Enduring Torrington's funeral was the hardest thing she'd ever done in her life. Her mother kept her close by, and ushered her out of the building as soon as the service was over. That was only thing she was grateful for.

Even though it might have been her duty to speak with his family, she really had no wish to talk to anyone. Torrington had rarely spoken of his family, and most of those he spoke of with fondness were dead and gone: the father who'd brought him to England when he was small; the aunt and uncle who he'd lived with an who had been second parents to him once his own father was gone; the mother at first left behind in Scotland and then moved to far off Australia after her father died there; the grandfather who was shipped to an Australian penal colony...Adam had been a little boy then and never even knew what it was his grandfather had done...what was so terrible that it ripped his small world forever into two halves. This was all she knew of his family, really - those who were buried, those who were long gone and far away. Any who might be here so soon after his death, she could only surmise, hadn't cared enough for him, nor he for them, to even be mentioned as they sent out invitations to their wedding. For all their wearing of black and gathering by the graveside, she wasn't intent on concerning herself with their grief; she was already cocooned within her own. They were strangers to her and always would be. The frightening man who delivered the news of Torrington's death stood among those close to the casket. Just the sight of him brought the pain and terror of that night crashing down upon her all over again. If this man was some part of the family Torrington never made mention of, it only served to strengthen her desire never to set eyes on him again.

Frankly, Breanne only wanted to seek refuge in her room, and thanks to her mother's direction, she was obliged to give in to the selfish desire.

In all honesty, she was tired of the sympathetic glances of her neighbors, the poorly-concealed whispered utterances, and even the slightly gleeful faces of some that had never approved of her marriage to begin with. It was all very simple really...Torrington was too good for her. A simple miss, such as she, had the audacity to snag one of them, a highly sought-after member of the ton. The whispers behind fans and glances she could stomach; but the bit of happiness that came from some of the elite made her want to scream. They were more satisfied that she was no longer married, than saddened that a member of the ton, one of their own, a true gentleman, was gone...dead...deceased. She placed a mental lid on her anger and continued to wear a seemingly complacent mask.

Really, though, she was no longer a 'miss,' she was a viscountess. The title mattered not to her. If she could trade the title for one more day with Torrington, she would. She would do anything to have him standing before her, to see him smiling down at her, or making some jest, as he tended to do.

"Breanne, control yourself!"

 Breanne snapped out of her reverie and quickly looked up. "Mother?"

"I can see your eyes misting, Breanne. We are at a party, try to enjoy yourself."

Breanne turned her head away from her mother and stared straight ahead, her nose slightly flaring in aggravation.

"You know how I feel about these sentimental things to begin with, Breanne. You are not to show feelings like this, and doing so only makes the people in the vicinity uncomfortable. They are not even able to enjoy the party. Look around you," she snapped.

Breanne hesitantly followed her mother's command and saw that people were, in fact, making a very poor effort at not looking at her. And yet, it wasn't astounding that she was drawing attention to herself. I am supposed to be hiding away, she thought, mourning Adam. I'm not even supposed to be here. Yet, here I am, following my mother's dictates and dishonoring my husband's memory. Breanne bowed her head in shame.

"Stand up, for heaven's sake! There is no way you will catch a husband sitting in that chair like a cushion on a window seat!"

Breanne's eyes swung to her mother's, but remained seated. "Would you not mourn father?" she asked, pointedly.

"Lower your voice," Mrs. Crabtree hissed. She straightened, and then took the seat next to Breanne, pasting on a smile for the room to see before speaking. "Of course I would be out of sorts if something happened to your father. We have been together long enough so it would be different for me to—"

"Are you saying that since I had not been married long enough, I should feel less?" Breanne quietly demanded to know.

"Breanne!" her mother snapped. "Contain yourself!"

Breanne lowered her head, and took a steadying breath, listening as her mother continued on. "I know it's hard, dear," she continued, "you had finally gotten what your heart desired...a husband."

"That's what your heart desired."

"What did you say, Breanne?"

"I finally found someone who loved me; that was what I desired, mother."

"Yes, well it's been over a week now. It's time to get back into the scene, my dear. You are a viscountess now," she said, brightly smiling. "I know that many men would clamor for your hand if only you started dancing again, and at least made an effort to speak with people."

Breanne stared at her...cold. "I think no one would have me, mother. I am damaged goods, now."

Mrs. Crabtree gasped several times, reminding Breanne of a fish that had been taken from a river and thrown onto the ground. "Do not ever speak in such a way again!"

Breanne felt a hint of satisfaction until her mother's next words.

"It doesn't matter even if some may view you as you say." She leaned in closer to her daughter, "You are quite well-settled now. Torrington left you a little sum; it is only too bad that his place in town was left to other family instead of yourself. I do believe, though, that he also left you—"

Breanne's head swiveled. "I don't care about his money," she interrupted with a hint of anger.

"Of course you do," Mrs. Crabtree returned, tapping Breanne's nose with the tip of her fan. "The house matters not, my dear. You will stay with your father and I until other suitors take interest; and then you may marry one of them."

Unable to look at her mother anymore, Breanne focused her attention on the dance floor. If only Alla were here. Alla, the Duchess of Manchester, and her best friend, was unable to attend the party because of an illness, so Breanne was on her own.

"Snap out of this, Breanne," her mother warned, as she stood up, "and quickly."

Breanne watched her mother walk away, smiling and gracefully waving at those she knew, eventually disappearing into the crowd. Breanne sighed with relief. She needed a drink, badly. She stood up from her chair and was taken aback at the glances that bounced to and away from her. Was everyone frightened of her? Did they think that she would cry the moment she met their eyes; or were they thinking that she was actually going to scandalize them all by dropping her grief alongside her black rags and joining them in a grand polka? She inwardly shrugged, deciding that she didn't care what they were thinking. Chatter began to die and people paused as she walked towards her destination, though she placed the reason for it on the fact that she could be considered 'mingling' with the crowd, when in truth she was only walking through it.

Her mother caught eyes with her, and gave her a smile of approval until she saw where Breanne was heading. A subtle shake of her head stalled Breanne's footsteps. She looked longingly at the champagne bottle that was sitting on a fine silver servant's cart; it was only three, no, four steps away from her. She glanced at her mother again, who very pointedly mouthed 'no' to her.

Sighing in disappointment, she turned around, and ran into a very huge beast. At least, that was her first impression. He stood, towering before her, blocking her path. She could see, without the inspection she had given him the night she first set eyes on him, that he was again wearing a kilt. It dawned on her that this was the reason the chatter died and people paused. The man was wearing a kilt...at a ball. Kilts hadn't been worn by the Scottish in nearly eighty years. At least he had the sense to don a peasant shirt before he entered the place. But if he was of the opinion that doing such a thing would make him blend in with the crowd, he was a simpleton.

His ash-blonde shoulder-length hair sported soft waves, but his sharp green eyes contrasted them in a clear display of anger and ...disgust?

He was rude. She didn't need to speak to him to solidify that truth. He'd shown plainly upon their last encounter...that awful, awful night...when he'd spoken of Adam's death in callous, careless anger... he had shown that he was a brute, but what was he doing here?

"Excuse me," she said, quietly, making an exaggerated circle to walk around him.

He blocked her path, causing her to halt. A murmur flowed through the crowd and then hushed again, waiting.

Breanne looked around uncertainly, noticing that some were laughing at his garb. It was very obvious, but he either didn't notice or didn't care, and Breanne would bet her life on the latter. She finally met his green eyes straight on. They were making a spectacle of themselves, and it was the last thing she wanted or needed. She took a step closer toward him, trying to ignore the penetrating stares of the ton.

"Sir, do you not feel as if you are upon a stage? Everyone is watching. Kindly move so that I may pass."

He stared down at her; arms crossed, and didn't bother flicking a glance around, as she'd done. "We're needin' to speak, lass," he stated a bit forcefully.

The deep timbre of his Scottish burr and the commanding tone inflected in his voice caught her off guard, made her tense. There was something about him...something in his features that seemed familiar. She couldn't quite put her finger on it but, something... She shook her head, dismissing the thought.

"No?" he questioned threateningly, mistaking her head shake, and taking a step forward.

She swallowed. "Of course, if you have something you need to say, you may say it."

"You'll want me to do this in private."

"Breanne," Mrs. Crabtree broke out of her stupor and walked with purpose towards the two. She looked from Breanne to the man who stood before her, and immediately blanched.

"Breanne," she tried again. "Whatever is going on?"

"He needs to speak to me privately."

"Out of the question," her mother stated, turning toward him. "You absolutely cannot—"

"Aye, I can, and I will," he interrupted in an awful voice. "I will do so here in front of yer' friends, or elsewhere. It matters not to me."

Her mother straightened and puckered her lips sourly. "Breanne," she said, staring at the beast, "let's go to the carriage. We will entertain our... guest... at home."

Breanne immediately walked around the man and her mother; her sole focus was the door. She could hear people chuckling as she made her quick exit, and her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

Flicking a quick glance behind her, she saw that he was following. His large steps were already eating up the distance that her quickened pace had afforded. She hurriedly stepped into the carriage and sighed with relief when her mother immediately followed her inside.

She looked at her mother once they were on their way home. "Mother, what does he want? Who is he?"

"I do not know what he wants, Breanne. You will have to be the lady I have always taught you to be and wait until he enlightens us."

"Well, who-"

Her mother held a hand up. "Do not plague me with childish questions, Breanne. Wait until we get home."

Was it childish to want to know? Surely, her mother knew who he was. He was obviously the same man from the night she'd received news of Torrington, and legitimately or not he'd stood opposite her at the funeral among those closest on the other side of Torrington's grave, vulture-like she'd thought then - but who was he? Her mother wouldn't have let anyone in their house without first knowing the answer to that question. Why wouldn't she tell her?

When the carriage stopped in front of their residence, Breanne and her mother quickly got out and hastened inside their home.

"Rebecca, lock the doors, with haste," her mother whispered, furiously. Becky turned the lock right as a knock sounded, causing her to jump in fright and turn wide-eyed to the ladies of the house.

"Mother," Breanne objected, removing her cape, "what are you doing?"

"Do not worry about this, Breanne. Go up to your room."

The knock sounded louder.

"You told him we would meet him here," Breanne returned, aghast. "You cannot leave him there on the doorstep making a ruckus at this time of night."

"If he makes a ruckus the constables will come pick him up, as well they should. He's a savage if I ever saw one!"

Knocking turned to pounding, Breanne walked towards the door, and Becky stepped back. "Don't, Breanne," her mother warned.

Breanne turned, facing her mother. "He wants to talk to me, Mother. Me. I will follow through with what you suggested, even if you won't."

She ignored her mother's gasp, unlocked the door, and slowly opened it. He stood in the shadows of the night, and Breanne found that her heart was trying to escape her chest. She tried not to betray her quaking outwardly. He may have been the most intimidating mountain of a man she'd ever encountered, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of being privy to the fact.

"Do come in," she invited once she had found her voice, and retreated a few steps to allow him entry. He stood on the outside a fraction of a second, and then took a step over the threshold, ducking his head under the doorframe as he entered. He gave her a calculating stare, then switched a piercing glare down upon her mother's frame. For once, her mother looked very small.

Mrs. Crabtree subconsciously backed away a few paces until she came up against a desk, at which point she grasped the corner of it and offered a nervous smile.

"Would you like to sit in the drawing room, sir?" Breanne asked impatiently. Really, can't the man find someone else to intimidate?

He stared at Breanne and remained silent, not moving a muscle.

She raised an eyebrow. "I am going to sit; you are welcome to join me. If you don't wish to, you can remain there and we can call out to each other from across the hall," she called out over her shoulder, not bothering to see if he was following her. She walked over to the jug of wine that her father had more than likely left out, and began pouring a glass.

"Breanne," her mother snapped. "Decorum if you please!" she hissed, forcefully sitting on the white floral couch.

Breanne paused, sighed, and returned the wine to its place. Turning around, she saw that the man had already entered the drawing room and was seated on their comfortable settee, his stature making it appear as though he was sitting upon a small chair. In fact, his presence, his size, and the aura he exuded dwarfed the entirety of the room they gathered in.

He had, no doubt, witnessed her mother treating her as a child. Shame flooded through her as she walked away from the table to occupy a seat across from their unwanted guest.

Pride forced her to finally meet his eyes. "Whatever it is that you want to say, please do so now. The hour is late; as I am sure you are well aware."

He glanced at the wine. "I'm thirsty, lass."

Irritation bubbled inside of Breanne. It was late and she wanted to go to bed. She was in no mood to entertain a guest. "Rebecca," Breanne called out, "would you be so kind as to bring our guest some tea and—"

She cut her statement off when he snorted. "I'll 'ave wine," he stated flatly. So, he was too mighty a man to drink tea, but he would have wine? Why can't he just state his business and leave? Breanne gracefully inclined her head, and Becky switched directions, heading towards the wine in the drawing room.

The stranger watched as Becky poured him a glass, and then he looked at Breanne. "Where I'm from it's poor manners to allow a guest to drink alone."

Breanne quickly looked at her mother, who sat eerily quiet and watchful. "Rebecca," she began, "would you please bring me some tea and—"

"Wine," he corrected. "She's wantin' wine."

Breanne stared at the stranger. Who is he to tell me what to drink? He is just like everyone else who...she paused, and her eyes widened a fraction, as she realized what he was doing. He saw the dawning in her face, and his lips quirked slightly in response. Who is this man? And how can he be so terrible one moment, and the next... Breanne glanced at her mother who looked pained at the idea of her daughter drinking a glass of wine; but she knew her mother wouldn't say anything, not when a guest had demanded it. Mrs. Crabtree inclined her head to Becky in agreement and she immediately brought them both a glass.

The stranger waited until Breanne took a sip before he spoke. "I've some papers I'm needin' you to sign, lass;" he told her. Mrs. Crabtree straightened on the couch across from the settee, leaning forward.

"What papers?" Breanne asked, confused.

"Are ye' knowin' who I am?"

"No, I haven't had the," she paused, "pleasure," she continued in a strained voice, "of meeting you, officially." She lifted her glass to take another drink.

His eyes pierced right through her as he answered. "Reese." He said the name as if it were supposed to mean something to her. When he saw that the name didn't register, his eyes went flat and hard. "I'm yer' husband's half-brother."

Red wine sprayed out of her mouth, and her eyes widened in shock.

Her mother instantly stood up. "Breanne!" In a flurry of dismay, fearing for the carpet, draperies and furniture, she called out, "Rebecca! Rebecca, you must clean this up at once!"

Breanne quickly looked at her mother and then their guest. "I'm sorry, forgive me," she said, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. She tried to collect herself before she spoke again.

Her expression was perfectly composed when she met his eyes. "Did you say that you are....were...my husband's brother?"

"Aye."

She looked down at her lap, wringing her hands in earnest, confusion and hurt flitted across her features, but were quickly stamped down before anyone else took note. What else had Torrington kept from her?

"I fail to see the reason that you've insisted on this meeting," her mother said. "Whatever papers you have for my daughter to sign you can just take back to wherever you got them. She'll not sign a thing."

Breanne looked at her mother, but before she could say anything, Reese answered.

"Aye," he said grimly. "She will; 'tis only right."

Breanne looked at Reese.

"She won't," Mrs. Crabtree stubbornly refused.

She turned to her mother. "Do I not have a say in this?"

"No," her mother snapped. "You don't. You live with your father and I, and we make the decisions."

Hostility flashed in Reese's eyes and he slowly leaned forward. "You will sign," he stated.

"What is it you need me to sign?"

Reese focused his unwavering stare onto Breanne. "Some paperwork tha' is business related and tied to me own property in Australia. If ye' dinna sign, ye' could affect my livelihood and my family's."

"I do not see how her signature on anything could have such a drastic effect on your livelihood. Didn't you receive his land and his house here in town?" Mrs. Crabtree questioned, scornfully.

Breanne looked at Reese. "Is that true? Did you get the place that Torrington and I were to move into?"

Reese's jaw began to pulse. "Aye."

"And now you want my daughter to sign something that would pamper you and your family all the more while she lives destitute?"

If Breanne truly believed that her mother was concerned about her welfare, she would have been touched. As it was, she had no such illusions.

"Her signature entitles her to profits!" Reese blustered, then he leaned forward. "I 'ave a proposition for ye'," he stated, looking intently at Breanne.

Her mother scoffed. "A proposition? I'm sure that we are not interested in anything you are proposing."

Breanne inwardly groaned.

Reese focused on her mother. "I'm sure that I'm not addressing ye'."

He ignored her mother's gasp, returning his attention to Breanne. "I've no reason to 'ave a place 'ere in England, lass. My family's lived in Australia long on ten years 'n' more. They belong to the land, as do I. What I propose is tha' you keep the house 'ere in the city...and I'll be fit to stay in Australia." When Breanne remained silent, he continued. "It's obvious ye' like the city, lass. Ye' can stay in yer' house which I imagine to be like this one," he looked around the drawing room, "pampered," he used her mother's word with the tone it deserved, "in all yer' finery; or ye' can do whatever else pleases ye'. It matters not to me. Fer yer' part, I'm only wantin' ye' to sign these papers first. You'll be doin' yerself no harm. I brought these all this long way fer my brother to sign, to make sure he got the profit he was full well entitled to, as well as makin' it possible for me and mine to get what we're entitled to." He stopped for a moment, jaw tightening as his eyes cast about before coming back to meet hers. There was more gravel in his voice as if he had to force them out. "I only wish I'd come sooner. Hadn't seen him since we were boys. Now..." He cleared his throat and looked angry that he'd spoken so. "Ye can live in the house as if it was yours and get the money that would 'ave come to Adam. All it'll cost ye is a scribble of ink!"

"I don't see a reason as to why I couldn't sign what you've brought me... and... stay in the house here that Torrington meant for us," Breanne blurted, uncertainly.

Reese's features relaxed somewhat. "That's a lass," he commended. "Here are the papers. I'll leave 'em 'ere for ye' to sign and ye' can send 'em to me. The information is all there."

"Breanne," her mother chided. "What do you think you are doing?"

"I am handling my affairs, mother. That is what I am doing," she replied, taking the papers from Reese.

A disapproving frown was the only answer she received from her mother. Business conducted, Reese stood up and held a hand out to her. Breanne sent her mother a quick look before she reached out to him, but quickly retracted her hand when her mother distinctly cleared her throat. Another hard look came over Reese's face as he lowered his arm and walked past her. Breanne followed him to the door, and when he suddenly turned to face her, backed up a space.

"I'll expect the papers within two months, lass. Once they arrive, I'll send word and ye' may take up residence in the townhouse." After making the statement he quickly turned away and left, disappearing into the night.

Breanne stared out at the darkness a while after he vanished from sight, then finally closed the door and turned around, only to face her mother.

"Have you taken leave of your senses?"

"Mother please, I am tired." Breanne walked past her mother and up the stairs to her bedroom. She could hear her mother's footsteps behind her and inwardly groaned. "There was a decision to make and I made it."

"It was not your decision to make. You are under our roof, miss!"

 Breanne sighed, and walked into her bedroom.

"Mother, the deed is as good as done," she explained, quietly.

She waited for her mother to leave so that she could don her nightclothes but when it became apparent that she was staying, Breanne had Rebecca loosen the laces on her gown. Surprisingly, her mother was too angry with her to take her to task over it.

"Have you stopped to think that maybe there was a reason Torrington willed the place in Australia to you? I do not trust this stranger! You must allow our solicitor to review those papers!"

Breanne paused once she had gotten into bed.

"For you to simply sign off on something without even having your father in the room is ludicrous!"

"Mother, what choice did I have? If I do not sign, I will have nowhere to go," Breanne began, uncertainly.

"How much better for you to live here until you marry again! And what is more, do you honestly think that you will be able to stand living alone in the same house that you were to live in with your husband? You are barely able to contain yourself as it is," her mother continued. "Were you to move into the townhouse, you would only retreat further into this ridiculous shell of yours!"

She hadn't thought of that. On the one hand she could feel more at home living in the place Torrington had been residing. On the other hand, it could prove to be even more heartbreaking for her to be there without him.

"I did not take that into account," Breanne admitted.

"Yes, well think on it now," Mrs. Crabtree instructed.

Breanne sighed. "When his brother explained that I could live there, I felt as if I had no other option...but I may have spoken hastily."

"As you tend to do," her mother put in disapprovingly. "That is why I instructed you to leave such matters to your father and I."

Breanne shook her head. "His brother may not like my indecisiveness."

"Do not worry about what he likes or doesn't like. The matter shall be taken care of. You need to get some rest, tomorrow we have been invited to the—"

"Mother, please. I don't wish to go to another party."

"Posh. Of course you do. Especially since the host and hostess are good friends of yours."

Breanne perked up. "Alla and Brandon?"

Her mother's strained smile instantly transformed into a frown. "Pardon, Breanne?"

She quickly composed herself, and swallowed. "Are you speaking of the Duke and Duchess of Manchester?"

Her mother silently stared at her with reproach before answering. "Yes, I am. That means that we must take extra care with your appearance tomorrow evening—"

"Mother," Breanne protested.

"You know how large the duke's estate is," she continued as if her daughter hadn't spoken. "The larger a place is, the more people can be held. There will no doubt be many men of high stature in attendance. I want you to be more agreeable tomorrow night than you were tonight, Breanne."

When Breanne remained silent, her mother raised her eyebrows. "Breanne? Did you not hear what I said?"

"I heard," she responded in a strained voice.

"Good," Mrs. Crabtree said. "I expect much more of you tomorrow night, Breanne. I want you to be watchful of men that hold a level of prestige in the ton. You do want to get a good catch, do you not?"

Breanne fixed her mother with a blank expression, and her mother immediately became annoyed. "Get some rest, Breanne. Your brain has obviously been taxed in the drawing room with our guest. You shall do better tomorrow, and that is that." Her mother turned and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Breanne snuggled into her bed and looked into the night sky. Hurt and anger simmered in her blood. Her mother was pressing her too much...she could feel it...the turbulent, unstable anger that rolled and boiled within her. It was taking all of her effort to control it, and with the fragility of her person, she wasn't sure how long she could.

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A/N: ***REVISED*** PLEASE NOTE: New readers, this novel is going through major revision. If you do NOT see the word "revised" along with the chapter title, it means that portion of the text has not yet been updated to reflect the altered plot points. Read such chapters at your own risk. Chapters marked "REVISED" have been updated and are perfectly safe to read. :)

Long time, beautiful, precious readers: Please reread the revised chapters as they come out. I know that I am testing your patience (hopefully not beyond the breaking point); but these "new old" chapters pave the way for the ending of the story, and the continued series. So, if you skip the re-read, you may wind up frustrated and confused. Thank you SO MUCH for your continual love and faithful readership!

(This note will accompany each of the revised chapters, until the book is complete.)