Bon Bons Galore!

I must apologise profusely for my prolonged absence. Once again, Mrs. Wells has a drop deadline or some such thing and has been monopolizing the computer day and night.

In between slaving for that publishing house she works for, Mrs. Wells has been playing with some charming creatures called Bon Bons over here. Honestly, I had thought the ladies on Eloisa James and Julia Quinn's bulletin board might be a little too refined for Mrs. Wells rather, er, earthy personality, but it seems she has made herself at home.

In fact, she is corrupting them mightily, borrowing Sven for massage duty and co-opting various cabana boys into--ahem!--service. Drinks service, of course!

Perhaps I might pop over one day and join in the fun. [Enjoy yourself, but remember what happens when you indulge in too many of those pretty pink drinks, my lady. I'd hate to have to lift you down from another chandelier. ~Ed.]

Mrs. Wells is shortly to take a vacation to New Zealand, a land of sheep and pretty scenery and I asked if I might join her. We had such a jolly time in San Francisco, after all. She paled and replied in a rather hollow tone that she was rather hoping for a holiday...

Finally! A Conference Report...Of Sorts

Dear Readers, forgive my prolonged absence! Mrs. Wells has monopolized the lapdog [LapTOP. LapTOP!! How many times? ~Ed.] day and night, racing towards her deadline. Today, I asked if I could use this ingenious machine to tell you all my news and she turned to look at me with a glazed yet harried expression in her eyes, her fingertips glued to the keys.

Mrs. Wells's coiffure, I am sad to report, rather resembles a bird's nest. Her children are fortunate if they are shod and fed. Her husband looks like a sad canine hungering for crumbs of attention at his mistress's table. A sadly undernourished one, I'm afraid. If only I'd thought to bring my French cook!

I coaxed Mrs. Wells to rest, in the gentle way adults do to small children when they're frightened, but to no avail. Mrs. Wells remained frozen in place. Finally, I discovered she was asleep with her eyes open. I gave her a tiny shove and she fell sideways out of her chair and onto the carpet with a dull thud. She is now dozing quite peacefully on the floor. A gentle snore rises now and then as I type.

Well! San Francisco was quite an experience. I was previously acquainted with many of the Banditas, those brazen temptresses who are as sirens to my dear Lyle. I must hope that like Odysseus, he will stop his ears and lash himself to the mast to escape the lure that is the Bandita and rush to my side. [This foray into the realm of fantasy is most entertaining to your readers, no doubt, but it will not move me, madam. While the Banditas' beauty and intelligence is legendary, it is their chains, not their charms that hold me. ~Ed.]

I must say, I found myself quite at home at the historical conference, where I attended various lectures and gave the audience the benefit of my experience. Except in the lecture on costume, where a number of rude individuals poked and prodded at my gown and then requested me to strip so they could examine my undergarments! When one of them had the temerity to ask if I wore drawers or went without, I departed from that session with more haste than tact!!

The evening brought a very select and genteel soiree, unlike the rowdy and vulgar Bandita party conducted abovestairs. I did attend the Bandit Bash, as it was so elegantly called, for I had hoped to find Lyle there, but he was nowhere to be seen. [A mercy for which I thank Providence daily. Two rooms full of rowdy romance writers. Haven't they tortured me enough?~Ed.]

The rest of the conference passed in a whirl of parties and new faces. I do not believe I have seen so many women speak so loudly all at once in my life, except perhaps at one of Lady Durham's petticoat parties. But brash vulgarity has much to recommend it, when carried out all in good spirits and fun.

I think, perhaps I shall attend next year, too. But next time I shall devise a strict itinerary. Any suggestions for events not to be missed?

That is Quite Enough!

Dear Friends, pray forgive my recent absence. Mrs. Wells has been working at her laptop night and day to finish her latest opus and has not let me get near it. However, she is finished her book and taking a well-deserved rest while Sven rubs the 'kinks' out of her neck and has left her laptop unattended a while.

You might recall that recently I had cause to go after Lyle with one of Sven's dumbells, after reports of his 'carousing' with certain rowdy but irresistible writers who call themselves Romance Bandits. Bandits indeed, if they would seek to steal Lyle's heart away from me.

Needless to say, with Miss Cassondra posted guard outside my prison, I did not get far. Those who know me understand that while my internal fortitude has never been lacking, I am averse to physical pain, unless said pain is caused by a necessary adjunct to fashion such as beautiful shoes or a tight-fitting corset. Generally speaking, though, when an angry Bandita brandishes a rather deadly looking weapon in my face I step back through the doorway of my prison and lock myself in.

Days passed in useless fretting about Lyle's safety. Imagine my astonishment when my beloved appeared, large as life, on the Romance Bandits blog! Lyle is alive and well (and growling) I see. And flirting with those charming ladies the Banditas call their 'Buddies' whatever that may be. Now, where is that dumbell? If he is going to imagine anyone covered in cream and peaches, let it be me...

Foiled! Change of Plan

Unhappily, I must report the failure of various stratagems my well-meaning friends devised. I have not been able to slip past the ever-vigilant Sven. I begin to doubt the man is aught but a machine. He never sleeps and never leaves me alone, even to use the necessary. Fortunately, a well-placed and highly decorative screen preserves my modesty or I'd be obliged to send Mrs. Wells a stern message.

My prison has become rather crowded, what with the massage table and various aids to exercise which Sven insisted be imported. He jogs on a motorised treadmill every day, reminding me of nothing so much as one of those poor kitchen dogs who must run on a wheel to keep the roast turning over the fire.

I've mentioned that a brisk walk in the park would be far more healthful, but he saw through my attempt to be rid of him and gave me a Stern Look in response. Sven is even more attractive when he is angry, which I must confess tempts me to provoke him.

In the end, I suppose, I shall be obliged to resort to violence once more. Reluctant as I am to render my jailer unconscious with one of his smaller dumb bells, I am gradually screwing my courage to the sticking place, as it were. It might take some time. Unlike Lyle, I do not make a habit of smashing my fist into people's faces or dangling them by the ankles over a balcony. Violence does not come easily to me, at all. [If a Certain Lady refrained from dabbling in affairs of State and blackmailing government ministers, I might not be called on to commit violence. But fear not, my lady, if living in your pocket all this time does not drive Sven to either murder or suicide, I shall count myself surprised. Either way, your troubles will be over. ~Ed.]

I have, however, made various acquaintances who call on Sven for massage and conversation. After observing this operation many times, I formed a favorable opinion of it. Sven's touch is wholly impersonal (did I mention he is a machine?) and his subjects seem vastly pleased and relaxed when they leave. If I must languish under durance vile, I might as well take advantage of what meagre succor is offered me, don't you think? [I am not a puppet to be played on a string, ma'am. You are clearly bent on provoking more than Sven with this little charade. But if you are in any doubt, I refer you to my previous remarks in re Sven and his imminent demise.~Ed.]

Every Man has his Price

It appears my strategy is working. You might not have noticed, dear Diary, but I can make myself very irritating at times. [The Editor would pass comment here but he's too busy choking on his Tim Tam.] Frustrated and not a little sorry she brought me here in the first place, Mrs. Wells left to deal with some new characters who've had the ill luck to cross her path. My message to those unfortunates is RUN! Do not walk, in the other direction!!

But I fear it is too late. Mrs. Wells informed me that in order for a romance to have a tortured hero, someone must apply the thumbscrews. There was a light in her eye that I did not like. I feel a desperate sympathy for the unknown wretch who now falls under her displeasure, but in this bizarrely luxurious prison I can do nought. And I confess, I am too concerned with my own attempts at escape.

These have been unsuccessful as you might have guessed, since I still languish here writing on this lapd...top(!). Sven has learned his lesson after my last ill-fated attempt to elude him. He is not at all as stupid as he looks, which has been a profound disappointment. But perhaps he might be susceptible to bribes. Every man has his weakness, after all . . . [Sven has my sincere sympathies.~Ed.]

Suggestions for appropriate bribes gratefully received! [I tremble at the thought of where this will lead. Too much to hope that wiser heads will prevail, I suppose.~Ed.]

The First Diary

Do not imagine, dear Diary, that I have not been kidnapped before. The first time . . . but no, I must go farther back than that. It all began with another diary, or two other diaries, one imaginary, one real, and the mix-up betwixt the two.

But let me first tell you that I have learned how to Add Pictures! And if you do not believe me, here is proof:

There, gentle Diary, is the man for whom I would have given the world. [Looks like a bit of a weed to me. ~Ed.] I sketched him and Mrs. Wells took the sketch and put it on her lapdog.

Do you notice the noble brow, the fine, sensitive mouth? Is it any wonder this gentleman occupied my thoughts for so many years? [You dwell too long on irrelevancies, here. Get to the point, ma’am. ~Ed.]

Mrs. Wells has a number of interesting things on her lapdog [I am reliably informed the word is ‘laptop’. Use correct terminology, please.~Ed.] Including this. I was shocked, until she assured me it was purely for the purposes of research.

Ah, Sven has arrived with cocktails. More anon!

Lapdogs and Lunatics

This morning, armed with determination and a slight headache, I sought the person or persons responsible for my incarceration. There was no fire iron available so I stunned Sven (my guard) with a judicious swing of a bucket boot and found myself in a subterranean maze, the which (I am informed) resembles nothing so much as The Writer's Mind. My captors call it The Lair.

Romantic heroes and heroines abound here, as well as shady characters not yet fully formed in their creators' thoughts--all in various stages of Falling In Love. And my goodness, all of them have a story. I was vastly relieved when Mrs. Christine Wells came to extricate me from their embarrassing disclosures and told me why I was here.

Mrs. Wells was quite unsympathetic when I told her of my headache, and said that I'd been giving her a headache for nigh on a year and it was time I repaid her for all the pain I'd caused. Nothing but a troublemaker, she grumbled, and manhandled me into a chair. [A woman of discernment, apparently. ~Ed.]

The chair sat before a desk of rather crude but practical design. And on the desk was the strangest thing. I could have sworn she said it was a lapdog, and I stared at her, for clearly, she was mad. The contraption bore no resemblance to my aunt's Pug, but it is common knowledge that one must humour lunatics, so I merely nodded and smiled. Mrs. Wells has the queerest accent--worse than Sven's. One cannot understand the half of what she says. However, one thing I am clear about--one can write on these lapdogs, apparently. It has all these little buttons with letters on them that reproduce themselves on the screen. Quite ingenious! Mrs. Wells showed me how to use it and I proved myself adept.

I must say, the border she made for me is quite pretty, although the lady at that desk in the corner looks nothing like me and she is quite a dowd besides. But I shall make do. It is not easy to remember the steps I must follow on this mysterious machine, nor to make words from letters with one finger at a time, so I trust you will forgive me if I err. Mrs. Wells says that next she will show me how to Add Pictures, which sounds vastly exciting.

I hope no one else reads this lapdog, as when writing journals I have a horrible tendency to lose myself in them and the result is often indiscreet. I wonder what this button called 'Publish Post' does . . .

Kidnapped! Or, How This Diary Began

Really, it was most disconcerting. One moment, I was lying in my beloved's arms on the terrace, the purple and green wisteria rioting overhead. Strangely, we were in ball dress in full daylight, but I'm perfectly sure there was an explanation for that.

The next moment, I found myself in a sort of cave, surrounded by a band of what looked for all the world like female brigands! They snatched the pearls from around my throat, muttering something about 'Bandit Booty' and locked me in a room with a strangely spoken and rather scantily clad man called Sven. If I understand him correctly, he wishes me to lie down on a table and let him put his hands on my person! Only a massage, indeed! The last man who put his hands on me that way did not mean anything good by it!

But these strange drinks he keeps offering me do look rather festive, if a little vulgar. I wonder if I might just have a taste . . .

[If this Sven so much as breathed on you, my lady, he is a dead man.~Ed]