Posts Tagged ‘Irish’

I’ve started a new journey…

On the Titanic.

I’ve also started a new blog to focus on that journey and I hope you’ll join me at:


Here I discuss my new novel, KATIE O’REILLY, and the grand ship Titanic:

The Titanic has fascinated me for years. I’m not alone. Even before James Cameron’s film “Titanic,” what happened on her maiden voyage has captured the imagination of anyone who has ever wondered what it was like to stroll her decks.

From first class…to second…to steerage.

I decided to find out and “Katie O’Reilly” was born. A saucy Irish maid who dreamed of going to America to escape a prison sentence for something she didn’t do. It’s only when she meets the notorious Captain Lord Jack Blackthorn on board the Titanic that she realizes it’s more than a new life she’s after.

She wants him, too.

“Katie O’Reilly” is a romance, but I’ve strived to make it as historically accurate as possible, even down to the times of the launching of the lifeboats after the ship hits the iceberg. I learned so much about the ship, but also about the passengers. Who they were, why they were traveling on the ship and what they experienced on that fateful night.

My purpose in writing this blog is not to merely repeat facts and stories…there are many wonderful books available that do that very well and we’ll discuss them…but to take you along on my journey writing “Katie O’Reilly” as we lead up to the 100th anniversary in April 2012.


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I decided to dig through my old pix of Ireland and see what I could find for the wearing o’ the green.

No, this wasn’t my mode of transportation in Ireland, but it looks like a fun way to see the countryside!

Anyone for diving off this cliff?

Here are some pretty pix of Ireland taken over various trips…just for the Irish of it!
Next time you put your heroine in a castle, remember to add central heating.
The sign says “Stop Check Point.” This was before the Belfast Agreement was signed…
Happy Patrick’s Day from my

Irish Maid Doll!


And in case you missed it last St. Patrick’s Day or you’d like to read it again, here’s the link to my erotic short story: A Naughty Victorian Lady tells the tale of a naughty Irish maid on St. Patrick’s Day

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by Lady Carlton née Katie O’Roarke, heroine of “The Blonde Samurai”

Did you notice the gleam in his eye and the snicker on his lordship’s face when he kissed you goodbye on this grand morning and left for his club?  Did he sport a green silk puff in his lapel, perhaps?  Or a green plaid cravat tucked under his portly chin? 

Then I chance to wonder if he was on his way to Madame Moiret’s on York Street on this fine St. Patrick’s Day, a lucky day for the wearing ‘o the green and for all the gentleman who visit there. 

Including his lordship. 

What is the attraction? you ask.  Green Guinness?  Green-eyed mistresses wearing green stockings and rose garters and nothing else? 

No, ’tis one plucky young Irish maid by the name of Darla O’Clancy. 

What makes her so popular, you wish to know, a maid no less? 

Before I tell you, I shall recount a passage from my memoir, The Blonde Samurai, about the similarity between the lucky shamrock and its counterpart in Japan, the maple leaf. 

“Content to be on my own, I took long walks in the late afternoon on the Bluff [Yokohama], strolling through dusky gardens with paths and stone lanterns warmed by the deepening sunset, a unique shimmer upon them glowing like tiny sparks among gray ashes. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the season for the delicate maple trees with their seven-pointed red leaves, but that didn’t stop me from wishing I’d find an eight-lobed maple leaf, thought to be as lucky to the natives as a four-leaf shamrock is to the Irish.” 

As for this Irish maid, ’tis no doubt the name of Darla O’Clancy is bantered about in houses of high standing since she possesses a rare gem deemed to be a lucky charm by the gentlemen who visit Madame Moiret’s.  They descend upon her establishment on this day to– 

I shall not tell you just yet, but instead recall from where the lass came.  ‘Tis a small town in Ireland on the coast called Killian’s Cove, a town so small it has yet to find its way onto a map.  And a town so green it makes your eyes blink with wonder as you gaze upon its rolling hills filled with shamrocks for miles and miles.   

‘Tis said that the mother of Miss O’Clancy so loved these hills she insisted her handsome young husband make love to her there among the shamrocks.  And so he did.  Three times.  And each time, she bore him a beautiful daughter: Emmie, Lenore and Darla. 

And each lass, they say, bears a lucky shamrock birthmark in a most unusual place on her body. 

Emmie, the shy one, has a shamrock on the inside of her thigh near her sex.

Lenore, the brazen one, has a shamrock on her left breast.

And Darla, the plucky one, has a shamrock on her right buttock.

Now you know the secret of The O’Clancy Sisters, who left Ireland and came to London looking for husbands.  ‘Tis Darla I write about today and how she found work as a maid at Madame Moiret’s.  She is not one of her girls, but instead guards the pot o’ gold between her legs fervently, waiting for the right lad to find it. 

But once a year on St. Patrick’s Day, she drops her drawers and allows the gentlemen callers to rub the shamrock on her naked bottom for good luck.     

And where are Emmie and Lenore?  I dare not say, except that they are also Irish maids serving in Mayfair houses. 

Yours, perhaps?  I would check my household staff if I were you. 

Happy St. Patrick’s Day! 


The Blonde Samurai
She embraced the way of the warrior. Two swords. Two loves.”

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"Portrait of a Lady"

by Lady Carlton née Katie O’Roarke, heroine of The Blonde Samurai”

I find great cheer, dear lady reader, in your acceptance of my journal and I shall strive to keep my pen occupied during these crisp winter days with stories to amuse you since ’tis not the Season to journey to London for parties and balls.

Except for New Year’s Eve. 

A grand time for dalliances and flirtations for the aristocratic ladies of the upper class, wearing gowns fashioned with yards and yards of silk and velvet and plunging necklines which no doubt invite rebuke from the Queen herself. 

I was not born to such elegance and as a child I oft dreamed of being an enchanted princess.  So on this New Year’s Eve I shall tell you a story about another young girl who also pined to be accepted for who she was and not what she was.

A house maid. 

Her name was Clarice.  A cheeky girl with a gift of a gab nearly as grand as my own, a spritely lass who made her way from Ireland to the vast beauty of the Northern coast of England with other laborers from the land o’green seeking work in the fine houses.

She found employment as a house maid in Adair Castle run with an iron hand by the Duchess of Darlingsmore.  A feisty old termagant who believed that even the dust settling upon her gilt furniture should possess a pedigree.

Clarice did her duties as a girl should, but she had the bad habit of observing too much about the goings-on of Her Grace and giving them life in her thick Irish brogue.

That did not sit well with the duchess, who banished her to the kitchen.  That was her first mistake.  Her second breach was retiring to her rooms and taking a sleeping draught.  She was snoozing peacefully and not available to greet her handsome grandson, Lord Edmond, the son of her second son but undeniably her favorite, when he arrived home from London.  Tired and very hungry.

He went straight to the kitchen for sustenance. 

“And who might you be, my pretty one?” he asked Clarice, hard at work getting ready for the festive time fast approaching, this being early December.  The first snow had fallen, lighting up the dark moors surrounding the castle with a misty silver glow.  As if the fae had shaken sparkling fairie dust from their wings in a fit of mischief.   

“Me name’s Clarice, sir,” she said, curtsying in that way of hers that made her young bosom shake with what the duchess surely would have termed a vulgar movement. 

But not to Lord Edmond.

With a grand smile that delighted the young girl’s fancy, he grabbed a sprig of mistletoe from the holiday box of fresh ferns and held it up over Clarice’s fiery head, her hair the color of ripe red berries.

Then he kissed her.

Hard.  On the mouth.  A sweetness wet her pantaloons, her sex contracting with delight as he grabbed her around the waist then squeezed her breasts.  They played this naughty game for a week with Lord Edmond bursting into the kitchen each morn and kissing her and lifting up her plain petticoats, each day his hand moving up her thigh, a bit closer to her sex than the day before, until…

Click here to continue reading “A Naughty Fair Lady for New Year’s Eve” on my eHarlequin blog A Naughty Victorian Lady Tells all…


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February 2010: meet The Blonde Samurai
“She embraced the way of the warrior. Two swords. Two loves.” 


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