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

by Catherine Lloyd

  “It was yesterday,” she retorted. “What has changed?”

  “I have!” He looked away. “I don’t know. Don’t question me.”

  “Tell me then. As your cousin, you can tell me what is troubling you.”

  He flung himself off the bed and she felt his loss as keenly as if he had left the room. Branson Hamilton had the ability to leave a person without moving a muscle. Clara didn’t understand how powerful his spirit was until he withdrew it from her.

  “I should go,” he said. His voice was strained. “Before I do anything I regret.”

  “It is because of Grace, isn’t it? Piers said no woman would ever take her place in your heart. I suppose I ought to be grateful to her for saving me from a fate worse than death.”

  “Grace has nothing to do with this. I’ve changed my mind about taking your virtue. That is all. Let’s say I’ve grown a conscience.”

  “What about my father? Will you keep him out of prison?”

  She sat up. Her hair fell in her eyes.

  He gazed at her coolly. “You are more determined than ever to save Arthur from ruin.”

  “You are his only hope.”

  “Good. That will make destroying him all the more pleasurable.”

  Clara pounded her fists on the bed. “Why are you determined to make yourself contemptible? I have to wonder at these sudden shifts in your moods. I was told you were unstable.”

  “Were you? You’ll have to ask your father why that is. Arthur will have the answers you seek.”

  He staggered to the hearth and closed his eyes. His hands were shaking.

  “I am asking you, Branson. But since you refuse to tell me what is wrong, I can only assume the worst. You are manipulating my emotions for reasons I’ve yet to divine. I don’t know why you hate my father. He is an arrogant man, and at times a foolish one, but what has he done to warrant your hate?” Her jaw trembled. She would not cry. Branson Hamilton would not make her cry. “You enjoyed the love and protection of your father. I’ve not had the same affection from mine, and yet I still love him and forgive him his mistakes. He is the only father I have. Do not expect me to question Arthur on what he may or may not have done to insult you in the distant past!”

  “Never fear, Clara, I am well aware of the limits of your curiosity regarding your father.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing.” He looked away, darkly. “I’m not interested in talking about the past.”

  “Then what are you interested in?” She cried out, exasperated.

  Branson whirled to face her. “You! I am interested in you.”

  “Don’t make fun of me,” Clara said in a low, even voice. “I know what I am. You do not need to add sarcasm to your list of humiliations of my person.”

  Hamilton moved to the edge of the bed and lifted her chin to meet his eyes. “I don’t want this. You have distracted me from my business. I could not concentrate today for thinking about you.” His searing, steady gaze held hers for a brief moment and then flicked away. “I wish I could be the man you deserved.”

  Clara’s eyes lifted to a point over his head. Even in the low firelight, Branson could discern the smoky greens of the iris. Her lashes were a long fringe of charcoal that almost touched the straight black brows framing her eyes. Suddenly, very much, Branson wanted those eyes fastened on his, to see her innocence transform to rapture and to the dawning awareness of womanhood as he entered her.

  “Clara,” he murmured thickly. “Are you still willing?”

  Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Clara nodded her head.

  Chapter Nine

  HIS BODY was strange to her, his skin, the hair on his chest, his masculine smell—it was all so strange and different. And then between his legs—she hadn’t wanted to look but her eyes had a will of their own. Branson was well-endowed.

  Branson Hamilton was exceedingly well-formed all over, she thought dimly. Strachan was considered a well-built man, but he had not Branson’s size. She suffered with feeling both physically helpless in her cousin’s arms and supremely safe.

  Perhaps, just maybe, she could allow herself to trust him.

  Branson, for his part was examining his cousin just as closely. Clara’s taut breasts filled his hands. Her perfect skin was silken, radiant, and smelled of musk and meadows. He drank in her nakedness from the delicate collar bones to the high, firm breasts, their rosy nipples peaking in the cool night air. He hesitated and then bent over one satin bud and brushed it with his lips.

  Clara gave a short sharp intake of breath. Branson looked at her. She recovered quickly, hiding her curiosity, but he had seen she was aroused and puzzled by the sensation. He caught one nipple in his mouth and gently suckled. The girl arched her back and moaned.

  “Oh my. Oh dear. Not this again.” She closed her eyes and drew an arm over her face.

  Her belly was flat and smooth, like a skim of cream. His eyes drifted still further down to the triangle of silky brown hair nestled between her thighs.

  Choking back an oath, Branson eased on top of her. He wanted to kiss her swollen red mouth but he caressed her cheek instead and whispered: “There will be pain as this is your first time but it won’t last long.” He parted her legs with his knee. “Try to relax. You needn’t be ashamed of enjoying physical pleasure.”

  Her hazel eyes had darkened to smoke and her mouth beckoned. No girl could look at man that way and pretend to be unaware of the effect she was having on him. Clara’s lips trembled, her eyes widened, her breasts lifted invitingly. Branson raised himself between her legs and pressed the knob of his cock gently but firmly against the resisting walls of her vagina.

  Clara bit back a cry and clawed the bedspread.

  When he could speak, his voice was hoarse. “I know what you think of me.” Branson pushed, burying the hard smooth glans of his penis inside her womanhood.

  “No, you don’t,” she gasped. “You don’t know me at all.”

  He waited, giving her body time to adjust. His cousin’s pussy was tight and wet. He gritted his teeth and gripping Clara’s ass, Branson lifted her hips to penetrate her deeper.

  “You think I’m immoral. A man who will fuck you, use you and destroy you.”

  Branson thrust his cock inside her, inch by inch, stretching her to take him. The muscles of her vagina contracted around his erection like a fist.

  He glanced at Clara’s young face. Her eyes were wide, staring at him with a mixture of bewilderment and arousal. Branson lost control. He let loose and drove his cock inside her, filling her to the hilt.

  Clara arched, bucking against him as her hymen broke but Branson would not release her. He pounded his cousin’s slick virgin sex that was too small for his size, but he didn’t care—Hamilton was riding a wave of lust and revenge that had been leashed for too long. Months of planning Clara Hamilton’s seduction had unmanned him.

  The wave broke over him too soon.

  Sexual climax contorted his body in spasms of unspeakable pleasure. At the last second, Branson pulled out. His seed spurted over her belly and breasts.

  He crumpled to the bed, panting and weak.

  Clara burst into tears and drew her knees together. There was a smear of blood between her thighs.

  “The pain will pass soon,” he said gruffly. “Wait here. I’ll bring some water and a towel.”

  Despite all of it—the pain, the blood, the circumstances—Branson knew he had tapped into a wellspring of passion in his cousin. He wondered if she knew how erotically sexual she was and what else her body could do....

  Enough.

  That was enough for one day. His appetite would have to wait. He’d wash her, provide her with a fresh nightgown and let her sleep. She was exhausted.

  And there was another reason he had to leave her alone.

  He was able to pull out this time but Branson doubted he could exercise such self-control if he took her again. He was sure he had not impregnated her. Clara Hamilton was spoiled go
ods but at least she wouldn’t have a baby in her belly when her father learned of her ruin and drove her from his house.

  He returned with the cloth and basin. Clara was stretched on the bed, her skin glistening in the half-light. She gazed at him solemnly as Branson washed the blood from between her legs, dripping warm water down her thighs. She was so vulnerable and exposed. Branson’s skin burned; he wanted to stroke her, caress her, and taste every inch of her perfect flesh.

  Clara rested her hand on his as he drew the cloth between her legs. She looked into his eyes. “Will you stay with me tonight?”

  Her request was disarming. He had not expected her to want him after what he’d done. He assumed his cousin would demand to be left alone.

  Branson cleared his throat. “If you wish.”

  He set the cloth down and climbed into bed beside her. They drew the covers up over their shoulders and lay on their sides, gazing at each other.

  “Are you feeling less pain now?”

  “Yes.” She smiled, showing small white teeth. “I didn’t expect to feel so complete. You said you knew what I was thinking. You were wrong. I don’t think you are immoral. I think you are honest.”

  His throat closed. Branson reached out and smoothed her hair from her forehead. “It’s late. Sleep now. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  She rolled to her side of the bed and he listened until her breathing became regular and deep. Branson lay on his back with his arms folded under his head and watched the shadows stretch across the ceiling.

  He was sixteen when his mother died. Leonard Hamilton became both father and mother to him. Without his adopted father’s love, Branson would have been swamped with grief. Clara did not receive a fraction of the love he’d enjoyed from her own father. What made her so willing to forgive the past and Branson so unwilling?

  For the past seven years, he believed the reason Clara Hamilton did not speak out was because she was the spoiled pet of Arthur Hamilton. But it was seven years ago that she started stammering.

  Was there another side to his cousin’s story?

  Branson controlled the rise of fury and pity he felt for her. Stupid, gullible girl. Of all of them, Clara Hamilton was the only one who troubled his conscience. She was just a child at the time.

  A clever, inquisitive child who had lied to protect her father.

  When Branson remembered her crime, his heart hardened, his intention was restored and his resolve fixed. He would destroy her along with her father, brother and mother.

  Clara Hamilton only had one thing of value that, if taken, would ruin her.

  And he had taken it.

  §

  CLARA WATCHED from the window of her room. Morning stole across the lawn that spread like a green and gold carpet before her. In the distance, coming toward the Hall, she saw a rider.

  Branson. He had left their bed before the sun was up.

  Her heart leapt to her throat.

  This reaction was too much, she chided herself. But her betrothed looked magnificent on horseback, his cloak over his shoulders and his long legs in riding breeches and tall black boots. Her body thoroughly ached from her cousin’s lovemaking, as though she had been split in two and then reassembled. She felt wonderful.

  This is what it was like to have a husband, she sighed contentedly. Sleeping in the same bed. What bliss it was to feel his heart beating next to hers and to be in the safety of his arms.

  Branson was her betrothed. In the eyes of God, they were man and wife. What did it matter that they were not legally married?

  Clara’s skin thrilled, anticipating seeing him again, listening to him talk over dinner. She enjoyed his voice, the timbre and cadence of his words. Her thoughts drifted to the night ahead when he would take her hand and lead her upstairs to the bedroom. Her nether region responded with a will of its own.

  Oh dear heaven.

  Branson stopped on the rise of the hill and turned in her direction as though reading her mind. Her skin burned, her breath stopped in her chest. Clara flushed when Branson met her eyes over the great distance between them. He was riding alone and she was struck by the solitariness of his life, the lack of servants, friends, and women. It must be said that for all his faults, Branson Hamilton did not solicit female companionship as other men did.

  He called an instruction to Quince as he approached the courtyard. Branson looked again at her window and waved to her.

  Clara darted through the room in a state of excitement and overwhelming joy. She dressed in her riding habit swiftly, grateful now to Piers for having unpacked her trunk, and flew downstairs to meet her betrothed. Perhaps she was mad, but after last night Clara began to hope that one day, they would be wed.

  Piers stepped out of the dining room and appraised her coolly. “Mr. Hamilton asked me to convey the message that he is waiting for you in the courtyard if you wish to go riding this morning. But I see you have anticipated me. Shall I keep your breakfast until your return?”

  “Yes, thank you, Piers. I’ll just—I’ll go out and meet Mr. Hamilton directly. Thank you.”

  She stumbled into the courtyard, eager to see her cousin, and yet equally anxious not to appear eager at all.

  His face lit up when she ran over the cobbles toward him. Branson was as glad to see her as she was to see him, banishing any misgivings she might have had.

  “Miss Hamilton, good morning.” He grinned. “Quince has saddled a horse for you. Shall we ride over the Down before breakfast?”

  His horse stamped his foot and tugged the bridle at her approach.

  “Stay back, Clara. Gladiator is not fully broken. Even Quince refuses to touch him. I’m the only one who can saddle the wretch. He doesn’t like strangers.”

  Clara disregarded Branson’s warning and drew near the beast. “Gladiator,” she said softly. “We have that in common. I don’t like strangers either, though I’ve always been comfortable with animals. How do you do, Gladiator?”

  Branson and Quince froze in position, waiting for Gladiator to bite her as he had done the stable master and anyone else who dared come near. The horse whinnied loudly and then nuzzled his nose against her shoulder.

  “You might have been killed,” Branson snapped. His pallor had greyed.

  “Oh! I didn’t realize,” she said. Clara examined Gladiator for signs of temperament. “He seems gentle enough.”

  “He is not. Do not take such a risk again. He may not be in good temper the next time.”

  Clara beamed, relishing the notion there would be a ‘next time’. “All right, Branson,” she murmured docilely. “As you wish.”

  Though she had resolved to contain her happiness, Clara wondered why anyone should contain happiness. What use was it held back? Surely, happiness was meant to be let out.

  She mounted the dappled grey the stable master held for her and laughed gaily when the horse tugged on the reins, eager to run.

  Seeing she was a skilled horsewoman, Branson led the way at a gallop across the fields to the open expanse of the Down. There, he slowed to a trot with Clara at his side. The air was clear and sharp. The wind bit her cheeks and lifted her veil.

  “What a marvellous idea,” she said exultantly. “What made you think of it?”

  “I wanted to show you Windemere.”

  “I’ve seen it, cousin,” she said with a laugh. “Edgar and I spent many happy hours here. Don’t you remember me? Don’t you recall how I used to follow you about?”

  “Of course, I do. How could I forget? You called me Bran.” He grinned. “Bran, wait for me! Bran, tell me a story! You were a demanding little miss. Quite the pest.”

  “Oh ho! So you concede that we were friends once.”

  He ducked his head, laughing. “Yes, we were friends once.”

  Clara gazed over Windemere Down with a sigh. The view was soft in the morning light. “It is a perfect day. Beautiful.”

  His eyes were on her. “Yes it is. Beautiful.”

  She smiled broadly and blushed to the r
oots of her hair. He made her feel like the only woman on earth. The only woman for him.

  “I haven’t made love to a woman in many months,” he said.

  “Oh, well, that explains your interest in me.” She laughed. “If there was another young lady in the neighbourhood, I assure you, I would lose all fascination.”

  “I assure you, you would not. Once a pest, always a pest.” He grinned.

  She turned away, unable to hide her pleasure any longer.

  The scenery was breathtaking. “We have ridden a long way, Bran. There was a lake near here, wasn’t there? We swam in it as children.”

  “I taught you the dog paddle as I recall.”

  “Yes!” Her eyes lit up. “You remember it! Bran, show it to me. I’d love to see it again.”

  “All right then.”

  He kicked his heels into the sides of his horse and they galloped over another rise to a dip in the land. The lake lay below, a shining disk of silver in a nest of autumn gold and brilliant yellow. Morning mist rose from its still surface.

  The calm, the eerie stillness of the water troubled Clara. The place held happy memories but there was something disturbing at the edges of her mind. She stared at the water and was stricken with a clammy feeling of dread.

  “Let’s go back,” she said nervously. “Branson, I would like to go now.”

  He gave her a searching look. “Clara, what is it?”

  “I—I don’t know. Something is wrong. Something happened here.”

  She was shaking from head to toe. Her mount reacted to her nerves and paced and wrenched against the reins. The world spun around, and then the sky went black. Clara lost her balance and slipped from the saddle. She fell to the grass like she was boneless.

  Branson swung down to her side. “Clara! You’re white as a sheet. Are you ill?”

  She shook her head slowly, although she wasn’t sure what was wrong. She was terrified of something she couldn’t name.

  Clara’s smile was wobbling but she didn’t try to avoid his puzzled stare. “I’m fine. I’m quite well. I just felt a little dizzy. I’m quite all right now. Help me up.”