A/N: Hello, everyone!
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All that's best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes…
Quinn had never dreamed that such a girl existed.
Standing in the window of the bookshop, she watched as Miss Berry and her mother stepped out into the street where an open carriage sat waiting among the fading puddles of rain on the cobblestones. The warm afternoon sun would have them gone in time for it to rain again.
Mrs. Berry lumbered into the vehicle like a bear climbing a hill. Her gracelessness made her daughter's movements as she stepped up behind her seem all the more effortless. Delicately taking the hand of the footman offered her, she lifted the skirts of her dark blue gown so she wouldn't trip and stepped up into the carriage. Quinn caught a glimpse of a shapely ankle in a pale stocking as she did so.
Miss Berry turned as the carriage jerked into motion. It was as though she had known—or perhaps hoped—that Quinn would be standing there watching. The brunette smiled in her direction, and even from that distance Quinn could see the sparkle in her dark eyes. Quinn pressed her fingers to the window, wishing the cool glass was the other girl's warm cheek instead.
And then she was lost in traffic, and lost to Quinn.
The blonde glanced down at the book in her hand. It was a frivolous expense, but according to her father's solicitor, she could well afford it. And what better way to spend her father's money than on something the old man would have no doubt turned up his aristocratic nose at? Phillip Pierce hadn't been capable of appreciating beauty. If he had been, he never would have left Scotland.
He wouldn't have left Quinn's mother.
But Quinn didn't want to think about all the things her father had done to her mother, mostly because she didn't know just what her father had done. She had been too young to remember it. She didn't remember her father living with them and she didn't remember much of her mother, except that she seemed to cry a lot. Quinn remembered her rocking her and weeping as she sang her to sleep. She couldn't remember ever hearing her mother laugh, and for that she blamed her father.
Her grandmother never said anything bad about her father, but she had overheard her talking with other women when she was younger. She made it very clear that Judith Fabray had wasted away pining for her English husband.
And now here Quinn was watching after an English girl. She should be disgusted with herself. Her first full day in London and already her father's blood was showing. She would be better off forgetting Miss Berry and taking care of the business she came to attend to. The sooner she settled her father's estate, the sooner she could return to Scotland.
In the meantime, Quinn would see as much of the city as she could.
The blonde approached the counter and smiled at the man behind it. "I'll take this, please."
The elderly man took it from her. "Ah, the Byron. I'm surprised Miss Berry allowed you to have it." He spoke with such fondness that Quinn was surprised. Obviously Miss Berry was a regular customer. Perhaps if Quinn frequented the shop enough she would see the fascinating brunette again.
"Actually, she insisted that I take it," Quinn replied, not wanting the man to think she had forced Miss Berry to allow her to have the book.
Wrapping the book in paper, the proprietor raised a brow. "Did she? Well, you must be a special person indeed for Miss Berry to give up a new volume of Byron, Miss….?"
Quinn blushed to the roots of her hair. "Fabray," she muttered, not bothering to use her title. She had rarely used it in Scotland and it seemed pretentious of her to use it now.
The old man tied a neat bow in the string around the package and extended his hand. "Arthur Hornsby."
Quinn accepted his hand with a grin. "Pleased to meet you." Releasing the kind man's hand, the blonde fished into her purse for a few coins and paid for her purchase.
Mr. Hornsby handed the wrapped book to Quinn. "Please come back again, Miss Fabray."
"I will. Thank you." Tucking the book under her arm, Quinn turned toward the door. It might be best if she didn't come back. It wouldn't do her any good to see Miss Berry again.
She hailed a hackney coach without any difficulty and gave the driver directions to her father's house. There was no sense in putting it off any longer. The sooner it was done with, the sooner she could take her father's fortune—most of which had been stolen from Quinn's mother—and return to Scotland. She had seen enough of the world outside of Loch Glenshea to last her a lifetime. She would make the necessary repairs to the castle and her lands and spend the rest of her life as a wealthy landowner and lord. It was a life she was much better suited to than that of an English lady.
Perhaps one day she would even take a wife.
Maybe a girl who likes poetry would appreciate the beauty of the Highlands, a voice in her head teased.
She sighed. So much for putting thoughts of a certain doe-eyed English girl out of her mind.
It was useless even to think of it. There was nothing saying Miss Berry even had the slightest romantic interest in her, and nothing saying her infatuation continue upon closer acquaintance with the brunette. Quinn would probably never see her again. In fact, she would strive not to.
As the coach drove through the neighborhood known as Mayfair, Quinn wondered how her father had ever entertained the idea of living in Scotland. Certainly, Scotland was not without its castles and grand estates, but Mayfair was the bosom of the English aristocracy, and each house seemed grander than the last. Great, sprawling walls of stone with Grecian columns and more windows than a person could count on both hands and feet drifted past. They taxed windows in England. Most of those taxes surely came from Mayfair.
Finally, the coach rolled to a stop and Quinn stepped out. She cast a brief glance at the house before turning to the driver. "Are you sure this is the right place?"
The driver nodded. "'Tis the address you guv me, m'lady."
Swallowing hard, Quinn nodded. "Thank you." She tossed the man a few coins in payment and started up the walk, the book of poetry still tucked under her arm.
How her legs managed to carry her to the door she would never know. Her limbs were shaking so badly she was surprised that she could even stand, let alone move. This had to be a mistake. This house—this unbelievable house—could not be hers!
The iron gate swung open at her slightest touch, giving her an unobstructed view of Brahm House.
It was huge, rising several stories above the ground in the Neoclassical style; a sprawling Grecian temple demanding awe from each and every person who gazed upon it. Built with large blocks of golden-hued stone, it easily stood three floors high. High ionic columns ran along the front between each window and flanked the large oak doors.
The gravel drive cut through a lawn of rich, verdant grass, so thick it looked like velvet. Not a weed or shrubbery to be seen anywhere except for the immaculately trimmed topiaries hedging the front of the house.
Quinn was three-quarters of the way to the house when she heard the pounding of hooves coming up fast behind her. She whirled around to see a horse and rider bearing down upon her.
"Out of the way!" the rider shouted with the humor of a man used to having others do his bidding.
Quinn didn't have to be told twice. She dove to the side just as the horse thundered past. She landed on the grass with enough force to knock the air from her lungs.
Blasted fool! The idiot could have killed her!
Drawing breath, Quinn rolled to her feet, dusted off her blouse and patted down her now-disheveled hair. She hoped the landlady at her lodgings knew how to remove grass stains, because she had a long, dark green smear down the right side of her brand new gray skirt. Her grandmother would have given the reckless rider a good tongue-lashing.
Obviously the fellow either worked at the house or was a guest there. As the new Duchess of Brahm, Quinn would tell the hooligan exactly what she thought of nearly being run down in her own drive. She held an immense dislike for people who had no respect for others. She was raised to show courtesy.
Her mood and expression grim, Quinn continued on to the house with a quickened pace. She banged the knocker on the door and waited with a barely simmering temper to be allowed inside.
The door opened, revealing a butler dressed in austere black. The man was a study in colorlessness. White hair, white complexion, pale eyes, and stark black clothing. He put Quinn in mind of a chessboard.
"Yes?" he intoned. His slightly-feminine voice was as colorless as the rest of him.
"I'm here to see the dowager duchess," Quinn replied as politely as someone who had almost been run over could manage.
The butler's cold gaze swept the length of her, taking in the grass stain on her skirt and her slightly ruffled hair. He obviously did not like what he saw.
"The duchess is not at home today. Good day."
The door had almost slammed in her face before Quinn realized that she had been dismissed. Thrusting out her hand, she managed to stop the door before it shut. The butler shot her a baleful glare.
"Kindly remove your hand, miss. If you have something to sell, take it around to the servants' entrance."
Quinn scowled. She might look a little dusty, thanks to the lunatic on the horse, and her clothes might not be the height of fashion, but she certainly didn't look like a common peddler!
"I'm not selling anything," she gritted out between clenched teeth.
"Then, unless you have a card to leave for my lady, I suggest you return at a later time." The old man shoved on the door.
Quinn's good humor quickly exhausted itself. What was wrong with this godforsaken country? Even the servants thought they were better than everyone else!
"I," Quinn growled, "am the Duchess of Brahm and this is my house and unless you want to find yourself looking for new employment in the morning, you will let me inside now."
Well, that certainly got the man's attention. The door flew open and the butler stared at her with a mixture of horror and fear. "You're who?"
Squaring her shoulders and stepping inside, Quinn glared at the slender man. "I am Quinn Fabray of Glenshea—the oldest child and heir of Phillip Pierce. Who are you?"
"F-forgive me, my lady." He bowed. "I am Hummel."
The butler was staring at her differently now. His light eyes glittered with what looked like tears. If the old goat started bawling, Quinn was going to hit him—right after she got over feeling guilty for causing the man to cry.
"My God, you look just like him," Hummel whispered.
Quinn didn't need to be told who him was. "I do not," she retorted irrationally, her tone sharp. "Why don't you show me to where I might wait for the duchess?" Good lord, she had only just stepped foot inside the house and already she was acting like lady of the manner! Normally, she would be heartily ashamed of using her social status to intimidate another person, but she was still too mad to care about snooty Hummel and his feelings.
"This way, my lady." Hummel crossed the hall with a brisk pace. "Might I say it's an honor to finally meet you, Your Grace."
"Mm," Quinn grunted, not trusting herself to speak.
The entrance hall of the house was just as impressive as the outside, with its smooth marble floor and lifelike statues of Greek gods and goddesses. Quinn was grateful Hummel was in front of her and couldn't see her head turning from side to side as she gazed in wonder at the beautiful sculptures and paintings surrounding her.
And it was all hers? It seemed too incredible to be true.
Hummel led her into a small parlor decorated in pink and white. It was very feminine, very doll-like in its décor. It was obviously a room used exclusively by a woman.
Seated on a dainty sofa was a mid-sized woman with chestnut hair just beginning to gray. She wore a black gown, and a black handkerchief was crumpled in the fist of her free hand.
"Your Grace," the butler intoned softly, as though dreading disturbing her when she was so obviously distraught. "There is someone here to see you."
Quinn waited for the woman to lift her head. She didn't. It was as though she hadn't heard.
Hummel flushed at her lack of response. "Your Grace?" He spoke loudly this time.
This time she heard him. Surprise registered on her features as she turned her gaze toward them.
"Yes, Hummel?" Her tone was hopeful. Had the dowager duchess been expecting her? Quinn wondered. Or would any interruption of her sorrow do?
The butler moved to allow her a full view of Quinn. "The duke's daughter, the new duchess, is here, Your Grace."
Perhaps Hummel could have chosen a better way of introduction. The mere mention of "duke" lit the woman's face with pleasure—until that second when she realized that her husband couldn't possibly be there. The disappointment and pain that shadowed her handsome features as she turned to gaze toward her visitor tugged painfully at Quinn's heart.
She looked at Quinn as though seeing a ghost.
"Oh my dear Lord," she whispered, pressing the handkerchief against her bosom. "You're Phillip's daughter."
It was hard not to feel for this woman, who was so obviously distraught by the blonde's presence. "I am, Duchess Brahm," she replied with a bow of her head and a curtsy.
The older woman rose to her feet and came toward Quinn with her hands held out. "Oh, you mustn't call me by my title—rather, your title, now. You must call me Carole." She clutched Quinn's hands. "After all, I should have been your stepmother."
Her use of "should have been" told Quinn that Carole knew something of her father's behavior toward her and her mother and that the older woman hadn't necessarily approved—a fact that instantly made the blonde warm toward her.
"I apologize if my arrival here has caused you any grief," Quinn told her as Carole led her to the tiny sofa. It looked as though it would break under their weight.
"Nonsense," Carole replied as she sat. "Needless to say we were very surprised. I'm afraid I knew nothing about you until just before Phillip died." She dabbed at her eyes.
Quinn was confused. "But just a moment ago—I mean, I thought you knew."
Shaking her head, Carole smiled sympathetically. "No. Phillip—your father—confessed everything to me on his deathbed. I was…greatly upset to discover that you had been kept from us all these years."
Kept from them? She made it sound as though Quinn hadn't been allowed to visit rather than just plain hadn't been wanted.
"Us?" Surely Carole didn't expect her to believe that her father had actually wanted her?
"Yes. Myself and your half brother and half sister."
Brother and sister! Quinn could scarcely believe her ears! All her life she had wanted a brother or a sister, someone to share her mixed Scottish-English heritage and who understood her.
But her brother and sister weren't like her. They were English.
"Yes. You have a sister, Brittany, and a brother named Finn," Carole told her, smiling gently at the blonde's obvious surprise.
At that precise moment, the door to the parlor flew open and in ran a young woman of perhaps seventeen or eighteen years of age. She wore a pale lavender gown—a suitable color for half mourning—and her tawny-colored hair trailed down her back in a mass of heavy waves and pink ribbon.
"Is it really her?" she cried and froze when her gaze landed on Quinn.
It was almost like a blow to the chest when their eyes met. Although no one would mistake them for twins, and although Brittany was several inches taller than her and had eyes that were a startling shade of blue, there was no denying that this girl was her sister, for she had the same high cheekbones and angular jaw as Quinn, traits they inherited from their father.
Quinn rose to her feet just in time to catch the taller blonde as she flung herself into her arms with a joyful "Oh!" Quinn had not expected this kind of reception. She had not expected their kindness.
Not quite certain what to do, she returned Brittany's exuberant embrace with a rather awkward one of her own, and then stepped back so she could look at her younger sister.
"I'm so glad you are here," Brittany gushed. "When Father told us about you, I couldn't believe that I had a sister, and a Scottish one at that! I do so love your poet Mr. Burns!"
A soft chuckle escaped Quinn. "We're rather fond of Robbie ourselves, thank you."
Brittany's expression changed to one of sorrow, bringing out the dark circles under her bright eyes. It was a reminder to Quinn that although her sister seemed all smiles and laughter, she was still mourning her father. It had been only a few months since Phillip Pierce died, but it had been a lengthy illness that had claimed him, softening the blow of his loss only a little.
"Well, well," came a voice from the far side of the room. "Unless I am mistaken, I'd say my elder sister has finally arrived."
The voice was soft and cultured, rigidly polite, but something about it sent a shiver down Quinn's spine. She turned toward the door where a young man, a little younger but much taller than herself, stood staring at her with a resentful gaze.
Finn Pierce had his father's height, but that was it. In all other respects he looked almost exactly like his mother—deep brown hair, brown eyes, and somewhat plain features. Quinn wondered if that was the reason her brother's eyes narrowed when they took in her own appearance. As much as she despised her father, Quinn's mother always told her she looked as much like him as a girl could and still be lovely.
Brittany skipped toward Finn, oblivious to the tension between the two siblings.
"Oh, Finn! Isn't it wonderful?" she cried, snatching up his large hand and pulling him toward Quinn. "And doesn't she look just like Papa?"
Hostility radiated off of Finn, and Quinn couldn't blame him. The boy had obviously spent his entire life thinking he was going to be the heir, only to have it taken away from him by a sibling he never even knew existed. And to make matters worse, it was taken away by a girl—practically unheard of in English society.
As he came closer, Quinn realized that Finn had been the lunatic on horseback who had sent her diving into the grass. Any sympathy she felt for her brother died a quick death.
Obviously, Finn came to the same realization as soon as Quinn had. "I say," he said, the slightest edge of a taunt to his voice. "You're the person I almost ran down on the lane, aren't you?"
"What?" Carole cried, rising to her feet. "Finn, whatever were you thinking?"
Finn smiled at his mother, but it didn't quite reach his eyes, Quinn noticed. "I wasn't expecting anyone to be walking up our drive, Mama. Besides"—his gaze drifted back to Quinn—"no harm done, eh, old girl?"
Quinn's lips stretched tightly. "None."
"Not like you can't afford a new skirt now that you're the heir," Finn continued, his eyes as hard as stone while his voice remained light and jovial. "Still, I apologize for my shabby behavior." He extended his hand.
Quinn took it. "And I apologize for being born first," she replied, her tone equally as bright as her brother's had been, but she applied just the slightest pressure to her brother's hand, letting him know she wasn't fooled by the false politeness.
For one instant, Finn's mask slipped and Quinn saw just how hurt and angry he was. Oh yes, her father had a lot to answer for. Perhaps she and her brother would find some kind of truce over their mutual anger where their father was concerned.
"I took the liberty of having a room prepared for you," Carole remarked as Quinn released her brother's hand. "All you need to do is send for your belongings."
"I wouldn't want to intrude…" Quinn's voice trailed off as both Carole and Brittany insisted she stay. It was her house, after all.
She had to admit, she would like the chance to get to know them better, and there was a certain satisfaction in sleeping under that roof, knowing her father was probably rolling over in his grave at the mere thought of it.
"You must," Carole insisted. "I simply refuse to take no for an answer. It's your house and you must treat it as such, beginning with joining us for dinner tonight. Finn's betrothed and her parents will be joining us."
Finn looked decidedly uncomfortable. "I'm sure my sister has better things to do this evening, Mama."
"On the contrary," Quinn informed him with a broad grin, ignoring the niggling of guilt in her stomach. "I'd be delighted."
"Haven't you heard a word I've said?"
"Hm?" Turning from the carriage window, Rachel met her mother's angry gaze. "I'm sorry, Mama. I thought you were talking to Papa."
That was a lie. Rachel's father was snoring softly on the seat beside her mother. The man had only to look inside a carriage and he was sound asleep.
Her mother made a tsking sound. "You know what your father is like. You should have known I was speaking to you instead of woolgathering. La, I have no idea what you find to daydream about all the time."
Rachel smiled humorlessly. Any other mother whose daughter was engaged would assume her daughter was thinking about her upcoming wedding, but not Shelby Berry. She always suspected Rachel of having her head in the clouds.
Which was true for the most part. Thinking about her marriage always made her nervous, especially since Finn had moved the date from next April to the coming October. He wanted to have it even sooner, but Rachel's mother had insisted on having enough time to prepare.
Surely his desire to marry her so quickly meant something, didn't it?
"I daydream about many things, Mama. Didn't you when you were a girl?"
"Bah!" her mother scoffed, her extravagant hat bouncing as the carriage hit a rut. "I never bothered with such frivolities."
That was because her mother had no imagination. "That's too bad."
Her mother snorted. "Too bad? Too bad? Gel, you spend too much time with your head in the clouds and not enough time thinking about the world around you. You should be happy with what you've got, not clouding your mind with flights of fancy."
"I enjoy flights of fancy," Rachel replied peevishly. Oh, why was she even bothering to argue? Her mother would never see her point.
"You'll enjoy being the Duchess of Brahm even more," Shelby retorted, jabbing the air with a bony finger.
Rachel rolled her eyes. "Mama, you know very well that now that Finn has discovered he has an older sister whom the duke named as his heir, he won't inherit the title."
"Fustian. You're too young to know about such things, but I know that half of these 'over the anvil' marriages performed in Scotland are illegitimate. Finn assures me that this girl is no more the heir to his father's title than I am. All he has to do is prove it."
Rachel doubted that the late duke's marriage to his Scottish wife was such a sham. Carole and Brittany certainly believed it was legitimate, as had the duke himself. She understood Finn's disappointment, but really she didn't see that there was any way he could claim the title instead of his sister. And Finn, ever the gentleman, would never dare to anything to risk his own reputation, such as trying to prove his sister illegitimate. Would he?
She glanced out the window at the sinking sun as they rolled toward Mayfair. "Well, obviously the duke believed she was legitimate or he never would have named her as his heir."
Her mother waved a bejeweled hand in dismissal. "Then why had he kept the girl a secret all these years?" She tapped the floor of the carriage with her cane. "No, I believe Brahm named the girl as his heir out of spite. Didn't Finn say that he and his father had quarreled before he died? No doubt the old man was spiteful enough to want to cut his own son out of his rightful inheritance."
It seemed to Rachel that the duke had been trying to ensure that his firstborn child didn't get cut out of her rightful inheritance and that's why he made news of the young woman's existence known. Of course, her mother was terribly loyal to the boy she had chosen to be her son-in-law and nothing could be said to sway her.
"I don't know what's so important about a title anyway," she muttered.
A bubble of laughter welled up in her chest at her mother's expression of shock and outrage.
"What's so important about a title? I'll tell you what's so important about a title—a title makes the difference between being a lady and being a tradesman's daughter. It's what will make you and your family acceptable. That's what's important."
Rachel raised a brow but said nothing. What was important was her mother gaining a place in London society. Her mother might treat her like a child, but at eighteen Rachel was old enough to know certain things, and one thing she knew for certain was that her mother was more obsessed with wealth and position than anyone had a right to be. She was also using her daughter to gain the social prestige she had never been able to achieve on her own. Despite what connections their family might claim, very few of those connections even bothered to speak to them.
Turning her gaze to the window once more, Rachel watched the scenery pass by. Soon they would be coming up on Hyde Park where there might still be the odd person walking or riding, even though the fashionable hour of five o'clock had long since come and gone.
Had Miss Fabray gone for a ride in Hyde Park that afternoon? Or had she gone home and read Byron's poetry? Before her mother had interrupted her, Rachel had been daydreaming that that was exactly what she had done. She pictured the blonde so clearly with her shirtsleeves rolled up over ever-so-slightly tanned, lean forearms. She would read Byron's words of passion and her thoughts would turn to Rachel as she had promised they would.
But now Rachel imagined her in Hyde Park instead. Rachel imagined herself standing on the grass talking with a friend and spying her riding toward her, astride a gray stallion that she managed to control with little effort. Her stunning sun-streaked hair was billowing in the breeze. Her powder blue blouse hugged her well-rounded breasts and her gray skirt clung to her strong, shapely legs…
"Will you pay attention!"
Rachel yelped and jumped. Her father bolted upright with a snort and series of incoherent syllables. And Shelby Berry stared at her daughter with eyes that glittered like little black gems and a face that was magenta with rage.
"You have not heard a word I've said," she seethed.
Rachel didn't know whether to laugh or to jump from the carriage and run for her life.
She made a mistake.
She laughed.
If at all possible, her mother's face grew even redder, and in the dim light of the carriage, almost seemed to glow with anger. Rachel had never seen her mother so upset.
"I can't believe you're laughing when all of our plans could very well be—"
"Oh, look," Rachel's father said as the carriage rolled to a stop. "We're here."
Sighing in relief, Rachel wrapped her light shawl around her shoulders. The carriage door opened and her father stepped out first, then turned to offer his hand to her mother.
"You're going to have to learn how to act pretty quickly there, missy," her mother hissed when Mr. Berry left the carriage. "Your husband will demand much more than just a listening ear from you, and you had better attend his wishes. There will be no crawling back to us when you realize that you can't always have things your own way."
Rachel stared at her, her expression blank despite the anxiety swirling in her stomach and her heart pounding against her ribs. "I have never crawled to you for anything Mama. I don't expect to start anytime soon."
Shelby Berry's eyes narrowed as she shook her ringleted head. "Where did I go wrong? Haven't I always tried to do what was best for you? I buy you the best clothes, sent you to the best schools."
"What have you done other than dictate what I wear, who I'm friends with, and who I marry?" Rachel demanded, her own temper rising. "So far, you have done nothing for me and everything for yourself!"
Her mother gasped in outrage, and for a moment Rachel feared that her mother might actually strike her. Cringing, she waited for the blow. It didn't come. Opening her eyes, she found her mother staring at her as if she were a stranger.
"Are you two coming?" Mr. Berry asked as he stuck his head inside the door. "I'm famished."
Shelby rolled her eyes. "Simpleton," she muttered and stormed out of the carriage, ignoring the hand her husband offered.
As Rachel moved to follow, her father seized her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Don't worry, blackbird," he whispered, using his old nickname for her as he helped her to the ground. "Your mother just wants you to have what I could never give her."
Unexpected tears pricked the backs of Rachel's eyes as she gazed up at her father. He knew more than she realized. She could see the hurt in his eyes, but there was love there as well.
"Thank you, Papa."
"I thought you were hungry," Shelby's voice snapped and Rachel winced. All those years of having people drill manner and social behavior into her daughter's head and Shelby had never absorbed any of it herself.
They were greeted at the door by Hummel, who seemed highly agitated. Usually the man was as controlled and emotionless as cold molasses, but not so tonight. He had a feverish brightness to his eyes and a nervousness to his movements.
There was an aura of excitement and energy inside Brahm House that was alien to Rachel. When the old duke had been alive, the house always seemed happy and comfortable—less so, of course, as his illness worsened, but this was different. This felt like the entire house was on its toes, waiting and watching for something to happen.
Hummel led them to the blue drawing room—the room the family always met in before dinner. Rachel noticed there was an extra guest with them tonight.
A woman with long blonde hair stood against the mantel, talking in earnest with Brittany, Finn's younger sister. The expression on the woman's face was so near that on Brittany's that Rachel marveled at the resemblance. No wonder the whole house was ablaze—this was the mysterious heir! There was something familiar about her.
"Mr. and Mrs. Berry. Miss Berry."
The stranger started at the sound of her name, and the anxiety Rachel had felt earlier blossomed into full-fledged panic when the stranger turned her head and met her gaze.
"You," Rachel whispered as all eyes turned toward her.
Her fiancé's sister was also her Miss Fabray.
A/N: Ooooo, how will Quinn react to finding out the object of her-albeit reluctant-affection is engaged to her brother Finn? We shall see in chapter three! Hehe, that rhymed.
I hope you guys liked this chapter! I'll be back as soon as I can with the third chapter :)