Lauren Smith

fine set of clothes did not make someone a good man.

She settled into the back seat, her hands clutching her reticule tight enough that the beadwork dug into her palms through her gloves.

er palms through her gloves.

he man was a lecherous creature with beetle-black eyes and hands that tended to wander too freely whenever he was near her. Emily was not worldly, having only just turned eighteen a few months earlier, but this last year with her uncle had enlightened her to a new side of life and none of it had been good.

interest in her once he’d learned she was none other than Miss Darby, the beloved lady of the ton who all sought to please with their praise and their many invitations.

This book is a work of fiction.

Even the street urchins

I know society dictates we stop living while we mourn, but I, for one, think it is wrong.

dueling and lips bruising. His other hand traced her spine and skipped down to shape the curve of her rear. He clenched her bottom hard and jerked her body up several inches, setting her on the terrace balustrade.
Nathan’s hands dug at her skirts, working them up her legs and out of the way so he could slide his hips between her thighs. Mindless of the cold that should have bothered her from such exposure, she arched into him, her body in control, her mind surrendering. He rocked his hips against hers, promising the passion to come with low

looks at you, it’s like you landed on the moon and carved her name into the moondust. She looks at you like you’re a hero. Trust me, I