Writers are commonly asked, “Where do you get your ideas?” I might be asked that more often than many, since my brain teams with characters and plots. So this week, I want you to share your inspiration for a character, a plot, a scene, or something else for your story, and an excerpt from the story.

The scene below is near the end of my next newsletter subscriber story, Look Into My Eyes. Every two months, I give away a story with my newsletter. The subscriber only page now has links to eleven stories, and this one will make twelve. To subscribe, please fill in the form on the newsletter tab or in the right menu bar.

My inspiration was the song by Peter Sarstead, Where do you go to (my lovely), released 1969. My version is around 3,500 words long, and is set against the glittering world of the English ton just after the end of the Napoleonic war.

The end-of-season ball thrown by the Duchess of Fambrough — the current duchess, though one does not doubt the dowager assisted — will be the talk of Society long after the Season ends. Not for its appointments, or the excellence of the supper or the musicians, though these were fine, indeed. Not for the quality of the assembly, though the invitations had gone out to everyone of significance, and many who merely hoped they were.

No, the defining moments of the Fambrough ball came shortly before the supper waltz, when Lord Charming, arriving late but impeccably dressed with his usual elegant flair, strolled down the stairs into the ballroom, his arms full of roses, and marched straight across the floor, his eyes fixed on the Paragon herself.

Some say he had hailed the duke when that gentleman was riding in Hyde Park that morning, and that the two of them had spoken earnestly for close to half an hour, their horses pacing side by side. Others report he visited during the time for calls, carrying even more roses and attended by two footmen similarly burdened. The ducal house was not receiving, being consumed with preparations for the ball, but he left the roses behind when he departed.

So tonight was Lord Charming’s third encounter with the ducal household, and the assembled onlookers held their collective breath in order not to miss a moment of the drama that played out before them. The duke was between the viscount and his stepmother. His Grace moved to one side as she stood. The scandalous gentleman approached close enough to touch, and those close enough heard him say, “I promised you roses, Marie.”

Those who murmured at his familiar address were shushed by those around them. His lordship ignored them all as he handed her his roses. “These are from the rose garden at Welling. The plums are ripening on the trees. I had hoped to bring you cherries, but my gardener says they will be next week.”

These were not the loverlike words we expect from Lord Charming, and his expression was unexpectedly open. Serious, too, as was the lady’s.

“What of the conservatory, Rick?” she asked. Another murmur at the intimacy of first names, again subdued by ferocious gestures.

“We are owed clement weather, are we not? But it stands ready, Your Grace, to protect us through storms.”

The duchess looked up from her roses and their eyes met. Lord Charming moved to take Her Grace in his arms. “Will you honour me with a waltz, Marie?”