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Informationen zum Autor Harper St. George Klappentext Despite her illustrious title, Camille, Duchess of Hereford, remains what she has always been, a pariah. Though her title means she's technically accepted by London Society, the rebellious widow with her burgeoning interest in the suffrage movement and her American ways isn't exactly high on every hostess's guest list. But Camille starts to wonder if being an outcast is not without its perks when the tantalizing answer to her secret fear appears in the shape of Jacob Thorne, the illegitimate son of an earl and co-owner of London's infamous Montague Club. Leseprobe Chapter 1 Bloomsbury, London Winter 1878 Smile, but not too wide. Smiles in public are meant to be mysterious, not expressions of joy. Keep your shoulders squared at all times but always, always remain demure. Chin tilted downward the slightest bit, darling. It wouldn't do to appear too confident. A wise woman knows her place is one of support and encouragement. When a suitor gazes upon her he should see a prospective helpmate, someone who will assist in his life instead of forcing her own will. No one likes a headstrong woman. Camille, Dowager Duchess of Hereford, closed her eyes, attempting to block out the words. No matter how she tried to ignore them, her mother's advice always seemed to play in the back of her mind when she least wanted to heed it. As the only child of Samuel and Martha Bridwell, she had been raised to the most exacting standards from birth. Her mother had been fastidious when it came to her grooming, comportment, and even her friends. Her education had centered around the intricacies of both running a large household and navigating the treacherous waters of Society. Nothing had been more important to her parents than seeing her married well, and Camille had all these speeches memorized, having heard them relentlessly. Unfortunately, her parents' ideas of married well had been vastly different from Camille's. She had valued kindness and affection, while her parents had valued social status. That was it. That seemed to be their sole requirement. She opened her eyes and smiled at her reflection in the mirror before her, the muscles in her face responding from memory, curving her lips upward in a cold imitation of happiness. She hated this practiced smile. It made her feel aloof and untouchable. While it had its uses in London ballrooms, it was not what she needed now. She was at Montague Club, not a mansion in Mayfair. The gaming club was for entertainment, not social climbing. Something a bit more sincere would probably be better for her purposes this evening, though she honestly didn't know. She'd never tried to seduce a man before. Her stomach fluttered in nerves and perhaps a tiny bit of anticipation as an image of Jacob Thorne came to mind. She let the smile drop and leaned forward to get a better look as she rubbed her fingertips along the bracket lines left behind in the fair skin on either side of her mouth, hoping to make them disappear. At twenty-three she wasn't old, but recent years had given her face a maturity that her mother had warned her against when Camille last visited her in New York. Haven't you been wearing the night cream I sent you? Camille had lied and answered yes, but when she'd returned home to London, she had found another case of the fancy French jars waiting for her. At the time she'd been annoyed. She'd been in mourning for a dead husband whose loss she did not grieve and her mother was already stressing the importance of marrying again. Well, Camille did not want to marry again. Ever. But now she rather wished she had started applying the night cream. Men liked women who looked young and fresh. The cream might help that, but there was nothing she could do about her eyes. Her eyes were sad, and she didn't really understand why. Hereford was dead and not around to ...
