The Truth About Lord Stoneville (The Hellions of Halstead Hall)

The Truth About Lord Stoneville (The Hellions of Halstead Hall)

New York Times bestselling author Sabrina Jeffries brings her “hallmark humor, poignancy, and sensuality” ( RT Book Reviews ) to this first of the sparkling Hellions of Hallstead Hall series following the roguishly handsome and rakish Sharpe siblings. Oliver Sharpe, the Marquess of Stoneville, has been London’s most notorious rake for years. Fed up with his behavior, his grandmother threatens to disinherit him if he doesn’t tame his wild ways and wed within the year. Outraged, Oliver decides to hire a woman from a brothel to pose as his fiancée to prove that he can’t be forced into marriage. When he meets Maria Butterfield, a beautiful American woman who is searching for her fiancé in the most unlikely of places, he knows she’s perfect for his ruse. But before long, Oliver finds himself willing to risk anything to make Maria his—even his heart, and the dark secret he hides inside it. With “delectably witty dialogue, subtly named characters, and scorching sexual chemistry between two perfectly matched protagonists” ( Booklist ), this is an unputdownable and charming romance. Sabrina Jeffries is the New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of several Regency-set historical romance series, including the Royal Brotherhood, the School for Heiresses, the Hellions of Halstead Hall, the Duke’s Men, and the Sinful Suitors. When she’s not writing in a coffee-fueled haze, she’s traveling with her husband, caring for her adult autistic son, or indulging in one of her passions: jigsaw puzzles, chocolate, music, and costume parties. With more than nine million books in print in twenty languages, the North Carolina author never regrets tossing aside a budding career in academics for the sheer joy of writing fun fiction and hopes that one day a book of hers will end up saving the world. She always dreams big. The Truth About Lord Stoneville Chapter One Ealing 1825 Oliver stared out the window of the library at Halstead Hall. The dreary winter day further depressed his spirits as he fought to shove his painful memories back into the stout strongbox in which he kept them. It was so much harder here than in town, where he could lose himself in wenches and wine. Not that he could lose himself for long. Though the scandal was nineteen years old, there were still whispers of it wherever he went. Gran had told the guests that night that Mother had gone to the hunting lodge to be alone and had fallen asleep. Awakened by sounds of what she thought was an intruder, she’d panicked and shot him, only to discover that the man was her husband. Then, in her shock and grief, Mother had turned the pistol on herself. It was a flimsy tale at best to cover up a murder and a suicide, and the whispers never quite subsided since the guests had been eager to speculate on the truth. Gran had ordered him and his siblings not to speak of it to anyone, even each other, from that day forward. She’d said it was to stifle the gossip, but he’d often wondered if it was because she blamed him for what happened. Otherwise, why reverse her decree in recent months to question him about the quarrel between him and Mother that night? He hadn’t answered, of course. The very thought of telling her turned his stomach. Whirling away from the window, he paced beside the table where his siblings sat waiting for Gran. This was precisely why he avoided Halstead Hall—it always put him in a maudlin mood. Why in God’s name had Gran asked to have her blasted meeting out here? He’d kept the place shut up for years. It stank of must and rot, and was chilly as the Arctic besides. The only room lacking dust covers was the study where his steward did the work of running the estate. They’d had to remove the covers in here just to have this meeting, which Gran could have held perfectly well at her house in town. Normally, he would refuse her request that they troop out to his neglected estate. But ever since his brother Gabriel’s accident three days ago, he and his siblings had been skating on thin ice with her. That was made more than clear by Gran’s uncharacteristic silence about it. Something was afoot, and Oliver suspected it wouldn’t be to their liking. “How’s your shoulder?” his sister Minerva asked Gabe. “How do you think?” Gabe grumbled. He wore a sling over his rumpled black riding coat, and his ash-brown hair was mussed as usual. “Hurts like the devil.” “Don’t snap at me. I’m not the one who nearly got myself killed.” At twenty-eight, Minerva was the middle sibling—four years younger than Jarret, the second oldest; two years older than Gabe; and four years older than Celia, the baby. But as the eldest girl, she tended to mother the others. She even looked like their mother—all creamy skin and gold-streaked brown hair, with ivy-green eyes like Gabe’s. There was virtually no resemblance between those two and Oliver, who’d inherited the coloring of their half-Italian father—dark eyes, dark hair, dark skin. And a dark heart to m