A/N: Greetings, everyone! :)

Just a couple things before we get to the good part. :) And please do read this A/N, as there is some rather important information in it.

I'm trying my hand at my other OTP pairing on Glee - Faberry :) I hope I can do them justice. :D This story will be part one of a two-part series. The first will center around Faberry, and the second will be focused on Brittana. Each story can be read separately, but if you feel so inclined, reading both will give you a fuller picture of what is going on :) Part two will be posted after this story is completed. Just to give you guys a head's up hehe. :D

Okay, first, this story is set in 1818, so obviously it is not canon. If historical stories don't really do it for you, then this is definitely not the story for you, but I thank you for stopping by anyway. ;) Also! I don't (can't) really *do* smut, so don't expect any, okay? Awesome. :D

Second, for the purpose of the plot and Faberry, while this story is AU, it is also PU (Parallel Universe) in that homosexuality is not taboo, frowned upon, illegal, etc. How is this possible? Well, because in my universe, the ancient Romans never decided to try to distance themselves from the Greeks by banning homosexuality (Yes, contrary to popular belief, the Romans were the first to be anti-homosexuality. NOT the Christians. Rome started this policy circa the 2nd century BCE; Christianity didn't rise until the very late 1st century BCE/early 1st century CE), which in turn never influenced the minds of the general public, so people never thought twice about gay people. So, gay people in my story are as common and accepted as straight ones. With that having been said, nothing else about society will be different from what actually happened in real life. Men are still valued more highly than women, and while lesbian relationships are certainly accepted, people preferred there to be a man in the mix. Because...that's just what people thought back then in their backwards beliefs of women's cognitive abilities.

Third, I'm sorry to any British people or fellow history buffs who may be reading this story, but I have had to tweak some things in order to fit in with the Faberry-ness. :) I will try to "explain" each change with a rational reason within the chapter, so I hope you are able to overlook some discrepancies between what happens in the story and what would have happened in real life. :)

Now, without further ado, happy reading! :D

Scotland, 1818

"Why don't you just pick one, then?"

Standing waist deep in the chilly waters of Loch Glenshea, Quinn Fabray slicked her wet hair back from her face and stared dumbly at her cousin Santana. "Pick one what?"

With a sigh and an expression of exasperation, Santana jerked her head in the direction of the shore. "One of them."

A crowd of girls, and a few young men, from the village had gathered to watch the cousins swim. Some of the girls were trying to goad the others into joining them, for the day was sunny and hot and they had all been working since sunrise. None of them was actually brazen enough to wade in, however.

Quinn scoffed as the sound of giggling drifted across the water. "What would I want to pick one of them for?"

Santana scowled, drawing her dark raven eyebrows together. "Are ye daft as well as stubborn? So the rest of us might actually have a chance of choosing one as well!"

Quinn truly had no idea what her cousin was talking about, and she was certain she was neither stupid nor stubborn—although many people would argue the opposite of that claim—but as she studied the group on the shore she noticed that most of them were watching her. An uncomfortable realization settled in her chest. She had never thought of herself as much of a catch before, despite her seemingly obvious beauty, but as an eligible, landowning young woman of twenty-two, she realized that she was definitely seen as a catch.

"I don't want one!" Quinn blurted with absolute certainty, her heart pounding in her chest. The idea of spending the rest of her life with one of those girls—or anyone, for that matter—filled her with dread.

Wanting to put a stop to this ridiculous conversation, Quinn dove under the surface of the loch, each powerful stroke of her arms taking her farther away from her cousin and her absurd questions.

Her, a wife? The very thought filled Quinn with an overwhelming sense of horror. While many of the girls of her village were bonny, to be sure, there was not one who caught her interest more than the others. Not one who set her heart pounding or made her palms damp. She couldn't imagine spending the rest of her life with a single one of them. What would they have in common? And what would they think of a wife who sometimes stayed up half the night reading or painting? A sensible Scottish lass would think her as daft as Santana seemed to think her.

Lungs close to bursting, Quinn broke the surface of the lake, only to find Santana coming up behind her, her long dark hair trailing like seaweed behind her. While her cousin was partly of Spanish descent, her father's family having settled in Scotland in the late 1400s from Spain, Santana was Scottish through and through—although her features were as delicate and refined as any other woman's, Santana was as strong as an ox and just as stubborn as one too. She had to be. It was the only way her family had survived the Clearances. They had been kicked off of their land by the wealthy landowners, and Santana came to her cousin Quinn looking for work to support her family—and work she did. It was Quinn, the mistress of the land, who wasn't a true Scot. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't change the fact that English blood also ran in her veins.

"What do you mean, you don't want one?" Santana demanded, treading water beside her. "You'll not find a more bonny lot anywhere—not even in the court of King George himself." The statement wasn't meant to be insulting, of that Quinn was certain, but it stung all the same.

Quinn averted her gaze so her cousin couldn't see the guilt there. She was certain that it was her father's blood—English blood—that made her want to taste the world beyond her tiny village of Loch Glenshea, beyond Hadrian's Wall to the southern lands of England. Quinn had no good reason to feel such a pull toward her father's homeland. In fact, she resisted it violently. Her father had deserted her and her mother years ago, leaving her mother to waste away and eventually die broken and in much lowered circumstances. Quinn had been very young, but memories of her mother were burned into her mind.

Quinn's one memory of him was of her father leaving after her mother's funeral. It was fuzzy, for she had been just a wee lass of three. At the time, Quinn was glad to stay in Scotland with people she knew, but as she grew older she wondered why her father hadn't taken her with him, why he had left his daughter to struggle to keep her home standing and her people prosperous. She also wondered why she still thought about her father after all of these years. He deserved none of Quinn's curiosity. He certainly didn't deserve the small bit of his daughter's heart that still ached at the thought of her father not wanting her.

"I have no desire to marry, Santana," Quinn replied softly. She had seen what marriage had done to her mother. She had no desire to afflict anyone with that kind of suffering—nor have it put upon her, for that matter.

But even as the bitter thoughts ran through her head, they were chased by memories of the kind of marriage that her grandparents shared—one of hard work, love, and laughter. Quinn knew that her mother and father's marriage had not been a normal one.

Santana snorted. "You don't have to marry her, Quinn. Just pay more attention to her than the others so they will give up hoping you will pick one of them and start looking at the rest of us."

It didn't seem right to Quinn to pretend to be interested in someone she didn't actually want, and she didn't like having the success of her cousin's love life placed on her shoulders. Quinn already had enough to worry about. Winter was only a few months away and there were repairs to be made before the snow fell. She and her grandmother weren't impoverished yet, but they were close.

"Why don't you just pick one you like, Santana, and then try to court her?" That seemed like a much better idea than Quinn having to do all the work.

Another frown. "And just how am I supposed to do that when everyone is pining for your pretty face?"

Quinn flushed with embarrassment, but she met her cousin's gaze evenly. "Just be your usual charming self," she teased with a smile.

Santana growled and lunged toward Quinn. Laughing, the two cousins wrestled in the shallow water like two young otters. The two were well matched: while Santana was the stronger of the two, Quinn was more agile. As long as she could avoid getting shoved under the water, Quinn could hold her own. The crowd on the shore cheered them on, and Quinn couldn't resist rubbing it in her cousin's face that most of the cheers were for her and not Santana.

"Quinn Fabray!"

Trained by years of instantly answering when her grandmother called or getting a rod across the back of the legs, Quinn released her hold on Santana's lean arm and turned toward the shore. She felt her cousin's hands come down like anvils on her shoulders, ready to push her under.

"I see you, Santana Fabray! You stop your tomfoolery this instant!"

Lilian Fabray stood with her fists firmly planted on generous hips. She had been pretty once, but years of struggle had hardened her features. Hers was a stern, handsome face, one that any young person easily obeyed. Usually, her eyes sparkled with good humor. From this distance, Quinn couldn't tell if they sparkled or not, but she could hear uncertainty in her voice. It shook a bit, sending a shiver of dread down Quinn's spine. Nothing scared her grandmother. Or at least she hadn't thought anything could.

"There's someone here to see you, Quinn," she called. "Get yourself to the house right away."

Mystified, Quinn swam toward the shore. Who could it be coming to see her that her grandmother wouldn't identify by name? She knew of no one who could make the elderly woman react in such a way.

Water streamed from her sodden swim clothes as she sloshed from the loch. She barely felt the tiny pebbles along the edge as they bit into the soles of her feet.

Since childhood, Quinn and her friends had spent as much of their summers as possible barefoot and playing by the loch without a care in the world. But childhood was behind her now. That was obvious in the appreciative stares the group of girls and a few boys gave her as she strode to where her blouse lay on the grass. Suddenly, Quinn was very conscious of how her swimming breeches clung to her backside and legs, and that her chest, which was once smooth and flat, was full with gentle swells that almost threatened to burst through her swimming top.

Inside, she still felt like a child, but outside she looked like a woman, and the boys, as well as quite a few girls, once friends, were suddenly seeing her as one.

The worn linen of her blouse stuck to her wet skin and swimming shirt. Embarrassed by the other girls' giggling, Quinn kept her head bowed as she finished fastening the buttons. Santana charged up beside her.

"What's going on?"

Quinn shook her head, spraying them both with droplets of water. "I have no idea."

"Do ye want me to come with you then?" Santana's dark eyes were filled with concern.

Laying a hand on her shoulder, Quinn flashed her cousin a bright grin. "Nay. You stay here and entertain the ladies. Sophie seems to be very interested in your…conversation."

Santana glanced over her shoulder and flushed crimson when she caught the pretty redhead's frank stare. She turned back to Quinn, her eyes wide with fear. "What do I do?" she demanded in a strangled whisper.

"Talk to her, I suppose," Quinn replied with a grin, as she began to walk away. "And be your usual charming self."

Quinn ran the short stretch to Castle Fabray. The castle sat on a small isthmus of land that jutted out into the depths of Glenshea. It had been built two hundred years ago by one of her ancestors. It stood proud and strong against the rugged landscape like something out of a legend. The tawny stone turned to gold in the afternoon sun and the stained glass in the upper windows sparkled like gems. The castle was the jewel of the Fabray lands, and Quinn longed to restore it to its former glory. Just the sight of it made her heart fill with pride.

Little changes had been made to the outside, though the inside had been renovated half a dozen times over the years when the Fabrays had the funds to do so. As the mistress, it was Quinn's job to see to the necessary repairs, but her father had robbed her not only of her birthright, but of the money required to fulfill her duty. She managed to keep the castle warm and dry, but there were other things that needed to be done, such as new carpets and draperies, and fresh paint. It had been a good year for sheep and crops; perhaps there would be enough money to purchase some new carpets after everything else was taken care of.

Colleen, the housekeeper, met her at the servants' entrance with dry clothes, boots, and a slab of freshly baked bread dripping with butter. Quinn's stomach growled.

"Get yerself dressed behind the screen there," she told Quinn with affectionate brusqueness. "And then you can eat."

One whiff of the fragrant bread was all the urging Quinn needed. She slid behind the screen and quickly changed her clothes. Located in the bottom of the castle, the kitchen was cool despite it being early June. Warmed by the dry clothes, Quinn draped her wet garments over the rack by the fire and crammed her feet into her boots. She grabbed the steaming bread from Colleen's hand with a grin and a kiss on her cheek and set off down the hall to find her grandmother and her mysterious visitor.

When she stepped inside the front drawing room, Quinn found a tiny bald man sitting on the sofa across from her grandmother. The little man's posture was so rigid that he looked as though he had been carved from stone.

He jumped to his feet when Quinn said hello.

"My lady!" he cried, stepping forward to take Quinn's hand. "It is a pleasure to meet you, although I fear I bear bad tidings."

Quinn's heart seized in her chest. No one ever called her by her title unless they were a bill collector or someone looking to gain something.

"Good day, Mr. …?" Quinn trailed off, arching an eyebrow in question.

"Chumley, my lady," the man replied, still grasping Quinn's hand. "Alfred Chumley."

Alfred Chumley was English, a fact Quinn was hard-pressed to hold against him when he looked like a gnome and the top of his head barely reached the bottom of Quinn's shoulders.

She pulled her hand free. "Please sit, Mr. Chumley. May I offer you a drink?" Vaguely, Quinn realized her own accent was almost as crisp and as English as Mr. Chumley's.

Her mother's final wish had been that Quinn be educated like her father's folk, and for a while, young Quinn had ached to more like the man who had deserted her. She had tried so hard to be as English as the tutors who guided her. Now she felt a measure of disgust at herself for trying to be anything like this little man from a country she had never seen but that had been the cause of her mother's unhappiness.

"Some tea would be lovely, if you have it, my lady." Flicking out his coattails, Mr. Chumley again seated himself.

"Tea it is, then." Crossing to the oak table in the far corner of the room, Quinn poured two cups of tea from the kettle her grandmother always seemed to have ready before crossing back to seat herself on Chumley's right.

"What brings you to Scotland, Mr. Chumley?" Quinn asked after taking a sip of her drink.

Mr. Chumley pulled a large leather satchel into his lap and opened it. "It's about your father, my lady."

Quinn choked on a mouthful of tea. Her eyes watered and her nose and throat burned from the liquid. Neither her grandmother nor the barrister moved to assist her, but only Mr. Chumley seemed concerned. Her grandmother was never one to coddle her when it wasn't life-threatening.

"What about my father?" Quinn demanded once the coughing stopped and she could speak again.

Mr. Chumley's expression was one of pity and sympathy. Quinn didn't want either. "I…I'm afraid he's dead, my lady."

Quinn experienced more surprise than any kind of sorrow. She had expected the old man to live forever—a constant reminder that neither Quinn nor her mother had been able to earn his love.

"And what has this to do with me?" How she managed to keep her voice so low and controlled she had no idea. For nineteen years she had waited for contact of any kind from her father and had received nothing. Was she expected to dress in black and weep now that he was dead?

How could she mourn someone she had never known? And why had anyone even bothered to tell her? How could it possibly make a difference now?

Mr. Chumley's entire head flushed scarlet. "Y-you're in the will, my lady."

A fist in the face couldn't have surprised her more. What could her father have possibly left her? More importantly, how could he have believed Quinn would possibly want it? He had married her mother for her title and her fortune and then deserted her when he had inherited his own title.

He had returned to Scotland for his wife's funeral—not to mourn her but to make sure she was dead. He had taken one look at his daughter and then left Quinn behind. He hadn't even given Quinn's mother the respect of a full year of mourning. He remarried not even two months after her death. He no doubt had other children to name in his will. Why bother with his forgotten oldest?

Quinn fought to keep her expression calm. "There's nothing that man could possibly have had that I would want," she replied coolly.

Mr. Chumley looked from her to her grandmother and back again. Her grandmother fixed her with a strange expression that told Quinn the elderly woman understood something she didn't—something that made her stomach clench with unease.

"Well, I'm n-not sure that you have much choice but to accept this, my lady." Mr. Chumley cleared his throat.

Scowling fiercely, Quinn rose out of the chair and crossed her arms over her chest. Although her height was not necessarily impressive at merely five feet six inches, Quinn's stern, unyielding demeanor could daunt even the burliest of men. Mr. Chumley's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.

"What do you mean I have no choice?" Oh yes, Quinn was very capable of playing the role of mistress of the manor when necessary. If Mr. Chumley meant to intimidate her, Quinn would show him who was truly in charge.

The little Englishman shuffled through some papers with visibly shaking hands. Finding what he wanted, he held it out to Quinn.

"Might I remind you, my lady, that you are your father's oldest child."

Quinn snatched the papers from Mr. Chumley's hand but didn't look at them. She kept her puzzled gaze locked on the man's round face. "So?"

Mr. Chumley pushed his spectacles up on his nose and tried again to make Quinn understand. "You're his oldest child, my lady. His oldest legitimate child. His heir."

Quinn scoffed in disbelief and raised a skeptical brow. "How could I possibly be his heir? English custom dictates that only the oldest son can inherit a title. As you can see, I am merely a female."

Mr. Chumley anxiously cleared his throat and nodded quickly. "Yes, indeed, that is the usual English practice. However, your father has disregarded the custom in this case and even consulted a lawyer to make certain that he could legally leave you, his eldest child—his daughter—as his heir."

Realization blossomed like fire to dry tinder inside Quinn's stomach. "You mean…"

Mr. Chumley nodded once more. "Yes, my lady. I mean that you are now one very, very wealthy and powerful young woman. You're the new Duchess of Brahm."

Five minutes to herself. That was all she wanted. Five minutes away from her mother's endless prattle about fabrics and dresses and wedding plans.

Especially wedding plans.

Ducking into the bookshop, Rachel Berry knew she had at least five minutes—maybe even seven—in which to soothe her frazzled nerves and forget her mother even existed. Just the smell of paper, ink, and leather bindings was enough to calm the raging headache that threatened behind her right eye.

The store was quiet, blocking out the sounds of the busy day outside. In here, Rachel could lose herself for a few moments, escape her life and become the heroine of a novel or poem. She could pretend to be that woman and forget about the girl she was.

She loved books like most girls loved new dresses. No doubt her mother would have some kind of seizure if she knew that, so Rachel kept her passion for reading a secret. Even Finn didn't know.

A man should know of his fiancé's passions, shouldn't he?

But then, Rachel found it difficult to discuss her passions with Finn. In fact, she rarely knew what to say to him at all. He was so confident, so poised and charming that she felt positively tongue-tied in his presence, afraid that she would reveal what a boring ninny she was if she dared to open her mouth.

It made her nervous just to be around him, and she often caught herself wondering what he even saw in her. While she was often cheerful, she was bookish and enjoyed studying music and poetry—not the kind of vivacious, sparkling girl a young man would want as his betrothed. But Finn didn't seem to notice that they were ill matched, or perhaps he did not care. He was always the perfect gentleman—a fact that made him a model to other young men, made him desirable to other young women and sought after by their mamas.

So why was Rachel feeling so unsure of him and that he had chosen her to be his wife? Finn was everything she ever dreamed of having in a husband. When he noticed her last season, Rachel couldn't believe her good fortune. There she was, just another debutante in just another white gown, and the most handsome, charming young man of the haute ton, London's cream of society, had singled her out for not one, but two dances. One of those dances had been the waltz—a dance her mother had thought scandalously indecent and refused to let her practice until Finn asked permission to whirl her about the floor.

That had been the most glorious night of her life. All the other girls had been terribly envious, and when Finn sent her a huge, sweetly scented bouquet of roses the next morning, Rachel's heart sang in joy. She knew she was the luckiest girl in all of London to have garnered the attention of such a young man during her first Season, and she appreciated it, she truly did, but when Finn had come to her parents just a few months ago and asked her father's permission to ask for her hand, Rachel had been overwhelmed with myriad unexpected emotions. One of which was alarmingly close to panic. Why would a gentleman of his quality want to wed a girl such as her? A girl who could barely string a sentence together in his presence.

Perhaps it was just a bad case of bridal nerves, as her mother insisted. After all, Finn didn't seem to mind that she was quiet around him. He seemed to like it. The problem was that Rachel wasn't quiet by nature—quite the opposite, in fact. Surely she would overcome her shyness before the wedding? And there were other things for them to do than talk.

Kissing, for example. Rachel blushed furiously as she remembered how Finn had kissed her the night before, after the Whitman-Holt ball. It gave her butterflies just to think about it. Her mother would not have approved.

Peering out the window, Rachel saw that her mother had yet to notice her disappearance. She was still talking to Mrs. Pillsbury, no doubt boring the poor woman with every detail of Rachel's upcoming nuptials.

"Good day, Miss Berry."

Rachel cast a sheepish smile at the elderly man behind the counter as she turned away from the window. "Good day, Mr. Hornsby."

"I take it your mother chose not to accompany you into the shop this morning?" Mr. Hornsby's pale green eyes sparkled with amusement. It was a running joke between them—Rachel's mother never entered the store except to collect her daughter and demand to know what she was doing in such a "dirty, dusty place." Somehow, Shelby Berry never figured out that her daughter was actually looking at books.

"She is talking to Mrs. Pillsbury in front of the dressmaker's," Rachel replied with equal humor. The same dressmaker's where she had spent the last two hours being pinned and prodded and talked about like a fashion doll rather than a person.

"Ah. You have plenty of time to browse, then."

Rachel chuckled. "A few minutes at the very least. Do you have anything new in?"

"I just shelved a new edition of Wordsworth at the back."

Rachel wrinkled her nose. Poems about nature might please the minds of others, but she wanted something more…meaningful.

"Nothing else?"

Mr. Hornsby laughed at her expression. "There's a new volume of Byron back there as well."

Now that was more to her liking! Her mother would certainly not approve of her daughter reading poetry written by someone as scandalous as Byron, but that had little to do with the excitement fluttering in Rachel's stomach. There was something about the way Byron wrote, something about the way he made her feel. He made her want to experience life and all its glories. She wanted to travel, she wanted to see the world, but most of all, she wanted to feel that sweeping passion Byron so often talked about in his poems.

No doubt her mother—even her friends—would think her terribly silly for wanting someone to burn for her like the subjects of Byron's poems. All her life she had lived within the social structures of London, the order of her mother's household, the misfortune of being born female. What she truly wanted was to experience something wild and untamed, to break the rules and stomp upon the circumstances. Of course, to do so would mean social ruin, and while she might be fanciful, Rachel Berry was not a fool. Still, just once, it would be nice to have someone spout a little poetry in her honor.

As dear and sweet as he was, Rachel couldn't imagine her fiancé using verse to express his deeper emotions. Maybe she was just too romantic, one of those weak-minded girls her mother claimed novel writers preyed upon. If only she knew how Finn truly felt for her. He kissed her as though he loved her, but she had yet to hear the words. Maybe then she wouldn't suffer this anxiety all the time.

Rachel walked briskly to the back of the shop. She must hurry if she was going to find anything before her mother came looking for her. Dear Mrs. Pillsbury would listen to her mother talk for only so long before making some excuse as to why she must leave. Her mother had no imagination and therefore her conversation tended to always entail the same subjects. For the last six months, she had been able to talk of nothing else but Rachel's engagement. After all, it wasn't every day that the firstborn son of a duke deigned to marry a mere nobody.

Not that Rachel was a complete nobody—she was distantly related to both the Earl Spencer and the Duke of Wellington, but her father held no title and he was a man of business, which was looked down upon by society's chosen few, the ton. The only thing that truly saved Rachel from being a social outcast rather than one of its darlings was her huge dowry. She was heiress to her father's shipping company—something relatively unheard of for a daughter. And whoever married her would gain a foothold in that shipping company, a fact that had made Rachel much sought after during her London Debut.

Aside from his considerable charm, the fact that Finn, heir to a duke, had money of his own made Rachel feel as though he was truly in love with her.

At least she hoped he was, because she didn't care how large his fortune was. If he loved her, truly loved her, it wouldn't matter if he was rich or poor.

Suddenly, Rachel realized she was not alone. There was a woman standing with her back to her in the poetry section. A tall, compared to Rachel at least, slender woman with quite possibly the most beautiful blonde hair Rachel had ever seen cascading down to the middle of her back. She wore a powder blue blouse tucked into the waist of her long gray skirt and shiny black boots.

All Rachel could do was stare at her in awe. She had never seen a woman so…so…commanding before.

The woman didn't hear her approach, so intent was her attention on the book in hand.

"'She walks in beauty, like the night / Of cloudless climes and starry skies, / And all that's best of dark and bright / Meet in her aspect and her eyes: / Thus mellowed to that tender light / Which heaven to gaudy day denies.'"

Her voice was soft and melodic, with a slight burr to it that only made Byron's words all the more effective.

"You read very well, miss," Rachel remarked, her voice annoyingly breathless. She shouldn't have spoken. It was highly improper, but there was no one around to hear her speak other than the mystery woman.

The woman started. Snapping the book shut, she whirled around to face Rachel, and the full effect of her was like a blow to the stomach.

She was without a doubt the most breathtakingly beautiful woman Rachel had ever seen. The woman's golden hair framed her face, which was defined by a sharp jaw, high cheeks, and full lips. And she was young—although few years older than Rachel's own eighteen years.

"Th-thank you," the woman replied, her hazel gaze hesitant as it met Rachel's. "Miss—"

Oh, where were her manners? It might have been shocking for Rachel to speak to her, but it was even ruder of her not to introduce herself. Extending her hand, Rachel smiled, hoping she didn't look like a complete fool. "Miss Berry. And you are?" Other than completely magnificent, that is.

The blonde took her hand, holding it firmly in her slightly larger one. "Fabray. Quinn Fabray."

"Well, Miss Fabray," Rachel responded, marveling in the strength and softness of the fingers clasped around hers. "You have a lovely voice for poetry—and good taste in it as well."

Miss Fabray held up the book, a slight smile curving her lips. "I've never read Byron before. I've heard so much about him, I decided I should at least see what all the fuss is about."

"He's one of my favorites." Gazing toward the shelves, Rachel discovered the empty spot where Miss Fabray had found the book. Hers was the last copy. Swallowing her disappointment, Rachel smiled at her. "I heartily recommend you buy the book."

The blonde's gaze never left Rachel's face, bringing a blush to her cheeks. "It wouldn't happen to be the book you came here to buy, would it?"

"It was," Rachel replied honestly. "But I already have some of Byron's work at home. I would hate to deny you the pleasure of discovering his poetry."

Miss Fabray offered the book to her. "I couldn't enjoy it knowing I took it from you."

How sincere she sounded! Rachel's blush deepened. "Please. I insist." She couldn't explain it, not even to herself, but it was suddenly very important to her that Miss Fabray take that book.

The blonde held the book to her chest with one slender hand. "Thank you for your sacrifice, Miss Berry."

Rachel smiled brightly. Was it warm in the bookshop or was it just her? "I would hardly call it a sacrifice, Miss Fabray, but you're welcome. I hope you enjoy it."

"I shall think of you whenever I read it."

She made her declaration so forcefully that Rachel could only stare at her in surprise. Surely her mouth was hanging open like a door on one hinge! No one had ever told her they would think of her when reading poetry—and Byron no less!

Miss Fabray flushed a dark red. "I-I mean I shall never forget your kindness."

Strangely, Rachel's heart sank a little. What else could she expect? She was hardly the type of girl who inspired poetry. Maybe if she was blonde and blue-eyed—the quintessential English Rose—and the daughter of an earl, she would have more people gifting her with verses on the beauty of her face, but she had dark hair and dark eyes and no one but Byron seemed to appreciate that kind of coloring. And Byron was in another country—too far away to do her any good.

Rachel's mother chose that exact moment to enter the shop. Rachel could hear the sharpness of her voice from all the way at the back.

"I have to leave," she responded lamely, scarcely hiding her disappointment. "My mother is looking for me. It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Fabray."

The blonde didn't look as though she believed her, but she nodded. "The pleasure was mine." Even though they were strictly courtesy, her soft words sent a tingle down Rachel's spine.

"And thank you again for allowing me the book."

Rachel smiled, delaying leaving, even though she could hear her mother's heavy footsteps coming closer. "Enjoy it."

"Rachel," her mother's voice boomed from behind the next stack of books.

Rachel started toward it, not wanting her mother to see this perfect young woman. Rachel wanted to keep her just for herself. Casting one last glance her way, Rachel committed her image to memory so she would never forget the five incredible minutes she spent in the blonde's company.

"Goodbye, Miss Fabray."

Miss Fabray smiled and raised one eyebrow, as though in challenge. "London's not that large, Miss Berry, so I won't say goodbye just yet."

With her heart tripping in her chest and her feet practically tripping over each other, Rachel rounded the corner, narrowly escaping a collision with her mother.

"Where were you?" Shelby demanded. "Didn't you hear me calling?"

"I was reading a book on advice for brides, Mama, and I didn't hear you at first." She linked her arm through her mother's much longer one and steered her back toward the front of the store. "I hope I haven't kept you waiting long."

Whatever her mother said in reply Rachel didn't hear. She was too busy thinking about Quinn Fabray and wondering if indeed London was so small that she might actually see her again.

A/N: So, there it is! I hope you all enjoyed it! :)

My schedule is getting very busy, so I can't really promise a new chapter each week, but I will never abandon a story. :) I shall be back with chapter 2 as soon as I can! Bye! :D