The Master of Stonegrave Hall

The Master of Stonegrave Hall
Helen Dickson

FEW DEFY LORD ROCKFORD AND COME AWAY UNSCATHEDVictoria Lewis has grown up in the long, dark shadows cast by Stonegrave Hall. Yet when the Master takes her sick mother into his care she must finally confront the man whose presence is as brooding as his windswept Yorkshire lands. Men quake at Lord Rockford’s mere command, yet this slip of a girl defies him at every turn! His fury at her is matched only by his desire, and Victoria’s pure innocence burns brightly in the darkness of the Hall.But the light threatens to lay bare secrets that could ruin them both.

Few defy Lord Rockford and come away unscathed

Victoria Lewis has grown up in the long, dark shadows cast by Stonegrave Hall. Yet when the master takes her sick mother into his care, she must finally confront the man whose presence is as brooding as his windswept Yorkshire lands.

Men quake at Lord Rockford’s mere command, yet this slip of a girl defies him at every turn! His fury at her is matched only by his desire, and Victoria’s pure innocence burns brightly in the darkness of the hall. But the light threatens to lay bare secrets that could ruin them both.

His gaze, uncompromising and intent, settled heavily on hers. There was something so powerful in that look—an energy that flowed into her.

Victoria shuddered with a mingling of fear and awe. Indomitable pride, intelligence and hard-bitten strength were etched into every feature of his face. His mouth was firm, with a hint of cruelty in it, there was determination in the jut of his chin and arrogance in his square jaw. It was a face that said its owner cared nothing for fools. His compelling purple-blue eyes were watchful and mocking, as though he found the world an entertaining place to be providing it did not interfere with him. His expression was set and she suspected he did not often smile readily.

Victoria forgot her manners and stared back for as long as she was able. She felt her cheeks grow pink, sure he’d somehow read her mind. He wasn’t handsome in the classical sense, but with his shock of unruly hair as black as pitch he had the look of a pirate or a highwayman about him—or even the devil himself.

AUTHOR NOTE

I’ve always been a history buff, which is why I love writing Mills & Boon

Historical Romance—be it the pageantry of Elizabethan, Tudor and Stuart periods, the glittering Regency, or Victorian and Edwardian times.

MASTER OF STONEGRAVE HALL is set in my beloved home county of Yorkshire—the north Yorkshire moors, to be exact—which proved to be an interesting setting to work with.

Laurence and Victoria’s journey is beset with equal measures of joy and heartache, but in the end the power of love is too strong to deny.

The Master of

Stonegrave Hall

Helen Dickson

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

HELEN DICKSON was born and lives in South Yorkshire, with her retired farm manager husband. Having moved out of the busy farmhouse where she raised their two sons, she has more time to indulge in her favourite pastimes. She enjoys being outdoors, travelling, reading and music. An incurable romantic, she writes for pleasure. It was a love of history that drove her to writing historical fiction.

Previous novels by Helen Dickson:

THE DEFIANT DEBUTANTE

ROGUE’S WIDOW, GENTLEMAN’S WIFE

TRAITOR OR TEMPTRESS

WICKED PLEASURES

(part of Christmas By Candlelight) A SCOUNDREL OF CONSEQUENCE FORBIDDEN LORD SCANDALOUS SECRET, DEFIANT BRIDE FROM GOVERNESS TO SOCIETY BRIDE MISTRESS BELOW DECK THE BRIDE WORE SCANDAL DESTITUTE ON HIS DOORSTEP SEDUCING MISS LOCKWOOD MARRYING MISS MONKTON DIAMONDS, DECEPTION AND THE DEBUTANTE BEAUTY IN BREECHES MISS CAMERON’S FALL FROM GRACE THE HOUSEMAID’S SCANDALOUS SECRET* (#ulink_95ee178b-44d6-5ac1-98cd-9474dda20385) WHEN MARRYING A DUKE … THE DEVIL CLAIMS A WIFE

* (#ulink_79fcbf87-c333-5849-875f-21b633320053)Castonbury Park Regency mini-series

And in Mills & Boon

HistoricalUndone!eBooks:

ONE RECKLESS NIGHT

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Chapter One (#udab37f77-2b26-5446-83af-3f9271e07d45)

Chapter Two (#u8b842b94-eac1-5cb2-b5b2-9414f21d3b3c)

Chapter Three (#u5a84e83a-0dcd-5271-b29d-ea3bafff2758)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One

1820—Late spring

The stagecoach clattered to a halt in the inn yard in the market town of Malton in the North Riding of Yorkshire, some twenty miles equidistant from both York and Scarborough. The first of the passengers to alight, Victoria looked around for a post boy to assist her with her baggage. She would have liked to go inside the inn to partake of some refreshment, but she had another journey ahead of her and was impatient to be on her way before nightfall.

Attired in a cinnamon dress and a matching bonnet, the crisp wind flirted with the cluster of soft ringlets cascading over Victoria’s shoulders and played with the hem of her skirts, while it brought a fresh flush to her cheeks. Trim and bandbox polished, she was a most fetching sight for any man, many of whom paused after passing and openly glanced back for a second taste of her beauty.

The inn was thronged with an assortment of people going about their business and travellers, some sitting about waiting for stagecoaches to take them to their destinations. She was glad it wasn’t Saturday, which was market day, being largely attended by families and farmers from the surrounding countryside, causing congestion both inside the town and the nearby roads. She managed to secure the attention of a young post boy who was hauling luggage from the back of the coach.

‘Excuse me,’ she said as he placed her trunks on the ground, ‘I want to get to Ashcomb tonight. Is there anything going that way?’

He shook his head. ‘Not today, miss. You’ll have to go tomorrow—unless,’ he said, glancing over his shoulder to where a horse and piled-up cart stood beneath a dusty old clock, ‘you don’t mind going by carrier. Tom Smith goes that way three times a week. He’s to set off for Cranbeck within the next half-hour. He might give you a lift.’

‘I would be most grateful. Would you see that my trunks are transferred?’ she said, slipping him a coin and almost jumping out of her skin when a tinny horn blew, announcing the arrival of another stagecoach.

The lad grinned at her, slipping the coin into his pocket. ‘Glad to, miss. I’ll go and have a word with old Tom first.’