he watched voluntarily.  I think he has a thing for Mrs. Patmore, the cook.

What about you dear reader?  Have you ever been caught daydreaming – er, I mean researching – about certain houses?  Which ones?  Post pics below!

Congrats, Lime – you’ve won a copy of Anna Cowan’s UNTAMED!

Thanks so much again to Anna for joining us yesterday, and to everyone who commented!

ETA: For some reason, I had the wrong idea in my head that UNTAMED doesn’t come out until May 15th, and that’s what I wrote in yesterday’s post – but it’s already available today!  Huzzah! Sorry for the mixup – I corrected the previous post.

The lovely authoress herself, Anna Cowan

“I told you not to do this,” I hiss at him. “The whole point was to impress them with your heroic qualities.”

He looks at me like I’m losing it. “You…created me. I assumed you already knew I haven’t any heroic qualities.”

Oh I am so screwed.

I have just entered a grand ballroom with the Duke of Darlington, and as it’s my first time in a grand ballroom I really didn’t need him to be so utterly himself. Tonight of all nights.

“Don’t worry so,” he murmurs, taking his time to move across the floor in a way that pulls all eyes to him. “They will adore me. And you look lovely in that dress.”

He delivers the compliment with a smile like a kiss and I think, Okay, yes, they will probably adore him.

The ballroom is incredible. I’ve always wondered whether ballrooms were actually a bit tacky. You know, if you were an actual person in an actual ballroom back in the day whether the decorations would look cheap, the big potted plants awkwardly placed, the drapes a vile colour. It makes me happy that the Regency really does have a kind of luminosity about it.

I don’t have much time to gawk, because a lady is walking towards us, and there’s something sharp and assured about her that makes me certain this is our hostess, Lady Beaufetheringstone.

“You must be Miss Anna Cowan,” she says to me. “Miss Dare told me you would be bringing your…” Her eyes flicker to Darlington. “…hero.”

I take a deep breath. Nothing for it but to brazen it out. “May I present the Duke of Darlington?”

He steps forward and takes her hand lightly in his. “What a pleasure it is to meet you at last, Lady B,” he says in that frightening, compelling voice.

She looks at him for a long time without saying anything. Her face is blank – she’s very good at hiding what she’s really thinking. I know what’s coming, though. I brace myself for it. She will be angry. She’ll tell us to leave.

“Your Grace,” she says at last. “Are you aware your dress is at least three decades behind current fashions?”

He looks delighted, which is always a bad sign. “But why would I wear something fashionable,” he asks, looking coyly up from beneath his lashes, “when I could wear something spectacular?”

He does look spectacular.

He is wearing a dress made of heavy lavender silk with birds in cages embroidered across it in yellow, parting at the front to reveal yellow underskirts. He is laced into a rigid corset, and hoops beneath the long skirts add to the effect of a slight figure. A fichu is tucked about his neck and chest, leaving as much of his perfect, white skin on display as possible. His wig is lavender, tipped with actual gold, and one thick coil lies over one shoulder.

His eyes are dark, wicked, complex. He tips his head to Lady B’s and whispers something in her ear.

And now she’s got that look on her face. I know that look. She’s starting to think about what’s beneath the dress. What’s laced and covered and hidden.

I try not to groan out loud. If only he were…vaguely malleable.

If only Katherine were here.

“Where is your duchess this evening?” Lady B asks him.

(I had heard rumours of mind-reading, but that’s just disconcerting.)

“Katherine,” Darlington says, and Lady B shivers at the way he says her name, same as me, “is probably off acquiring half the country’s debt. Or making shady deals with men in low places. Or overseeing the building of her new fleet. She’s naming her finest ship after me, you know.”

He sounds like a boy, all gleeful on Christmas morning. But there he stands: a difficult, beautiful man. He’s a bit much, sometimes.

Lady B opens her fan to hide her surprise. “Your duchess sounds rather unconventional.”

“I have never met a single other person like her,” he says, simply.

I think Lady B wants to know more, but a dashing young man joins our party. He must be Monty, Lady B’s heir. He is alight with interest, and Darlington responds by becoming even more flirtatious.

I can only stand here filled with sincere gratitude that Darlington has found his mate, and will not be luring Monty to any nearby closets tonight. Lady B would surely never forgive me that.

I’m giving away a copy of Untamed to one commenter. I’m wondering what’s the most gender-bendy thing you or your partner have ever done (or wanted to do, but didn’t)?

Anna, thank you so much for joining us today, and bringing along this “difficult, beautiful, spectacular” duke!  I, for one, cannot wait to get my hands on this book when it’s available May 10th.  And on Darlington. 

As for gender-bendy…Mr. Dare works in a profession where most of his coworkers are women, and he has a first name that can go either way, male or female … so we are always getting calls and letters from confused people.    How about you?

What a tumultuous journey we’ve had since I last put pen to paper and wrote to you lovelies. Between stopping off in Bengal to visit the former haunts of the hero of my upcoming novella How To Marry a Highlander, and navigating the Arabian Sea amidst brigands and wiley merchants, and posting cross country or alternately hugging the coasts of the powerful Ottomans until they gave us leave to sojourn at leisure in their lands, our little band of Englishmen and two women are exhausted and in need of a holiday.

We disembarked in Thessaloniki. Hosted by a splendid family of ancient Macedonian lineage—artists and musicians, the lot of them—we dined upon fresh fish, caviar, squid, grape leaves, olives, lemons and delicate pastries to our hearts’ content. But the great capital city was not to be our final destination in these lands of ancient cultures mixed in a delightful mélange. Not at all! Our hosts took us deep inland to the magnificent Metéora.

Saint Nicholas of Anapausus in the Metéora, Greece

Pillars of sandstone, for centuries they have supported monasteries in complete isolation from the chaos and materialism of the world. One word: WOW. Do you know, when the monks wanted to contact the outside world, they would lower one of their own down the side of the cliff in a basket? (Talk about extreme sports!)

After this lovely jaunt, our hostess, a renowned grand dame of the Greek theater, noticed a certain glow to Penny’s eyes and a jaunty lift in Captain Frye’s stride.

Ashamed as I am to admit it: I, the resident romance author on this journey, had missed the crucial moment. Enthralled as I’ve been during these past weeks by the scenery, the history, the pageantry and danger and sheer epic landscapes of sea and earth through which we have passed, I had made myself blind to the tender moment of reconciliation, the blossoming of affinity, and the entwinement of two souls into one.

I did not, however, miss the epic kiss at the feet of the monastery of Saint Nicholas, the kiss that signaled the ultimate union of hearts. (I’m not that distractable.)

They kissed—tangled, locked, bound in all the right ways—until Penny fainted from near-asphyxiation. Captain Frye swept her into his arms and carried her into the shade of the branches of a sycamore maple to the excited singing of warblers and the applause of me, our hostess, and the crew, where he then kissed her some more.

Our hostess insisted upon a wedding. Naturally.

And so here we are, upon an outcropping (a cliff, I might call it, if I weren’t scared to death of cliffs) before a tiny chapel painted in brilliant white with a solitary bell in its tower. A garland of flowers upon her head, Penny circles Captain Frye thrice, but neither say a word in this ancient Orthodox rite. Backed by an azure sky, with the golden sun of Achilles and Hector and Socrates and Aristotle upon their glowing cheeks, this pair looks like just about the happiest bride and groom I’ve ever seen.

Someday I shall have to set a novel here. It’s sublime.

After the celebration, shortly, we will make our way back to the coast and our ship, then again to sea. Our next stop: home! I’ve had a marvelous time on this journey. Still, I’m ready to be back in Lady B’s ballroom with all of you. Quite simply, I miss you.

Until then, I wish you all new dancing slippers and waltzes at least every other set. And, as always, happy romance and adventure!

~ Katharine

The American Woman in the Chinese Hat by Carole Maso

These days, most of my shopping is done online. After a couple years of wildly searching the net for anything of interest, (Apologies to Lady B for all this talk of Modern Things Crazy Authoresses Discuss) I very rarely browse anymore. I have an idea of what I want and any search I do is extremely narrow. Naturally this limits the chance for pushing the boundaries of my experience.

Which is one of the reasons I love driving up north to San Francisco every few months. My husband and I realized on our most recent trip, that we spend a good portion of our time wandering around bookstores and finding books we would never have found if they weren’t in a physically easy to browse situation. And better yet, bookstores such as City Lights in North Beach and Moe’s in Berkeley aren’t limited as much to the big bookstore chain focus on new releases. (Not that there are many big bookstores around anymore anyway.)

This last weekend I walked away with Joseph Kanon’s Istanbul Passage, which only released in 2012 but likely would have never shown up in my Amazon recommends lists. I’m loving it!

How about you? How do you discover new books outside your usual realm?