“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 t
hat’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.”
Chapter Three
Lachlan knew that he was supposed to be remorseful for what he’d done to Lord Wheeler. At least, that’s what the headmaster had told him.
“A two-week suspension from your classes,” the old bugger had croaked. “So that you may think upon your actions and what you can do to improve yourself. This is not your first incident, Lord Campbell. But it shall be your last, lest I inform your father that your schooling at Eton has been permanently terminated.”
Truth be told, Lachlan did feel a wee measure of contrition.
If he had to do it over again, he would have hit Wheeler a hell of a lot harder.
The prancing roaster.
Wheeler had deserved to be laid out on his arse, and Lachlan was glad to have been the one to put him there. Suspension or no suspension.
Gits like Wheeler needed to be taught that just because they came from a wealthy and powerful family didn’t mean they could get away with torturing the small and the helpless. Wheeler and his band of bullies were no better than children with magnifying glasses pointed at a hill of ants on a sunny day.
Lachlan shouldn’t have been punished for knocking the sniveling little viscount down a peg or two. He should have been bloody commended. Yet here he was, stranded at a stranger’s estate for the next fourteen days while Wheeler got to sleep snug in his own bed.
At least the scenery was pretty to look at.
And he wasn’t just thinking about the gardens.
Lady Brynne Weston really was bonny. The bonniest a lass as he’d ever seen. Not that there were many lasses in the tiny village of Glenavon. Bonny or otherwise. A few at the local pub, but the only time he went there was to drag his father home before he drowned himself in a tankard of ale.
Lachlan wasn’t the first Campbell to be suspended from Eton. He heralded from a long line of proud, violent Scots with an eye for pretty women and a penchant for drinking. On the day he’d arrived at the prestigious boy’s finishing school, the headmaster’s eyes had all but rolled into the back of his skull.
“Not another one,” he’d muttered before ushering Lachlan inside.
Lachlan couldn’t blame the old bugger for his trepidation. But he wouldn’t mind an apology. After all, three years into his schooling and he hadn’t burned down a building (as his grandfather, Robert Campbell II, who was now deceased, had famously done), or gotten pigs drunk on ale and set them loose in the dormitory (his father, Robert Campbell III), or chucked all of the Duke of Ashbury’s belongings out a third story window into the lake (his brother, Robert Campbell IV).
Why, aside from the little skirmish, Lachlan was a bloody paragon of virtue!
But courtesy of his last name, he was labeled a mischief maker before he’d ever stepped foot through the gates. That was the trouble with reputations…sometimes you made them, and other times they were made for you. Either way, they were difficult things to change. People saw what they wanted to see. And even though Lachlan was different from his father and four brothers in any manner of ways, he’d already been painted with the same broad brush.
The headmaster had probably been itching for a reason to toss him out since he first walked in the door. Handing Wheeler his well-deserved comeuppance was just the excuse the school was waiting for to rid itself of another Campbell, albeit temporarily.
If Lachlan managed to stick it out another year, he’d be the first man in his family to actually complete all of his courses and attend convocation. As a general rule, Campbells enjoyed starting things–fights, business endeavors, marriages–but they were shit all at finishing them. Which helped to explain why Lachlan and his brothers all had different mothers…and why the once mighty and world-renowned Glenavon Distillery had been run straight into the ground.
But Lachlan had plans for that.
Not for the multitude of women his father had bedded, wedded, and either lost in childbirth, divorced, or simply forgotten about. There was nothing he could do about that particular family disgrace. As for the abandoned distillery, however…suffice it to say he had big plans for the whisky company that his great-great-grandfather, the very first Robert Campbell, had started under the cover of darkness in caves off the coast to avoid the bloody British and their excise taxes. And his children had subsequently bankrupted it through poor business practices.
Namely, they’d drank all the whisky and never gotten around to making more.
Before any renovations could begin, however, Lachlan needed to survive the next two weeks so that he could get back to his studies, finish school with high enough marks that he’d be able to secure a private loan, and hire an architect willing to work for the promise of what was to come.
It was a tall order.
Some might say impossible.
But in addition to their less desirable traits, Campbell men were also determined and stubborn to a fault. It wasn’t a matter of if Lachlan would see his dreams realized. It was a matter of when. In the meanwhile, he’d serve his suspension. A punishment that was feeling a lot more like a reward now that he had a fair-haired companion to pass the time with.
He just needed to figure out a way past the dragon at the gate…but Lachlan was nothing if not inventive.
Tap.
Tap tap.
Tap tap tap.
Blinking groggily, Brynne sat up in her bed and drew off the covers. The floorboards were cold beneath her bare feet as she padded to the window and peered out, cupping her hands on either side of her face in an attempt to see through the darkness of a quarter moon.
Tap.
On a gasp, she leapt back from the sill when a small stone struck a glass pane. Given that her bedchamber was on the second story, she had been expecting a branch, or an owl, or some other naturally occurring nighttime noise that was responsible for rousing her from a heavy sleep. But there was nothing natural about a rock being twenty feet off the ground.
Someone was throwing pebbles at her window.
And she had a sneaking suspicion of who it might be.
Careful not to rouse Miss Hardgrave, whose bedchamber shared an adjoining wall, Brynne quickly swept a wrap over her nightgown and tiptoed out of her room and down the stairs. She didn’t know what time it was. Somewhere after midnight, as that was when she’d set aside her book and fallen asleep, and before five, as that was when the servants woke and began readying the household for the day ahead.
Regardless of the exact hour, she should not have been out of bed. The knowledge of which caused a tiny tingle of excitement between her shoulder blades. She, Brynne Weston, follower of rules and sufferer of anxious mannerisms, was being rebellious.
Miss Hardgrave would have an absolute fit if she found out. This was, by far, the most disobedient act that Brynne had ever committed. Which, depending on how one viewed it, was either very good or very sad.
She hesitated on the bottom step, her toes curling over the smooth wooden lip as her practical mind urged her to return upstairs with all haste while her rarely explored adventurous spirit cried for her to keep going. After a brief internal struggle, the latter side won out and, with a wide grin, she dashed across the foyer and into the kitchen where the servants’ entrance provided her the most discreet pathway out of the house.<
br />
Her bedroom overlooked the rear of the estate which meant she had to go all the way along the length of the solarium, careful not to turn her ankle on the freshly dug piles of earth that were being used to build staggered flower beds, and around the back terrace before she reached the enormous alder tree that had stood guard beside her window long before even her father had been born.
Its massive canopy had obscured her view from above, but now that she was on the ground and her eyes had adjusted to the slivers of moonlight dancing across the rolling lawn, she picked out Lachlan’s shadowy frame with ease.
“Took ye long enough,” he said, stepping out from behind the alder’s trunk.
“I thought it was you,” she said smugly.
He cocked a brow. “Is there anyone else that would be throwing rocks at yer window in the middle of the night?”
“Well, no,” she admitted.
“Didna think so.”
They stared at each other. The volatile, hotheaded Scottish boy who had been suspended from school for fighting and the quiet, introspective English girl who had never met a rule she didn’t follow.
They shouldn’t have ever met, let alone been standing together in the darkness. Yet here they were. Two lonely souls who were (unbeknownst to even themselves) desperately seeking a connection with someone who understood them in a way their families could not.
“Want tae see something neat?” Lachlan asked.
“Yes,” Brynne said, and this time there was no hesitation. “Very much.”
“Come with me, then.” He took her hand, his fingers sliding between hers until they were locked in a firm grip and, together, they plunged into the night, following a narrow trail lined with chipped marble.
She didn’t ask how he seemed to already know the grounds surrounding the manor as well or mayhap even better than she did. Lachlan struck her as the adventurous sort, and it was easy to envision him exploring the paths, and the outbuildings, and the gardens that made up the estate while she’d been stuck inside practicing how to pour tea out of a long-stemmed teapot.
Seduced by the Scot Page 3
