A/N: Merry Christmas Eve, everyone!

This is a sequel story to my Faberry story All That's Best. While this story can be read as a standalone, it will have spoilers for All That's Best, so if you like both Faberry and Brittana stories, I would highly recommend that you read All That's Best first before reading this story.

Also, for those of you who do not like stories with both Faberry and Brittana, just FYI that this story will be 99% Brittana and 1% Faberry.

This story is also (obviously) in the same universe as All That's Best in that homosexuality isn't a thing that people care about.

It is a work of historical fiction, and I may need to take the liberty of tweaking some things from history to fit with the characters and story, but I shall try my best to make it believable for the time period.

That is all. Enjoy!


London, early August 1819

"No."

The word, though spoken softly, seemed to echo throughout the small parlor. Perched on the padded edge of a green brocade sofa, Brittany Pierce cringed as her own voice rang in her ears.

Arthur Abrams, the Viscount Stanton, stared at her as if he hadn't expected to go through all the trouble of bringing flowers and kneeling on the beige, rose, and green Aubusson carpet only to have his proposal of marriage refused.

"No?" The surprise in his normally calm voice proved Brittany right. He hadn't expected her to deny him.

Knotting her trembling fingers together in the rosy muslin of her skirts, Brittany nodded. She hoped that she looked more composed than she felt, but it was oddly discomforting to look such a handsome young man square in his blue eyes and tell him that she didn't want to be his wife —especially when she couldn't come up with any good reason as to why she didn't want to marry him.

Oh, there was the fact that she didn't love him, but that was hardly a reason to refuse an offer of marriage as far as society was concerned. A girl with her scandalous family should be happy anyone would ask for her at all, let alone a viscount. And Arthur was as wealthy and charming as he was intelligent and handsome. Any young woman would be glad to have him.

Any young woman, that was, who wouldn't mind being bored silly for the rest of her life. It was cruel, but there it was. Arthur was a good man, but Brittany felt nothing but friendship toward him.

Straightening her spine, Brittany met Arthur's bewildered gaze with a steady one of her own. "I'm flattered by your offer, Lord Stanton, but my answer must be no."

"Must it?" The young viscount made no attempt to hide his disappointment, or his anger, as he rose to his feet. At twenty-six, Arthur was this season's prime catch. He could have any young woman he wanted.

Well, almost any. Brittany had no idea what had ever enticed him to ask for her.

"Yes," she replied, also rising. She was tired of all this stiff politeness, this tiresome propriety. Even angry he played the gentleman, for that was what was expected of him, especially since Brittany's maid sat playing chaperone in the far corner of the room. Pamela could not hear their conversation, but she would make certain the viscount's behavior remained proper. A young woman's virtue must be protected at all times. A young woman must never be in the company of a young gentleman alone. A young woman didn't have enough sense not to fall prey to a young man's lechery.

Sometimes, Brittany wished she could ignore all of society's rules and regulations. She was tired of always watching everything she said and did. Not that it was a struggle; indeed, it was so much a part of her that she did it automatically.

Arthur said nothing. He just stared at her as though she was some oddity on display in a museum. Brittany returned his gaze until she grew tired of the contest. Then she looked away.

And, she thought somewhat wryly as she toed the cabbage roses in the carpet with her slipper, she was tired of dressing to look like a flower, like a delicate blossom. Her gown and shoes were the same rosy color as the blooms in the carpet. As an unmarried woman, she was expected to wear childlike, pale colors.

"Lady Brittany," he said, his voice low and cajoling once again. "Think about what you are saying."

Her back as stiff as the Prince Regent's corset, Brittany smiled coolly. The only thing worse than having to dress like a child was being treated like one.

"I know exactly what I am saying, Lord Stanton. I am saying no. 'Tis you who seems to lack understanding."

He looked genuinely surprised at that remark. How could he not be? As a handsome young peer of the realm, he was used to getting what he wanted. Arthur was also one of the kindest men of her acquaintance. The idea that he was proposing out of some sense of chivalry had not escaped Brittany.

"Who else will marry you?" be blurted out, his face turning the same pale pink as her gown.

"I think perhaps you should go now, Lord Stanton." How cool she sounded, how calm! But she knew her own face was even redder than the viscount's. Who else, indeed?

But he wasn't ready to give up just yet. "I am sorry, Lady Brittany. I did not mean to be so unfeeling, but surely you see the truth in my words? The unfortunate events surrounding your brother's departure from England have seriously hampered your chances of making a good marriage."

Brittany's jaw was tight. "And yet here you are, offering me just such an arrangement." If her father were alive, he would handle this awkward situation. But her Papa was gone and nothing could bring him back.

The viscount glanced down at his polished boots. "I do not hold you responsible for your brother's actions." He looked up, his gaze so warm it filled Brittany with alarm.

"No one who knows you could ever blame you for what happened."

But they did. Oh, maybe society didn't blame her, per se, but she suffered the ramifications of her brother Finn's madness just as surely as if it had been her own. It was just one of the many flaws of the aristocratic world—in Brittany's opinion—that one's actions often reflected upon one's family as well. Her brother Finn had tried to kill their half-sister Quinn after discovering that Quinn would inherit their father's title. The dukedom had been extremely important to Finn. So important that he would have killed to get it.

Brittany wondered how Finn could have changed so much. As much as she loved her newfound half-sister, she sometimes wished she'd not entered their lives. Then Finn would have been the duke and he wouldn't be across the Atlantic Ocean in a strange country, so far away from home.

But even an ocean away he still managed to hurt them. Their mother still grieved his actions and his loss, and Brittany—in society's eyes—was tainted simply because she had the misfortune to be his sister. He had claimed he never meant to hurt either of them, but they were the ones who suffered the most. Quinn and her wife Rachel, the true focus of Finn's vengeance, were now in Scotland, far away from the scandal, and were living out their happily ever after like princesses in a fairy tale.

Brittany sighed. "Thank you for that small consolation, Lord Stanton, but I cannot marry you."

"Why not?" he demanded, his tone much like that of a petulant child.

"Because I do not love you!" she cried, and immediately covered her mouth with her hand so no other shameful outbursts could sneak out.

But the viscount was undaunted. "You will learn to love me."

Brittany shook her head. She truly hated having to do this. Her parents had married for love, and she would not discredit her father's memory by doing less herself. Arthur was a fine young man. A good and handsome man. Any young woman would be flattered by his attentions. But not her. She was only uncomfortable and desperate to have him gone from her sight. Why wouldn't he just accept her answer and leave?

"I may not have much chance of making a good marriage, but I will marry for love or not at all. Love must come before marriage, not after," she said resolutely.

Besides, she was still young. She was only eighteen—hardly an old maid. There were still so many things she wanted to do and see before getting married.

Arthur regarded her like a beaten puppy. Why did men—boys—have to make these things so difficult? Every time she refused a dance, refused a turn about the garden, refused a glass of punch even, the young man asking acted as though she'd stuck a pin through his eye. She wasn't supposed to refuse. She was supposed to be honored they had even noticed her. Yes, she was lucky anyone even bothered with her at all.

She did not feel very lucky at the moment, however. "Forgive me, Lord Stanton, but I will not marry you simply because you asked, however much I appreciate your asking." She managed a small smile. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have another engagement."

Perhaps engagement had been a poor choice of words given the fact that marriage was exactly what the viscount had intended, but as Brittany swept by him and across the insipid flowered carpet to the door, all she wanted was to be free of his disappointed gaze.

Without looking behind to see if Arthur was still in the same spot, Brittany opened the door and then hiked her skirts up around her ankles and ran across the polished marble floor of the hallway to the wide, curving staircase. Taking the stairs two at a time, she raced toward her room in a very unladylike fashion. Her mother would no doubt scold her if she saw.

Or maybe not. Brittany's father had died a year and a half ago, and shortly after that the scandal had broken and Finn had been sent away. It was more than Brittany's mother could bear, it seemed. She didn't seem to notice much of anything Brittany did anymore.

Once in her room, Brittany set about trying to release herself from the pink muslin prison that was her dress. By the time her breathless maid skipped over the threshold, Brittany had succeeded in pulling her gown halfway off and had completely ruined the sophisticated hairstyle the girl had arranged for her earlier that morning.

"I'm sorry, Pamela," she said as the young woman pulled the offending garment over her head. A long, thick chuck of silvery blond hair drooped in front of Brittany's face, a lone hairpin tangled in its messy length. "I did not mean to leave you with Stanton."

Pamela shook her head, her own sable hair covered in a simple muslin cap. The maid was as dark as Brittany was fair, as content with her life as Brittany was discontent. They were friends—or as close to it as they could be, given the difference in their situations. They'd grown up together, played together as children, but that didn't change the fact that Pamela's family worked for Brittany's, and because of that, their friendship could never be a public one.

"Turned him down, did you?"

Brittany managed a nod before another gown was yanked down over her head. Shoving her arms through the cap sleeves, she blew the offending piece of hair out of her face. "I could never love someone like that."

"Someone like what?" Gripping her by the shoulders, Pamela turned her around and began fastening the hooks up the back of the blue gown. It wasn't dark blue, but it wasn't pastel, either. Wearing it instantly improved Brittany's mood. She was eighteen for heaven's sake, not a chit just out of the schoolroom! She shouldn't have to prance about in white and colors so pale they might as well be.

"Stuffy," Brittany responded as her maid pulled the gown closed behind her. "Boring…insipid…cold, unemotional, tiresome, dandyish, mincing…boring."

Pamela chuckled and gave her a gentle shove toward the vanity. "You said that already."

Plunking herself down in front of the mirror, Brittany smiled wryly. "Well, he's a very boring young man."

"I have also heard the viscount described as kind, good-natured, and extremely well mannered."

Brittany shot her a look. "Like I said, boring."

As she tugged the pins from her mistress' hair, Pamela slipped them into her apron pocket. "And you're looking for someone a little more…exciting?"

As their gazes met in the mirror, Brittany handed her the silver-backed brush. "You know I am."

Nodding, Pamela took the brush and began running it through Brittany's hair with firm strokes. "Still waiting for your Scottish warrior, are you?"

"Not a warrior, Pamela," Brittany corrected with a smile, enjoying the tug of the brush on her scalp. "That conjures up images of a big, brainless brute. No, what I want is someone with the mind of a scholar, the heart of a warrior, and the soul of a poet."

Pamela snorted. "You're not asking for much, are you?"

Brittany's smile broadened. "I don't think so."

"You're not likely to find one of those in London," the maid commented.

Sighing, Brittany nodded. "I know."

They fell into silence as Pamela brushed and twisted and coiled Brittany's hair into a sleep topknot.

If someone were to ask Brittany why she had her heart set on a Scot, she wasn't certain she would be able to come up with an answer. Perhaps it was because everything that had ever moved her, ever intrigued her, had sprung from a Scotsman's hands. She loved the poetry of Robert Burns and the architecture of Robert Adam. She had heard stories about the Scottish Highlanders, who fought bravely with the strength of two Englishmen—although perhaps that part had been exaggerated.

If she closed her eyes, she could almost picture him. Her Scot would be tall and slender with dark hair and dark eyes that burned with intelligence. His voice would be smooth and cultured like Quinn's, and they would treat her as though she were someone special. He would try to win her devotion, respect her, and cater to her every whim. He would be the perfect gentleman and make her feel like the only woman in the world with just a smile.

Scotland and its people were a mystery to her, wonderful and exotic, patently non-English. At one time Scotland had been a mere curiosity, but after meeting Quinn, and especially after the scandal, Brittany's desire to go there—and the idea that the perfect person waited for her there—grew. Surely, in Scotland no one would hold the crimes of a brother against the sister.

Her father had loved Scotland, and Brittany just knew she would love it as well.

Just as the last pin was shoved into place, the door to Brittany's room burst open. It was Brittany's friend Julia, flushed in the cheeks as though she'd run not only up the stairs but a fair distance before that as well.

"Dear heavens!" Brittany exclaimed, rising to her feet. "Whatever is the matter?"

"I…h-had to come!" The petite brunette gasped for breath as she struggled to speak. "I h…had to stop you."

"Stop me?" Brittany cast a confused glance at Pamela before turning her attention back to her panting friend. "Stop me from doing what?"

Pressing a hand to her bosom, Julia struggled to regain her breath. "From accepting Viscount Stanton's proposal!"

Brittany blinked. Julia had come in such a tizzy to stop her from accepting Arthur? That didn't make sense. Just two days ago Julia had forced Brittany to listen while she rattled off a list of the viscount's many virtues. She'd said she believed he would make the perfect husband. What had changed her mind?

Was Julia in love with Viscount Stanton herself? Well, she was welcome to him—not that he deserved her. Julia was much more even tempered than Brittany, but even she needed a husband with a bit of life in him.

Crossing the carpet, Brittany took her friend by the arm and gently led her to one of the chairs by the empty fireplace.

"Pamela, would you be a dear and ring for tea?" Brittany requested. "And tell them to send some cakes."

Pamela nodded, her gaze never leaving the huffing Julia. "Right away."

While her maid went off to see about refreshments, Brittany lowered herself into the chair across from her friend. Despite her curiosity, she waited impatiently for Julia's breathing to return to normal before asking any questions.

Pamela returned, and a few moments later another maid came in with a tray loaded with cups, cakes, and a tall silver teapot. Brittany dismissed her as Pamela poured the tea. Impatiently she waited until her maid was seated before questioning her friend.

"All right," she said, as Julia lifted her cup. "Why the devil were you in such a hurry to stop me from accepting Stanton?"

Julia took a gulp of tea, clearly still very flustered. "I chanced to overhear my brother talking with one of his cronies earlier. I heard him say that Viscount Stanton had made an entry in the betting book at White's." She looked at Brittany as though she expected her to immediately grasp the significance of what she had said.

Brittany raised her brows and tried to keep from being too sarcastic. "Nearly every gentleman who belongs to that bastion of male fraternity makes an entry into its famed betting book. What has it to do with me?"

Another swallow. "The viscount wagered two hundred pounds that you would accept his proposal."

Brittany froze, her teacup halfway to her mouth. "He mentioned his intention to propose? To me?"

Julia nodded, her eyes wide with compassion. "He did. Apparently, he made no effort to hide the fact that your inheritance was the reason behind the proposal."

"Oh dear." Setting her cup on the tray with a sharp clatter, Brittany grew faint with shock. She cast a glance at Pamela, whose pale face revealed more shock than her voice ever could.

"Oh, my dear friend!" Julia grasped one of Brittany's cold hands in hers. "I was so certain he loved you. I would never have encouraged you if I knew what a cad he was! I don't want you to waste one tear on him, do you hear? Not one!"

Brittany's head jerked around to face her friend. "Tears? Over Stanton? Don't be ridiculous. I should never cry over such a character."

But was Arthur such a swine? He had seemed so sincere in the parlor. Perhaps Julia had gotten her facts mixed up. After all, it wasn't as though either of them would be allowed inside White's to check the betting book themselves.

Still, she wasn't about to let her friend know how she had fallen for the viscount's wounded act.

Now it was Julia's turn to look confused. "But you seemed so distraught at the news. I thought…" She trailed off helplessly.

Brittany knew exactly what her friend had thought. She'd thought that Brittany might have been stupid enough to believe that Arthur Stanton actually cared for her. The viscount didn't even know her—not the real her—so there was no way he could possibly love her, but that didn't stop the news from stinging.

And it wasn't what had her heart thumping hard against her ribs.

"By this evening everyone will know of the wager and of the proposal," she explained. "Everyone will know I refused him. It will be the talk of the ton."

She didn't need to continue, as her companion would figure out the rest. Brittany had hoped that no one would have to know that Arthur had asked for her. Now that everyone knew, it would be the talk of the town. The haute ton—the crème de la crème of London society—would sneer at her for refusing what would no doubt be the best offer of marriage she would ever receive. After Finn's treachery, she was lucky that anyone wanted to marry her at all. And come tomorrow morning, everyone else would be saying the same thing. It would dredge up the whole scandal all over again. Brittany couldn't handle it—not again. She couldn't stand to hear people whisper behind her back again.

"What are you going to do?" Julia asked.

Giving her friend's hand a firm squeeze, Brittany plastered a shaky smile on her face and raised her chin determinedly. "I can't stop them from talking, but I can save myself the humiliation of having to hear it."

Julia frowned. "You can't stay locked up in the house and wait for it to blow over. That will only make it worse."

Pulling her hand free, Brittany regarded her friend and her maid. "I have no intention of hiding in the house. If the two of you will kindly help me, I have a plan."

"What are you going to do?" Julia asked, a wary expression on her face.

"Pack and say good-bye to Mama," Brittany replied with determination. "I leave for Scotland in the morning."


"I've got ye now, you little rascal."

The lamb peered at her through a canopy of rich green leaves. Smiling, Santana Fabray reached beneath the damp brush and lifted the woolly animal into her arms. The lamb bleated softly in protest, its little heart pounding against the flat of her palm.

"Och," Santana whispered against one pink ear. "You're all right. I'll have you back to your mam in no time."

The lamb had been missing for a little over an hour. He'd wandered out of the barn where the rest of the flock had been put until their new pen was finished—which would be tomorrow, with any luck. The other lambs seemed content to remain inside, but not this little one. He was only a few months old and already he was itching to see the world outside his own little corner of it.

"Did you have a grand adventure?" Santana asked, chucking the lamb under the chin as she straightened. "I bet you'll be happy to see your mam. She's missed you."

Cradling the animal against her chest, Santana began the short trek through the forest toward Fabray Castle. The soft, worn fabric of her earasaid kept the wet lamb's wool from soaking through her blouse and offered a little protection from the muddy hooves.

As she walked, she sang softly; her heart was light on this cool, late-summer morning. It had rained during the night, and the entire countryside glistened with colors so rich and vibrant they looked as though they'd been put there by an artist's brush rather than nature. Breathing deeply, she took the damp sweetness of the air into her lungs. The scents of earth, heather, rain, and even wet sheep were the smells of home, the smells of Scotland, the smells she loved.

A twig snapped beneath her boot as the path emptied into the clearing. She left the cool canopy of the forest and stepped out into the rapidly brightening day. A cool breeze blew across the surface of Loch Glenshea, but the sun was warm and Santana paused long enough to raise her face to it.

She veered to the right, away from the high, moss-covered walls of the castle, toward the barn, where cattle snorted and sheep blatted like old men telling tales. The castle had belonged to the Fabrays for centuries, and Santana was proud to have a part in the care of it and the land that kept it, but she was just as glad to leave the full responsibility of it to her cousin Quinn. Santana had her own cottage farther down the shore of the loch—that was castle enough for her.

Here, in the sun-dappled wide beauty of Scotland, Santana Fabray was queen.

A queen with old boots and a blouse so often mended it looked like one of her grandmother's patchwork quilts, she thought with a smile. Of course, she could hardly wear good clothes when chasing lambs or mucking out stalls, now could she? Santana wasn't much of a lady on her good days, and she certainly wasn't going to dress up for farm work. She didn't need to work in the barns or the fields at all, so Quinn told her, but Santana had worked all her life. She supposed she could take the extra time to work on the saddles she had a talent for making. Wealthy gentlemen paid a hefty sum for her workmanship, and Santana enjoyed the process of creating her own, one-of-a-kind saddles, but being outside in the fresh air was what made her feel alive. There was nothing quite like the feel of crisp air in her lungs and the wind in her hair.

She had reached the gravel drive that curved in front of the castle and was continuing down to the stables when she spotted a carriage coming toward her.

And a fine carriage it was, too—black and shiny with a crest on the door and four high-stepping grays pulling it. Santana had a keen eye for horseflesh, and she stopped to watch the horses as the carriage rolled to a halt.

A young man dressed in gold-and-blue livery jumped down from the back of the coach. Opening the door, he flipped down the step and extended his hand to help the occupants down.

Two young women stepped to the ground, and the young man closed the door behind them. One of them lifted her head and took a deep breath of air, smiling as she did so. She was young and dark, not as finely dressed as her companion. She was the maid, Santana guessed. It wasn't proper for high-born ladies to travel alone.

When the other female lifted her head, allowing Santana to see past the broad brim of her bonnet, Santana's breath caught in her throat.

Sweet Angus, she was lovely! Piercing dark blue eyes in a peaches-and-cream complexion, thin pink lips, and a straight nose. Santana stared at her like an idiot, unable to tear her gaze away, and when those blue eyes turned to hers, she knew without a doubt who she was.

She was Quinn's sister. Quinn had described her, although her description didn't do her justice according to Santana. Quinn left out the important fact that her half-sister was beauty personified.

So this was Brittany Pierce. Santana found herself offering up a silent thanks to heaven that she was related to Quinn on her mother's side rather than her father's. This beautiful creature was no relation to her.

Not that it mattered. From the cool expression on her face, she wasn't half as impressed with her as Santana was with her.

"Is this Castle Fabray?" she inquired, her tone as cool as her expression.

Santana nodded. "Aye, that it is." She grinned. "You must be Lady Brittany."

She didn't return the smile. "I am."

Santana offered Lady Brittany her free hand—she still held the lamb with the other. Lady Brittany stared at it as though it were a slab of raw meat rather than a hand at all. True, it was a little dirty, but a little dirt never hurt anyone.

"I'm Santana." She expected some kind of recognition to register on the blonde's features, but saw none.

Grimacing, she took the tip of Santana's middle finger between her thumb and index finger and gave it a little jerk. That was her idea of a handshake? Pinching her finger like it was some kind of bug? She was wearing gloves, for St. Andrew's sake! Did the thought of touching her disgust her that much?

Lady Brittany looked at the castle rather than at her when she spoke. "You may take our luggage inside and inform my sister that we are here."

Santana raised a brow. Who did she think she was? A servant? And for that matter, just who did she think she was, ordering people around like she was the Queen or something?

"Oh, may I?"

"Yes." She frowned when Santana didn't move. Santana watched as understanding dawned on her features.

"Forgive me," she said, turning slightly to glance at her footmen. "I forgot myself."

Santana fought the urge to smile. Finally figured out who she was, had she? Surely, Quinn must have mentioned her once or twice in her letters. Yes, she'd wager Little Miss Priss here was feeling a mite foolish about mistaking her for a—

"The trunk is too heavy." She flashed Santana a brilliant smile. "My men will assist you."

—servant.

Now it was Santana's turn to frown. In fact, she scowled, drawing her brows together so tightly, so low, that she could almost see them.

"I do not need assistance," she replied, more gruffly than she should have. Then, her voice dripping with sarcasm, she added, "Do ye mind if I take the wee one back to his mam first? I can carry more if I don't have to worry about him."

Lady Brittany's smile faltered, as though she wasn't certain how to take her tone or the blatantly false smile Santana flashed her. "Uh, yes. Of course."

Bowing her head in mock thanks, Santana turned on her heel and stomped off toward the barn. Behind her, she heard the maid say, "Britt, I do not believe that woman is a servant."

And then Her Highness replied, "Nonsense. Did you see the state of her? And those clothes! What else could she be?"

Lord Almighty.

Santana thought Quinn's Londoner wife Rachel had cured her of her dislike of the English, but this Lady Brittany was coming dangerously close to making Santana embrace it wholeheartedly again.

Gravel crunching beneath her feet, Santana clenched her jaw and resisted the urge to turn around and tell the tall blonde just exactly who she was and just what she thought of her attitude, but she was Quinn's sister and Santana would treat her with respect—even though she didn't deserve it. Speaking harshly to her might cause bad blood between herself and Quinn—and Quinn and their grandmother were the only close family Santana had known since her parents' deaths at the hands of the English years ago.

"Bloody Sassenach," she muttered as she shoved the barn door open. It hit the wall with a loud bang, causing the lamb in her arms to start and bleat in alarm.

Without thinking, Santana lifted her hand to the animal's head to calm it. She soothed the lamb, even as her anger at Quinn's sister grew.

"What outlander are ye cursin' now, Santana?" a good-natured voice called from above.

Glancing up, Santana saw Silas MacLaughlin grinning down at her from the hayloft. Bits of straw clung to the young man's hair and clothes, and his pale eyes snapped with mischief. Santana sorely hoped Silas had been working in the loft and not rolling about with one of the village girls.

Otherwise, she'd have to break Silas' neck for having more fun than she was having right now.

"No one," was Santana's grumbled reply. Silas had a big mouth, and if Santana told him she was snarling over Quinn's sister, everyone else on the castle grounds—and in the surrounding village—would know about it before sunset.

She continued on through the barn, to a stall in the back where a fat ewe was lying on her side, two lambs at her belly nursing.

"I brought your bairn back, Effie," Santana informed the ewe with more humor than she'd shown Silas. "You'll have to keep a closer on this one for the next day or two till you're well enough to hunt him down yourself."

The lamb, smelling its mother, struggled against Santana's chest, and Santana gently lowered it over the side of the pen into the soft straw below. Awkward on legs that it still wasn't completely sure of, the lamb scurried to join its brother and sister at breakfast.

This family reunion did much to soothe Santana's temper. As she made her way back through the barn, she decided she would simply tell Lady Brittany who she was, allow her to make her apologies, and then assist her with her baggage anyway. It was the polite thing to do. No doubt Lady Brittany would feel silly once she realized who Santana was. Santana certainly would if she had made the same mistake.

Santana stepped outside with a pleasant smile on her face only to find the blonde gone. Her smile faded as she saw the large trunk sitting on the ground beside the carriage. Lady Brittany hadn't even waited for her. She had just assumed that Santana would do as she was told.

The two men who had accompanied the young ladies struggled with the luggage on top of the coach.

"Don't just stand there!" one yelled at her. "Take the ladies' baggage inside!"

Her jaw tightening, Santana squared her shoulders and fixed the men with the coldest stare she could muster. They stiffened as she strode toward them, exchanging obviously worried glances even though they were several feet above her on the carriage.

She might not be a fine lady, or a duchess like Quinn, but she'd never been treated with such disregard in her entire life. She wasn't going to stand for this.

She reached for the trunk.

"Here," the younger—and bigger—of the two called. "I'll come give you a hand with that. It is heavy."

Santana shot him a warning glance. With a grunt, she bent her knees and heaved the trunk up onto her right shoulder. It was heavy—almost as heavy as a full-grown ram.

The coachmen stared at her, their mouths hanging open. Santana's lips curled into a faint smirk. Of course they stared. Their spindly little English arms weren't used to hard labor. They were lucky they had enough strength to lift a hatbox, let alone a trunk like this.

Still smirking, Santana hefted a large valise with her other hand and started off in the direction of the house. She would carry the trunk and this other bag, but after that, Her Royal Highness would have to find someone else to play pack mule for her.

Dougall, the butler, opened the door before Santana reached it.

"Would you be needin' any help, Santana, my lass?"

"No, thank you," Santana replied as she stepped inside the wide doorway. "Where's Quinn?"

Dougall pointed to his left, toward the entrance to the great hall. "I believe she and the mistress have just greeted her sister."

Squaring her shoulders as much as she could given the burden upon one of them, Santana set her jaw and turned toward the hall. Her boots sounded heavily on the stone floor, announcing her presence without her having to say a word.

Quinn and Rachel had indeed found Miss Priss and her maid. Indeed, the three of them were chatting and laughing as though nothing were remiss. Only the maid was silent, and she watched Santana's entrance with a wide gaze.

"Where should I put this?" Santana demanded as she strode toward them, her gaze fastened on Lady Brittany.

Again she looked at Santana with that startled gaze, as though she wasn't quite certain if Santana were woman or beast. Perhaps if she had taken time to scrub her face that morning, or if the wind hadn't made a mess out of her hair, or if she didn't have muddy hoofprints on her earasaid, then Lady Brittany wouldn't look so dismayed when she saw her.

But what did she care? Santana certainly didn't need to impress her.

Quinn turned at the sound of Santana's voice. Her smiling expression turned to one of confusion as she spied her cousin's burden.

"Santana, whatever are you doing?" she asked.

Santana's focus returned to Lady Brittany. "Your sister asked me to carry her trunk for her." Santana had the satisfaction of seeing her blush. It only made her prettier, blast it.

Her cousin frowned at Santana's caustic tone. "Well, it was very good of you to do so, but just leave it in the hall and let the footmen take care of it." She turned back to her sister. "So you've met my cousin Santana, then?"

Lady Brittany's cheeks reddened further as she finally realized her mistake.

"Oh, yes," Santana replied coolly, her smile one of mockery as she slipped the trunk to the stone floor. "We've met."


A/N: Ooo, not off to a good start, Brittany! Will Santana hold a grudge? Will Brittany put her foot in it again? Find out next time!