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Informationen zum Autor Born in Indiana, Meg Cabot spent her childhood in pursuit of air conditioning - which she found in the public library where she spent most of her time. She is the author of the bestsellng 'Princess Diaries' and 'All American Girl'. Meg has lived in California and France and currently resides in New York City with her husband. Klappentext Lady Caroline Linford is horrified to discover... her fiancé, the Marquis of Winchilsea, in the arms of another woman. Unfortunately, Victorian society considers such masculine peccadilloes a trifle; canceling their imminent wedding would be unthinkable. But Caroline's wish is for the man she is to marry to desire only her...and she seeks lessons in the art of romance from the best teacher: London's most notorious rake. Braden Granville may be a famous lover... but he has no intention of taking part in Caroline's scheme -- until he learns she has something he wants: the name of his own unfaithful fiancee's lover. As their passionate tutelage begins, sparks fly -- and the lines between teacher and student fall away. Now there is just one last lesson to learn: on the subject of true love, the heart chooses its own unpredictable ways. Chapter One London May 1870 There was no light in the room other than that given off by the flames in the ornate marble fireplace. The fire was low, but managed to throw the couple on the divan into deep silhouette. Still, Caroline was able to make out their features. She knew who they were. She knew who they were very well indeed. She had, after all, recognized her fiancé's laugh through the closed door, which was why she'd opened it in the first place. Unfortunately, it appeared she ought to have knocked first, since she'd obviously interrupted a moment of utmost intimacy. And though she knew she should leave -- or, at the very least, make her presence known -- she found she could not move. She was riveted where she stood, staring quite against her will at the Lady Jacquelyn Seldon's breasts, which had come out of the bodice of her gown, and were now bouncing vigorously up and down in rhythm to the thrusting hips of the man who lay between Lady Jacquelyn's thighs. It occurred to Caroline, as she stood there with one gloved hand gripping the doorknob, and the other clutching the frame, that her own breasts had never bounced with such wild abandon. Of course, her breasts weren't nearly so large as Lady Jacquelyn's. Which might explain why it was the Lady Jacquelyn, and not Caroline, who was astride the Marquis of Winchilsea. Caroline had not previously been aware of her fiancé's predilection for large-breasted women, but apparently Lord Winchilsea had found her lacking in that particular category, and had therefore sought out someone better suited to his tastes. Which was certainly his right, of course. Only Caroline couldn't help thinking he might have had the courtesy not to do it in one of Dame Ashforth's sitting rooms, in the middle of a dinner party. I suppose I shall faint, Caroline thought, and gripped the doorknob tighter, in case the floor should suddenly rush up to meet her face, as often happened to the heroines of the novels her maids sometimes left laying about, and which Caroline sometimes picked up and read. Only of course she didn't faint. Caroline had never fainted in her life, not even the time she fell off her horse and broke her arm in two places. She rather wished she would faint, because then she might at least have been spared the sight of the Lady Jacquelyn inserting her finger into Hurst's mouth. Now why, Caroline wondered, did she do that? Did men enjoy having women's fingers shoved into their mouths? Evidently they did, because the marquis began at once to suck noisily upon it. Why hadn't anyone ever mentioned this to her? If the marquis had wanted Caroline to put ...
