The Master of Stonegrave Hall

Distracted by the arrival of her companion, when Clara turned her head towards him a flush rose to her cheeks. Victoria saw her expression soften visibly and her eyes light up. Why, she thought, it was as if the gentleman had lit a candle inside her. The woman’s affection for her companion was more than obvious.

‘This—this girl was in the middle of the road and when I came round the corner she lost her balance and fell into the ditch,’ Clara explained on a gentler note than the one she had used on Victoria, her gaze reluctant to leave her companion.

‘Must you and your animal claim the whole road while lesser mortals take to the grass?’ Victoria retorted, feeling that she had to remind the woman of her presence.

Clara looked at her, but addressed her companion. ‘Never have I been so insulted! When I asked if she was all right the insolent girl accused me of being an idiot and a lunatic. Really! The audacity!’

‘Which you are,’ Victoria flared. ‘I’m not sorry for calling you those things. I could have been trampled to death, or terribly crippled.’

‘I don’t know who you are, but you should mind your manners, girl, if you know what’s good for you. And who might you be? Well?’ Clara demanded, her voice unnecessarily loud in the quiet of the countryside. ‘Where do you live?’

‘In Ashcomb,’ Victoria replied, lifting her chin proudly and looking directly into the narrowed grey eyes. ‘And there is no need to shout since my hearing is perfectly sound.’

Fixing the gentleman with her gaze, her eyes restless and pensive—the very essence of tempestuous youth—she was rendered momentarily speechless by the appearance of this scowling, masculine presence. An indescribable awe—or fascination—came over her as she stared at him. She had made a study of animals in her lessons to be able to pick out in an instant the dominant male and there was no question whatsoever that he was it.

He sat tall and lean in the saddle with strong shoulders straining at the seams of his well-cut olive-green jacket. Snuff-coloured breeches were fitted snugly about his muscular legs, which gripped the horse. His boots were brown and highly polished, and he wore no hat. There was a certain insolence in the lift of his head and in the casual way his body lounged upon his horse. Even his shadow, which stretched along the ground and almost touched her feet, seemed solid.

His gaze, uncompromising and intent, settled heavily on hers. There was something so powerful in that look, an energy that flowed into her. She shuddered with a mingling of fear and awe. Indomitable pride, intelligence and hard-bitten strength were etched into every feature of his face. He was clean shaven, his skin dark, slashed with eyebrows more accustomed to frowning than smiling. His mouth was firm with a hint of cruelty in it, 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 and in the purple-blue of his compelling eyes—the purple-blue of amethyst—silver flecks stirred dangerously like small warning lights. They 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 with determination and she suspected he did not often smile readily.

Victoria forgot her manners and stared back for as long as she was able, suspecting he was a man diverse and complex, hard-edged and fine-tuned, with many shades to his character and much of it hidden. 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.

Yes, she thought, feeling her stomach roll over, she sensed a wildness about him that would surely terrify the most experienced of women. He bothered her, bothered her senses. She tried to put that thought aside.

‘I see you’ve got yourself into a spot of trouble. Then thank God you are unharmed,’ the man said. ‘You are unhurt?’

‘Yes—but look at my clothes,’ Victoria said, upset that her mother would have to see her looking like this when she had so wanted to arrive home looking perfect. ‘They are quite ruined.’

The man, Laurence Rockford, looked down at her with interest and a furrowed brow. Her self-possessed response startled him. She wore a knee-length pelisse which matched the dress beneath. The expression on her face was interesting—wary, challenging, confident, all at the same time. It was familiar to him, that face, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember where he might have seen it before.

When she tilted her head back, his stare homed in on her slender neck and white fichu tucked into her neckline. He was struck by a jolt of unexpected lust Victoria little realised. Her dark-brown hair with shades of mahogany, caught in a mass of ringlets, cascaded over her shoulders. It was rich and luxuriant—and in disarray, having come loose from the pins that had tried to keep them tamed, due to her tumble into the ditch. Golden strands lightened by the sun shimmered among the carefree curls. He felt an absurd temptation to get off his horse and caress the bountiful silken mane and the delicate cheekbones blooming with colour. Her features were perfect, her eyes a warm shade of amber against the thick fringe of jet-black lashes. The soft pink lips were tantalising and he could imagine them curved in laughter, but just now they were turned down and her eyes were bright, fuelled with the same fire as his haughty companion’s.

Laurence’s eyes passed briefly over her muddied skirts and upwards, lingering a while longer on the swell of her bosom heaving beneath her pelisse. She glared at him like a slender pillar of indignation. Two rosy flags of resentment sprung to her cheeks, for had she not suffered enough indignity for one day?

‘That is unfortunate, but I am sure the mud can be washed out.’ As if to dismiss her—although he thought it would be impossible for any man to dismiss such a fetching creature as this—he looked at his companion. ‘You must have gone hell for leather and taken a shortcut to get ahead of me, Clara. In my book that’s cheating.’

‘I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t,’ Clara waspishly replied, ‘then I wouldn’t have had the misfortune to encounter this girl.’

Victoria glowered at her in righteous indignation while the gentleman held back, one eyebrow cocked mockingly, as if he found the whole situation an amusing turn of events. But my goodness, if the woman wasn’t taking the offensive by accusing her of being in the wrong! She threw back her shoulders and lifted her head, the action saying quite clearly that she was not going to be put on the defensive. ‘I am no girl,’ she flared. ‘Have you not the decency at least to apologise to me?’

Clara’s cold eyes settled on her. ‘Certainly not. I wouldn’t dream of it. I have nothing to apologise for.’

‘Come now, ladies, the way I see it it was no one’s fault—an accident, surely.’ Laurence looked down at Victoria slightly disapprovingly. ‘You have a temper on you, young lady. It could get you into trouble if you don’t learn to curb it.’

‘And she is very rude,’ Clara quipped.

Rather than inspiring her silence, these words caused a fresh surge of anger to course through Victoria. ‘I wouldn’t call it rudeness, more like retaliation justly deserved. I don’t take kindly to people raising a whip to me.’ She looked directly at the gentleman. ‘Sir, you should have more control over your wife.’

Clara turned to Laurence and raised one elegant and faintly satirical brow. ‘Wife,’ she murmured softly, her expression softening as her eyes caressed her companion’s face. ‘Now there’s a thought.’

In a bored drawl and carefully avoiding his companion’s eyes, the gentleman said, ‘You are mistaken. The lady is not my wife.’ And nor will she ever be, his tone seemed to imply.

And not through want of trying, Victoria thought when she saw the flash of angry frustration that leapt into the woman’s eyes. She sensed the gentleman was distracted and not as caught up in the spirit of discussing marriage as the woman was. Realising her mistake, had the circumstances been different Victoria would have been mortified by her blunder, but as it was she really didn’t care. When the woman’s horse nudged its nose towards her she sprang back.

Amused by her nervousness, Clara laughed, her beautiful brows rising slightly. ‘Don’t worry. She doesn’t bite,’ she said with insulting solicitude.

Victoria seethed inwardly. ‘I have only your word for that. If she is anything like her mistress, I have reason to be wary. Excuse me. I must get on.’

‘Are you sure you’re unhurt?’ the gentleman asked. He trailed a leisurely stare over her and slid her a rakish smile that caused the woman to flash him an angry glare.

Remembering that this was the second time today that a gentleman had asked her that question, Victoria held his gaze. His brilliant blue eyes were fixed on her with immense interest, as if she was worthy of close and careful study, and, at the same time, with great appreciation. Every moment seemed to shrink her further.

‘Yes, perfectly all right,’ she replied, briskly detaching herself from his gaze.’

‘Are you heading for Ashcomb?’

‘Yes—not that it’s any of your affair.’

‘Oh, but it is,’ he said silkily.

‘How is that?’

‘You’re on my land.’

The silence after this quiet statement was deafening.

‘I see,’ she said in a small, tight voice, beginning to realise who he was and feeling trapped, but trying none the less not to show it. ‘You are Lord Rockford!’

If he had been astonished before, he was now thrown a little off kilter. ‘You have heard of me?’

‘Who in these parts has not?’ Afraid that her nerve would fail her, excusing herself with a toss of her head, she walked on.

Clara watched her go before turning on Laurence. Her heart leapt in dismay on seeing the warm glow in his eyes as they followed the girl down the lane. Resentful and hurt and wishing he would look at her that way, she took refuge in anger, a fierce glint lighting her eyes. ‘Why didn’t you do something? I can’t believe that chit broke my whip. I don’t know who she is, but I swear she’ll pay for it. She’s an uncouth, insolent chit and wants putting in her place.’

Without moving his gaze from the figure of the girl striding along the road—her spine ramrod straight, her chin tilted high with indignation and her bonnet bouncing against her back—he said, ‘For what? The whip or the damage to your pride? Don’t be silly, Clara. You were about to strike her. She was only defending herself.’

Clara faced him, her face convulsed with fury as she tried to hide the anguish that rippled through her caused by his obvious interest in the girl. ‘How dare you take that chit’s side against me! She is nothing but an upstart.’

‘Don’t be foolish. Calm yourself. Don’t let your temper get the better of you. You’d already run her into the ditch. I’m surprised you retaliated the way you did. Normally you would not have lowered yourself even to address such a person, let alone acknowledge her existence by attacking her.’

‘On any other occasion I would have snubbed her for her boldness, but I could hardly ignore her when she fell into the ditch.’

‘If you’d brought that whip down on her, you could have found yourself in grave trouble. Come—I’ll ride with you to the Grange.’

Angered and hurt by his nonchalant manner, pulling hard on the bit, Clara brought the horse round and galloped off, dashing away a rogue tear that ran down her cheek.

Clara’s sister Diana was married to Laurence’s younger brother, Nathan, and it was Clara’s burning ambition to marry Laurence Rockford now he’d returned from his travels abroad. But he treated her with little more genuine warmth than he did his servants. Nevertheless, she always eyed him with unveiled longing whenever he called at the Grange to see his brother, for, despite his cynical attitude, there was an unmistakable aura of virility about Laurence Rockford, something that was as dangerously attractive as sin, and just as wicked, that made her heart beat faster—for anyone who looked into those cynical blue eyes of his could tell there wasn’t an innocent or naïve fibre in his superb, muscular body. Whether he was riding a horse or dancing at a ball, he stood out among his fellow men like a magnificent panther surrounded by harmless kittens.

It crossed Laurence’s mind as Clara rode ahead of him that he hadn’t asked the girl her name—one of the village girls, no doubt—and then he shrugged and went on his way.