Betrothed: Windemere Hall Trilogy: Book One (Victorian Villains) Page 6

“Yes. He said that she had died.”

  “Then there is no mystery. Obviously, it was not Grace you saw at the chapel—if indeed you saw anyone at all. And dead women don’t laugh. Why are you troubling me with this?”

  “You claim you are revenging yourself on me because I hurt someone dear to you. Who have I harmed?” She followed him into the stable. The air was warm and dusty with hay motes. “Why don’t you answer me? What are you afraid of?”

  Branson removed the saddle from the horse’s back and wrenched off his cloak. He rolled up his sleeves and began to brush the horse vigorously. “The only thing I’m afraid of, cousin, is that when I take you tonight I shall enjoy myself too much to let you go. I trust you have not forgotten our bargain. I assure you, I haven’t.”

  “What have I done to earn your hatred?”

  He turned on her savagely. “Why were you under a doctor’s care? Answer that I will answer your questions about my past. Tell me about this man you were in love with.”

  Clara gasped, blushed furiously and fell silent.

  “What is wrong, d-d-dearest—c-c-cat got your tongue? Don’t bother to hide it from me. It’s all over London. You made a fool of yourself over this gentleman that resulted in a public scene at a ball to open the season. To save face, your father swiftly removed you from society and placed you in a doctor’s care.”

  “My father had his own troubles to cope with; I was in complete agreement with him about the need to see a doctor.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why do you delight in making fun of me?”

  Branson’s face revealed nothing. He never looked as handsome as he did now grooming his horse. His long strong arms moved expertly over the animal’s hide, his broad shoulders bunched under his white shirt. His blonde hair winked in the sunlight. Branson’s physique was sculpted from hard labor and being out-of-doors.

  “You were in love with a scoundrel who spurned you and like a spoiled child, you had a tantrum when he threw you over. I did not create the story—it has been spread all over London.”

  “My, my, you have been busy,” she said bitterly. “I loved a man, yes.” Tears threatened. Clara forced them back. The humiliation of that night was still too raw to be exposed so cruelly. “I believed he loved me. I was misled. I took it very hard when I saw him with his fiancée at the ball.”

  “And why was that?” Branson sneered. “Did you think he meant to marry you?”

  She raised her chin. “I seem to have a talent for attracting suitors whose intentions are dishonorable.”

  Branson’s eyes were filled with contempt. “The man did not mislead you. You were so desperate to secure him that you deliberately misinterpreted his kindness. It was you who tried to trap the gentleman. That is what I’ve learned about the affair.”

  His words stung her to the quick. “You have been misinformed. Captain Strachan—”

  Clara choked back the words she was going to say. She had not spoken his name aloud to anyone except Dr. Hargreaves. Not since that terrible evening when she saw him in the ballroom with a young lady she did not recognize. Clara had rushed to his side, believing with all her heart that he was as happy to see her as she was to see him. They had been parted for many days.

  But when he turned and met her eyes, she realized her mistake. Strachan’s handsome face, so familiar to her, so loved—was closed off. He greeted her like she was a stranger.

  “Captain Strachan took the opportunity of the ball to announce his engagement to Miss Delisle. It was the first I’d heard of the lady. He had asked me to be there especially; he said there was something important he wanted me to hear.”

  “The engagement announcement.” Branson’s eyes clouded. “Why didn’t he tell you in private if your relationship was as intimate as you claim?”

  “The Captain needed to publically sever our acquaintance to silence the rumours that he was in love with me. It was very effective. It was clear to one and all that it was Miss Delisle he loved, and not me, whom he only fancied. I had foolishly confided my hopes to several indiscreet young ladies who, as it happened, were friends of Miss Delisle. Publicly embarrassed, I lost my composure. The tears ... well, the tears were unstoppable, though I did my best.” Clara twisted her hands together. “I’m aware I caused a scene. If I sound glib about the affair, I assure you I am not. It was complete collapse of nerves.”

  Branson turned back to his work. “Strachan’s unsavory reputation with the ladies is well-known. Arthur should have stepped in to protect you before it came to that.”

  “I think my father was only glad that I had attracted the Captain’s notice. I’ve been stuttering since I was twelve. I overheard what Arthur told you about me; he did not exaggerate my defects.” She shook her head. “I have no one to blame but myself for what happened with Strachan. I was too eager to believe we were in love and the rest would work out on its own. I was reluctant to press him for a declaration.”

  Branson finished his work in silence and put the brushes away. He led the horse into the stall, closed the gate and then walked toward her. His jaw was tight and his eyes had a strange hard fire in them. Without a word, her cousin tilted her face up to his, lowered his handsome head and kissed her on the lips.

  Clara shivered and reddened, longing for more and distressed by her reaction. She was tempted to believe she was as other young ladies were, adored by her betrothed. But Clara had deceived herself once before and she would not be deceived again. She would see only the facts: she was a girl alone in a stable with a man bent on mischief, and she had neither the wit nor the will to put him in his place.

  “I’ve instructed your man, Piers, to send for a carriage,” she said softly. “I’ve told him I am not staying.”

  “I know.” Branson’s lips danced over hers. “He informed me of your plans to leave and I informed him you will not be leaving until I say so.”

  “Did you bully Grace Leeds into staying here as well?”

  Branson stiffened and pulled away. “She is none of your concern.”

  “You have made her my concern. I might have been confused about what I saw at the chapel, but I was not confused about Piers’s tale this morning. I met Grace Leeds seven years ago, here at Windemere. She was your friend from Oxford. You were engaged to be married. Do you deny it?”

  He spun away from Clara and marched out of the stable. “I do not deny it but I will not discuss her with you either. She is dead and that is the end of it.”

  Clara hurried after him, thrilled she had hit a nerve in the impenetrable Branson Hamilton. If she let him go now, she might never get the answer to what was haunting her cousin. Whatever had twisted his soul, Clara felt it had something to do with Grace—and it had not finished with him yet.

  “How did she die, Branson? You must tell me.”

  He turned on her, his indigo eyes hot with rage and his pallor chalk-white. “Do you want to know how she died? She killed herself. That is how my fiancée died.”

  Clara froze. Her scalp prickled. “Suicide...? Oh my God. The girl I remember was so full of life. Why did she do it?”

  Branson’s eyes clouded and a wall came down between them. “Grace Leeds was brilliant, a student of mathematics,” he said stiffly. “But she had a fragile temperament. She suffered a terrible trauma and it broke her mind. I was unable to help her. She took her own life.”

  “I am sorry, Branson. I am so very sorry.”

  “I don’t like to talk about it. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  Without waiting for an answer, her cousin stalked off to the Hall and disappeared inside.

  §

  DINNER THAT night was a gloomy affair. A pall had settled over them that they could not shake through small talk and the usual social pleasantries.

  “How is your meal?” Branson met her eyes briefly across the vast distance of the long table.

  They were seated in the formal dining room. Branson sat at the head of the table, eating the roast game hen they had been served by Piers. Her cousin managed to isol
ate himself without appearing to be doing anything of the sort. It was a strategy Clara was familiar with; her father behaved in much the same manner with her.

  “Delicious.”

  “Good.” He nodded.

  The truth of the matter was Branson Hamilton understood her as few people did. None of her family and few of her acquaintance accepted her as easily as Branson had. No one else had driven the stutter from her brain. But what did it signify? Clara sipped red wine from a crystal glass and pondered the man at the other end of the table.

  She must not allow her heart to be moved by the villain bent on destroying her father. Or pity him or feel anything but contempt for Branson Hamilton.

  To trust him now would be the end of her.

  Chapter Seven

  “YOU LIVE a very solitary life here in the country,” Clara observed casually. “Do you forgo the society of your neighbours?”

  “They forgo mine. There will be no visits from the local gentry if that is what you are asking.”

  That is precisely what she was asking. Branson was not a gentleman; Clara would have been marrying beneath her if their marriage had taken place. However, this lowborn cousin of hers wasn’t offering marriage. He only wanted to take her to bed. She’d heard of such things happening to girls from good families. They were driven from homes with babies in their bellies while the villains responsible would escape responsibility, unscathed.

  There was no shame in her journeying to Windemere Hall to find a husband. Marriage was a worthy goal for an impoverished young woman from a good family. No one would blame her for the first night she spent in his company. However, as there was not going to be a marriage, she risked her reputation if she did not insist on returning to London immediately.

  Clara was one night away from being utterly ruined. It would not signify that she was guiltless in the affair; Miss Hamilton would be blamed for not standing firm against the tyrant.

  “Branson, I thank you for the courtesy you’ve shown me, but I must not trespass on your hospitality any longer. If you would be so good as to arrange a carriage, I shall find lodgings in the village tonight.”

  “Will you?” he asked softly. “All right, Clara. You are free to go. But I’ll not put my horses or carriage to the task. You wandered in here of your own accord. You can wander back out.”

  Clara’s temper flared. “I shall excuse your poor manners on the grounds that you are only a milliner’s son,” she said cuttingly. “You were not born a gentleman and, clearly, you do not intend to behave like one. So I shall try to persuade you with reason. You are not responsible for me. You don’t love me. It is folly to keep me here.”

  His eyes widened. “I wasn’t aware that love was required to keep you here. Only yesterday, you were willing to marry me for my bank account. But I disagree with your reasoning in any case. As your cousin, I am obligated to protect you. You are too beautiful and intelligent to be ignorant about the nature of men. I’ll wager there is not a drawing room in London where the master has not fathered a bastard or two. There but for the grace of God and my intervention go you. Don’t you understand, cousin? Your father squandered the family fortune and left you vulnerable. Without an income, your cunt is the only thing you have to interest a London gentleman and your father may go to the very devil.”

  “Shut up! Shut your filthy mouth!” She rose, trembling with rage.

  “Why do you think Arthur Hamilton sent you here without a chaperone? I can only guess at the reason for this extraordinary breach of protocol. He handed you to me on a platter. Hamilton is gambling his daughter’s virginity on a man he loathes and has slandered for ten years. Uncle Arthur placed his dearest possession in the hands of his worst enemy.”

  Her eyes grew hot and teary. “That is where you are wrong,” Clara shouted. “I am far from being my father’s dearest possession! It is you who have been hoodwinked, cousin, if you believe that anything you can do to me will affect my father!”

  “A shred of honesty at last,” Branson hissed furiously. “I am the nearest thing to a friend you have and the sooner you realize it, cousin, the better. It is a long walk to London. If you attempt to leave, I shall fetch you back.” He pushed away from the table with a violent scraping of the chair and rose to his feet. “Stay or go. What is it to be? Tell me now.”

  Clara raised a trembling hand to her forehead. His speech had struck a nerve. Long before coming to Windemere she feared she was in danger of being compromised. The charge of embezzlement had thrown a long shadow. Invitations to the best drawing rooms had slowed to a trickle as they were snubbed by the very people her parents once called friends. Strachan’s publically callous treatment of her would never have happened if Arthur Hamilton was still rich and powerful.

  “You promised,” she said, shaking from head to foot. “You promised you would not take anything I did not willingly give.”

  Branson’s eyes smoldered across the room. “I won’t. You are safe here, which is more than I’ve received at your family’s hands. Do not cower before me! I cannot abide that. I’m not going to hurt you, for God’s sake.” His fists were clenched at his sides. Branson had the look of a feral dog, beaten too often to be domesticated. Something happened to make him this way. “Will you stay?” His voice was like smoke.

  She didn’t know what was happening to her. Why was she possessed with longing for this evil man? Desire for the forbidden was weakening her resolve. “I—I am tired,” she said. “It has been a long day. I’ll stay the night and—and think about what to do next.”

  He nodded stiffly, turned, and walked out of the room.

  Clara pressed her hands over her face. Hidden reserves of strength came to her rescue. She would stay at Windemere Hall and see this bargain through to the end. Branson Reilly believed he had her trapped. Clara Hamilton would prove him wrong.

  §

  BRANSON STOOD at the entrance to Windermere Hall, waiting for Quince to saddle his horse. Gladiator tolerated the stable master’s handling with his usual ill-temper. He stamped and pulled on the harness and was near to biting. Branson took over and Gladiator settled down, permitting his rider to saddle him.

  “You are a bad-tempered beast who will be served up as dog food one day if you do not watch yourself,” he scolded the horse.

  “Aye, that he is, sir,” agreed Quince. “He is thoroughly ill-natured, but you manage him right enough. When that changes, I expect you’ll get rid like you have the rest of them that’s angered you.”

  Branson did not respond. He knew Quince thought him ruthless. Branson was ruthless and that was unlikely to change as long as there was insubordination in the labourers he hired to work the estate. The villagers and gentry alike treated him as a low-born milliner’s son with ambitions above his station. Windemere Hall was not Branson’s by birth, but it was his nonetheless and he would be damned if he tipped his cap to any man.

  He nodded his dismissal to the stable master and mounted the horse. September was drawing to a close. Early evening mist rose from the spongy lawn. Branson had bigger worries than the snobbery of the county tonight. From the first, his plan was doomed to failure if any hint of his past came to light. Piers confirmed Clara had asked about Grace and he was forced to answer her. With one of her statements proving to be true, Branson rode into the forest to investigate the other.

  He’d become too complacent. The quick acceptance of his marriage proposal had set his pulse pounding, and then his enemy sent the bride without a chaperon! How could Arthur be so reckless? His uncle must be more desperate than Branson thought. All he had to do was bait the trap and Hamilton fell into it.

  But there was a hidden trap in this whole arrangement that Branson did not foresee.

  Clara Hamilton.

  Branson had not anticipated—never imagined that—

  Abruptly, Gladiator reared up on his hind legs. Branson kept his seat with difficulty. “Whoa, boy, whoa. Calm down. What ails you?”

  A noise caused him to lift his head
. Branson squinted into the fog-shrouded distance.

  A girl, barely visible, was standing on the path.

  “Darling.”

  Hamilton swung down from the saddle and closed the gap between them in two strides.

  §

  CLARA CLIMBED the curving staircase that led to a deep hollow of darkness with only a candle to light her way. She found the door to her room, stepped inside and closed the door firmly behind her.

  Her trunk had been unpacked against her wishes and was pushed to a corner of the room. A warm fire burned on the hearth. She undressed in a hurry, pulling on her nightgown before Branson could arrive. Despite everything they had said to each other, she was sure he would come. She would have laughed if it were not so tragic.

  “We are like two lost souls, playing at being man and wife,” she mused aloud, “stealing the joys that belong to the marriage bed.”

  Her face grew hot and she suppressed a shudder of pleasure. Her cousin took her breath away and stirred her womanhood. Branson thought it was only Clara who would pay the price for his revenge. She wagered his burden would be just as heavy by the time he was finished.

  Clara took up her hair brush. She’d been shaken by his coarse assessment of her prospects. Her mind could not grasp the lengths she was willing to go to save her father and she worried that, deep down, she had agreed to Branson’s demand for another reason.

  Branson Hamilton’s physical presence had awakened Clara to sensations she couldn’t handle, yet he was the only man she could be herself with. She’d never fought back before or so much as raised her voice at anyone! Even with Strachan, Clara had not had this confidence. It made no sense at all. And despite everything, there was still not a flicker of stammer or stutter.

  She brushed her hair, meditatively. Perhaps it was the shock of the situation that had startled her into coherent speech. When she left Windemere, she would write Dr. Hargreaves and report the phenomenon for his files. Dr. Hargreaves was making a case study of her condition.