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 afleur de lison 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 thisboyto 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 isHawkridgeManor. 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 wasbonny.
“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 Lachlanwasan 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’sBrynne.”
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,allof 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 withallthe girls. She wasn’t special. But then, she didn’t need a rogue-in-training to tell her that.
