Chapter Two

Eleven Years Ago

Hawkridge Manor

When Brynne heard the wheels turning on the stone drive, her young heart pattered with excitement. Weston was home! Four weeks prematurely, as it so happened, but with no other visitors scheduled and their father in the wind, who else could it possibly be but her brother, returned early from Eton?

How she'd missed him. With the exception of a brief–and intimidating–visit from her grandfather, the Duke of Caldwell, she had spent the last month in relative isolation. Which wasn't anything new, in and of itself. Brynne and Weston were often alone. But they were alone together . A distinction that became notable only after she found herself roaming the whitewashed walls of Hawkridge without her twin by her side.

She had the servants, of course. Lucy, in particular, was a comfort, especially since Brynne's newest governess, Miss Hardgrave, possessed all the warmth of an iceberg.

But it wasn't the same.

That didn't matter anymore, however.

Because Weston had returned.

Except when she burst out the front door (ignoring the sharp call of her governess that ladies did not run) and took the steps two at a time to meet the shiny black coach before the prancing pair of chestnut geldings had even come to a full halt, it wasn't her brother's face peering out the square window, but an unfamiliar boy with a spill of red hair and an arrogant smirk.

"Who are you ?" Brynne demanded when he hopped out of the carriage without bothering to wait for the footman to bring the mounting step around.

Taller than her by several inches, with a broad frame that needed to fill out in places and a face that was all jutted angles and peaks, the boy stuck out his hand and grinned at her. "Lachlan. Ye must be West's sister, Lady Brynne. Please tae meet ye."

Scottish , she thought silently as she regarded his hand with some suspicion. And a student at Eton as well, as evidenced by the coat of arms on his navy blue jacket. Three lilies on the bottom, a golden lion on the upper right hand corner, and a fleur de lis on the left. When she attended Cheltenham Ladies' College next year, a boarding school for girls of distinguished families, she would have a similar insignia.

"What are you doing here?" she asked as she touched the very tip of his fingers in a quick, fleeting handshake before tucking her arms behind her back. She peered past him into the carriage, hopeful that her brother was sitting within but, to her disappointment, the seats were empty. Her gaze returned to her unexpected visitor, and she frowned. "Where is Weston?"

Instead of answering her questions, Lachlan rocked onto his heels and let a whistle pass between his lips as he stared up at the front of the manor. "Now I see why West is so high in the instep."

"My brother isn't ‘high in the instep'," Brynne said defensively. Already resentful of this stranger who should have been her twin but wasn't, she followed the direction of his gaze as her frown deepened into a scowl.

While most admired the stately country estate for its sheer size, she'd always considered it to be more of a prison than a palace. The outside may have been beautiful with its walls of ivy crawling up gray sandstone, a solarium encased in glass, and matching chimneys in red brick, but there was no cheer to be found within.

Her mother had died here.

Her father had abandoned her here.

And her childhood–what remained of it–was withering here. Like an apple left too long on the branch, she remained glossy on the surface, but she could already feel herself slowly hardening on the inside.

Without family, without friends, without anyone that genuinely cared for her well-being (who wasn't being paid to, that is), how long would it take until her dreams, and aspirations, and hopes for a future beyond this place rotted and fell to the ground?

Now, she had this boy to contend with.

Whoever he was.

In the single letter she'd received thus far, Weston hadn't mentioned anyone by the name of Lachlan. And she found it difficult to believe that her stern, serious brother would have anything to do with a rude, contentious Scot.

"I think there has been some mistake," she began. "This is Hawkridge Manor. Your driver must have gotten confused, and brought you to the wrong place."

"Oh, I'm in the right place." Lachlan slid his hands into the pockets of his coat before he slanted her a sideways glance and grinned, revealing a roguish dimple in the middle of his cheek. "West failed tae mention what a bonny lass his sister is."

Brynne blushed.

She couldn't help it.

Stuck in that indeterminate phase between adolescence and adulthood, she was too tall, too gangly, too thin, too everything wrong and nothing right. But this boy–this Lachlan with the devilish grin and arrogant way about him that made her want to gnash her teeth with annoyance even as part of her was quietly thrilled by it–thought she was bonny .

"What are you doing here?" she repeated.

"Suspended from school for fighting," he said cheerfully, as if such an admission was something to be proud of instead of ashamed by. "Two weeks until I can return. Yer brother invited me tae stay here instead of making the trek all the way back tae Glenavon. By the time I got home, I'd just have tae turn around again."

Brynne didn't even know where to start. But if Lachlan was an invited guest (and she had no reason to believe he was lying), then it fell upon her, as the only Weston currently in residence at Hawkridge, to be a gracious host.

This was what she'd been trained to do. While boys were raised on arithmetic and philosophy and war history, girls were taught how to properly manage a household and when to bring out the good silver and the correct order to serve tea in accordance with the guidelines set forth by the all-important social hierarchy. Dukes first, then marquesses, earls, viscounts, and so forth and so on.

"Why don't you come into the parlor for a glass of lemonade," she said with the polite poise of a lady twice her age. "The staff will see to it that a bedchamber is readied, and your personal belongings are put away. If you need anything during your stay, you have only to ask me or the head housekeeper, Mrs. Pembroke."

Lachlan's grin widened. "Aye, yer grace," he said, bending forward in an exaggerated bow that brought a fresh flush of heat to her cheeks.

"I am not a duchess. You–you can just call me Brynne." It wasn't proper to encourage such familiarity, but if it was to be just the two of them over the next fourteen days, surely there was no harm in addressing each other without the pomp and circumstance of their titles.

"Brynne. That's Celtic, ye know. A form of Brenna." A swath of auburn hair fell across his brow as he canted his head to the side. "Do ye have Scots blood in ye, Bry?

She bit the inside of her cheek, an anxious habit her governess had not yet been able to quell. "Not–not that I am aware of. And it's Brynne ."

Mischief and a glint of something else, something she wouldn't come to understand for a few more years yet, gleamed in Lachlan's eyes. Framed with lashes a shade darker than his hair, they were amber with a hint of copper, and reminded of her of a lion. Come to think of it, all of him reminded her of a lion. Lanky and lean and not quite grown, with a sleek auburn pelt instead of gold, but a lion nevertheless.

"I like Bry better," he said, tossing his hair out of his eyes. "It suits ye."

And she liked the way he said it. Soft, and husky, as if they were sharing a secret. But even as butterflies hummed in her belly, a warning tickled in her ear. Her governess had told her about boys like these. To watch for them, and be wary of them, and to avoid them at all costs. For even though Brynne wouldn't have her Season debut until she turned sixteen, it was imperative that she learn early on which type of man would make a proper husband, and which ne'er-do-well to steer clear of...no matter how charming he might have been.

Why, no doubt Lachlan flirted with all the girls. She wasn't special. But then, she didn't need a rogue-in-training to tell her that.

If she were special, her father and brother wouldn't have left her here. If she were special, she wouldn't have been kept sheltered. If she were special, she wouldn't have been forgotten. Because special things weren't hidden away to collect dust while life continued on without them. They were polished, and proudly displayed, and talked about.

One day , she told herself. One day, she'd escape Hawkridge, and she would never–ever–come back. She'd be the toast of London, and everyone would want to be her friend, and she'd be invited to so many balls and soirees that she would lose track of them all.

But until that day came, she was stuck here. In the middle of the countryside. Like a princess in an ivory tower waiting for her prince to swoop in and rescue her. Except instead of a prince, she'd gotten Lachlan the Lion.

She swallowed a giggle.

They'd both come up with their own monikers for each other, it seemed.

Although she thought hers was far cleverer.

"Who did you fight with that you were suspended?" she asked as she led the way into the manor. They entered the foyer first, a massive rectangular room with a grand staircase in the middle and parlors off to either side. Further down the hall there was a drawing room, and a music room, and a library. The kitchen had its own wing, which attached directly to the servants' quarters. There was the solarium, a more recent addition, and a scattering of terraces and balconies. Upstairs held no less than twenty-seven bedchambers spread across two stories and half a dozen washrooms, three of which had recently been renovated with pipes that carried hot water! A form of magic, as far as Brynne was concerned.

"Lord Archie Wheeler. The dunce." Handing his jacket and gloves to a footman, Lachlan turned in a slow circle, his gaze drawn to the gold chandelier dangling above their heads. "Are those real crystals?"

"Yes. What makes Lord Wheeler a…you know." Unable to say the word allowed, she gestured with her hand.

"Dunce?"

She nodded.

"He's a blowhard and a bully." Lachlan dropped his chin and raised his brow. "Goes after the smaller boys who canna defend themselves. Ye would have boxed his ears, tae, I wager. Ye strike me as the sort who wouldna stand for the antics of a tyrant."

To date, it was the finest compliment that Brynne had ever received.

"Is that what you did?" she asked, fascinated despite the fact that a young lady should never condone any form of violence. Particularly of the common schoolyard brawling variety. "You boxed his ears?"

"Aye. Twice."

" Twice ," she breathed, her eyes widening. "Then what happened?"

"He fell tae the ground and cried for his mother. Bullies are tough until they're the ones being picked on. Would have given him a shiner, tae, for what he did tae Tommy Helms. If his friends hadna pulled me off, that is. Cowards, the lot of them."

"What did Lord Wheeler do to Tommy Helms?" she asked.

"Cornered him in the middle of the courtyard and yanked down his trousers for the whole school tae see, then made fun of the size of his dobber."

Brynne's brow furrowed. "Dobber?"

"Pecker. Ye know what a pecker is, don't ye?"

She shook her head uncertainly.

"Lobcock. Plug tail. Thomas." He looked at her in exasperation. "Penis?"

"Oh." Her cheeks heated. " Oh. "

Yes, she knew what a penis was. The library at Hawkridge was enormous, covering a variety of topics from edible herbs and plants to the rise and subsequent fall of the Roman Empire. Naturally curious, and bored with her embroidery, Brynne had tasked herself with reading through the vast collection of books whenever she could manage to sneak away from her studies. She'd started in alphabetical order, and after making her way through A Study on the Principles of Sufficient Reason had stumbled upon Anatomy, Physiology, and Hygiene by Benjamin Mussey.

She hadn't understood a lot of the words, having never heard them before, but there had been pictures. Diagrams. Of the female and the male body. Which was how she knew what–and where–that particular part of the male anatomy resided.

"I…I didn't realize it had so many different names," she said.

"Do ye want tae hear more?" Lachlan asked with some enthusiasm.

"No," she said hastily. "I think I've heard quite enough, thank you. But if Lord Wheeler did that to Tommy, why were you suspended? That doesn't seem very fair."

"Because Wheeler's father has deep pockets. Probably why his son is such a little shite. If it were left tae him, I would have been booted out of Eton on the spot. The headmaster thought a two week holiday was a more fitting punishment." Grinning, Lachlan spread his arms apart. "And here I am."

Brynne blushed again, although this time she didn't know why. Lachlan was loud, and brash, and violent–everything she'd been kept away from. How odd, then, that she actually…maybe…a tiny bit… liked him. And, now that her initial shock at his unannounced arrival had subsided, she was glad that he had come to Hawkridge. At the very least, he'd provide interesting company, in addition to helping the time pass more quickly until Weston returned.

"The receiving parlor is this way," she said, indicating a set of French doors with a stained glass inlay. "I'll have a maid ready us some lemonade. Are you hungry? We've anything you could want. Cold meats or salmon for a sandwich, and–"

" Lady Brynne ."

As the sound of her governess' voice cracked through the foyer like the slash of a whip, Brynne winced and instantly squared her shoulders. Miss Hardgrave was a stickler for proper posture, and whenever she caught her charge slouching, Brynne would have to walk up and down the hallway with a book balanced on her head.

Ever since she'd outgrown the nursery and become too old for a nanny, Brynne had been kept under the care of a governess. Six of them, to be precise, each one lasting for a year or two before they were removed and replaced for reasons that were never explained to her. Miss Hardgrave was the seventh, and by far the worst.

Strict, stern, and unforgiving, she ruled over every aspect of Brynne's life with an iron fist and a disapproving frown. From monitoring what Brynne ate, to enforcing what time she went to bed, the governess seemed to take unique pleasure in the control she yielded.

Brynne despised her, as did Weston. He wanted them to drive Miss Hardgrave out (as the twins had been known to do on occasion), but what if her replacement was even worse? Brynne didn't dare risk it. Especially without Weston here to look after her.

"Who is this?" Miss Hardgrave's steely gaze raked across Lachlan with visible contempt. Tall and thin as a pencil, her brown hair was pulled back from her face with such force that it stretched the skin at the corners of her eyes. A confirmed spinster approaching her fortieth year, she'd graduated Blakeshire's Governess Academy with top honors and had been employed by some of the most prestigious families in all of England before she'd come to Hawkridge.

"Lachlan Campbell," he said with an insolent smirk.

Miss Hardgrave's lips pinched so tightly together they all but disappeared into her pale, wan face. "You must be the new footman. Servants are to use the side entrance, not the main foyer. You'd also do well to watch your tone, Mr. Campbell. Impudence is not a quality that Lord Dorchester seeks in his servants."

At that, Brynne stepped forward.

"Lachlan isn't a servant," she explained earnestly. "He is a guest. Weston has sent him to stay with us while he is…ah…on temporary leave from Eton."

"A guest?" asked Miss Hardgrave, visibly thrown off guard.

"Aye," said Lachlan, his voice cooling as his face hardened, giving a glimpse at the man he'd soon become. Rough, intimidating, and one who didn't suffer fools–or tyrannical governesses–lightly. "And it isna mister, it's lord. Lord Campbell. Ye would do well tae remember that."

The governess' face puckered, as if she had suddenly bitten into a lemon. Her elevated position in the household put her far above a footman, but she was still well beneath the aristocracy and, as such, would have to keep her obvious disdain for Lachlan in check. "I…I apologize for my error, Lord Campbell. I can assure you that it will not happen again."

As her gaze traveled from Miss Hardgrave to Lachlan and back again, Brynne barely managed to suppress a smile. It appeared as if the governess had finally met her match. If her expression was any indication, she wasn't pleased about it.

"I was just about to offer Lord Campbell some refreshments in the parlor," Brynne said tentatively. "After that, I thought a tour of the grounds–"

But Miss Hardgrave was already shaking her head. "You are late for your French lesson. Mrs. Pembroke is more than capable of showing our guest around. I will let her know that he is here, and that the maids should ready a room in the East Wing."

"The East Wing?" Brynne echoed in dismay. "But that's all the way on the other side of the–"

"Your lesson," Miss Hardgrave said firmly. "Tardiness does not become a lady. Leave our guest's accommodations to the staff. I am afraid that your schedule is such that you'll not have the ability to be in Lord Campbell's company outside of dinner. Even then, I'm sure your studies will preclude you from lengthy conversation."

As Brynne was ushered away, she cast a helpless glance over her shoulder and met Lachlan's amber gaze. He winked at her, and mouthed something she couldn't hear…but which she understood nevertheless.

A silently passed message that left her feeling strange and warm and fluttery, as if she'd been standing out in the sun for too long without a hat.

"I'll see ye soon, Bry."