Helena stifled a laugh as Violet watched her friend cross the room through narrowed eyes. “That was odd,” Violet said. “That was odd, right?”
“Very odd,” Helena said. Just then the door opened and two gentlemen walked in, one of them Jacob Thorne. “Oh, this will be interesting.”
Violet disguised her giggle by covering her mouth with her hand. Thorne’s gaze kept going back to Camille as he made his way through the room, greeting everyone in turn. Camille, for her part, was very careful not to look his way even once.
“Well, it looks as if there is another couple in need of nudging.”
“Violet! You will not interfere. That was very ill of you to taunt me with Amelia Van der Meer.”
Violet laughed. “It worked, didn’t it? Sometimes people are stubborn when it comes to what they want, and they need a little nudge.” Wagging her eyebrows, she wandered off to commit mischief.
“Spoken like a true Crenshaw,” Helena muttered.
Max quickly took Violet’s place at her side and pulled Helena against him. “What is Violet off to do?” he whispered as he kissed her brow.
“After her success with us, she fancies herself a matchmaker now.”
He chuckled. “Lord help them.”
Acknowledgments
My heartfelt thanks to all of the readers and reviewers who have loved this series from the very beginning. I love each and every one of your posts, tweets, and emails about my heiresses. Thank you so much for reading their stories and sharing them. A big thank-you to my author friends who have taken time out of their busy schedules to read my books. I appreciate all of your kind words and your shares. The book community is one of the most open and welcoming, and I’m so lucky to be a part of it.
Thank you to my agent, Nicole Resciniti, for your enthusiastic encouragement from the very first phone call when I said I might have an idea for a series about American heiresses. Thank you to Sarah Blumenstock, aka the best editor ever. You always bring out the best in my writing and your instinct for a good story is incredible. Thank you for championing my work and loving this series as much as I do. Thank you to the entire Berkley team for making my books sparkle and getting them in front of readers.
Tara, you have been there since my very first submission. I appreciate all the hours you have put into reading my work and offering the best feedback and, especially, the many hours of complaining and commiserating you’ve endured. You’re the best. Laurie, you are an amazing cheerleader and friend. I wish I liked my writing half as much as you do. You help me see the bigger picture of the story when I get lost in the weeds and always have encouraging words. Thank you for being you. Nathan and Erin, this ride wouldn’t be the same without you. You have been with me since that very first Saturday morning at Starbucks. Elisabeth, Janice, Jenni, Lara, Nicole, Seána, and Virginia, every writer needs a support system and I’m so grateful you are mine.
Finally, a big thank-you to my family. To my parents, you always encouraged me and made me feel like I could achieve anything I wanted. Every girl should have that in her life. To my husband and daughters, I appreciate all the ways you help me write and even some of the ways you interrupt me. Thank you for being exactly who you are.
Don’t miss
THE DUCHESS TAKES A HUSBAND,
coming soon from Berkley Jove!
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, trying 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 had 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.
You poor girl, I know you say you don’t miss him, but deep down I think you do. Your eyes are so terribly sad.
Camille hadn’t bothered to correct her mother. Her eyes were sad, and she didn’t really understand why. Hereford was dead and not around to control her life anymore. She did not miss him or his high-handedness. She was a wealthy widow with all the freedoms inherent in the position. Though the bulk of the money her father had transferred to Hereford upon their marriage had gone to his heir on his death, she had been provided a small pension and a London residence. Then, completely unprompted, her father had bought her an estate situated not far outside of London. She suspected he had been motivated by guilt but had never questioned him. So given that, she should be very happy, but there were her eyes, staring back at her and calling her a liar.