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

by Catherine Lloyd

  “I shall c-c-carry on from here, Mr. Schofield.”

  Chapter Three

  THE SOLICITOR hung out of the window, gawping at her as if she was mad.

  “It is not far on foot,” Clara said. “I’ll let Mr. Hamilton know what has happened. The ceremony can take place when you arrive.”

  “You shall do nothing of the sort. Thomas, look at what you have caused with your incompetence!”

  “I beg your pardon, miss.” Thomas grunted, grieved at being blamed for trees coming down. “It will not take long to turn around and come the other way. It is getting dark but if I set the horses at a slower pace, we shall manage over this rough road all right without breaking a leg. It gets that misty and thick with fog after a rain, miss. You’ll be in danger of losing your way.”

  “Slower? I am sorry but I cannot keep Mr. Hamilton waiting at the altar. I feel quite anxious as it is. Another hour and I’ll lose my nerve completely. My mind is quite made up. Do not worry. I am stronger than I look.”

  With Thomas’s assistance, Clara clambered over the tree while Schofield looked on. Glad to be released from the carriage and Schofield’s knife-edged pity, she set off down the path that wound through the forest.

  §

  THE FOREST path was cut for the villagers over a hundred years ago to access what had once been a lively parish. It had not been used in decades and was clearly not a road a carriage was meant to travel. The terrain was overgrown and there were mud holes to avoid. The fog made it difficult to see her way forward.

  At last, the wooded path opened to a meadow and the chapel was directly ahead. On impulse, Clara picked some wild flowers, still vibrant with colour even as autumn crept over the land.

  The stone chapel was in sad disrepair. The ravages of time and neglect were starkly evident. Its gothic arched windows were thick with grime. Mr. Schofield did not exaggerate its decrepitude. Even the meadow had been allowed to grow up around it. The rain had stopped and though it was not yet dark, the wedding chapel appeared sinister, hunkered against the black evergreens like a toad. It could’ve been her fancy but the panes of stained glass seemed to wink at her with malevolent glee as she approached.

  “Mr. Hamilton? Are you there? We were delayed by a tree on the road. I pray you were not inconvenienced. Mr. Hamilton—Branson?”

  Clara approached the thick oak door that was fastened to the frame by medieval iron hinges. Gingerly, she pushed it open.

  There was very little light. Candles were not lit, indeed she could find none. The chapel was empty except for Branson Hamilton who stood at the front of the altar.

  “Mr. Hamilton! Thank goodness.”

  She removed her velvet jacket and bonnet and rushed to his side. Clara smiled with shy happiness at the man she would soon call husband. “I paused to pick a bouquet. Tilly tells me a bride must have flowers to carry down the aisle. I’m not sure why. I’m sorry I kept you waiting. Will the vicar be along soon?”

  Her wedding dress had suffered on the climb over the fallen tree. Clara hastily brushed off the worst of the mud and adjusted the flounces and ruffles.

  “I’m grateful for the protection of my mantle or the damage would be much worse!” She laughed. “It was quite a journey. I wonder how many brides arrive at the altar in such a fashion, lunging out of the forest like a wild woman in a state of disarray to meet one’s groom!”

  Her laughter faded when she saw her cousin was examining her dispassionately. Clara recalled that Branson had a reputation for being unstable when he was crossed. She shivered.

  “The vicar is not here yet? Did he tire of waiting for me to arrive?”

  “He did not tire. The vicar was not called.”

  “I don’t understand. How are we to be married without the vicar presiding?”

  “We will not be married, Clara. There is not going to be a wedding.”

  Branson Hamilton’s cousin glanced behind her as though hoping this was a joke and for a moment, he experienced a twinge of conscience. He could see Clara had gone to trouble to prepare for her wedding day. Her shining brown hair was parted in the middle and smoothed over her brow. Fashionable curls framed her face. Her cheeks were warm from exertion and fresh air.

  She looked rather well, Branson thought. Better than she did in London. Clara had the benefit of youth, flawless skin and bright hazel eyes to elevate her looks. Her appearance was rather tolerable at this second meeting.

  “But—but Mr. Schofield will be arriving soon to act as our witness. How are we to explain this to him?”

  “Mr. Schofield will not be arriving. I daresay he is at the village by now where he will take rooms before continuing on to his home in Wedmore. There is no one at the Hall either. It is just us here, Clara—and there will not be a wedding.”

  Her complexion turned white as lime and her dark eyes stood out in stark relief. Clara Hamilton trembled and Branson could see the effort she was making to remain calm.

  And then without warning, she hurled the flowers in his face. “If you thought to humiliate me with this evil trick, you will be disappointed!”

  She snatched up her mantle and bonnet. Her colour returned, rising up from her neck to the roots of her hair.

  “Being stood up at the altar will do me little harm. It was a small and petty deceit you have performed here, sir. I cannot think why you went to the trouble. I have no influence with my father and you are already in possession of Windemere. There is nothing to gain by pretending to offer marriage.”

  She turned and marched to the door. Clara pulled on the heavy latch and disappeared into the foggy dusk.

  Branson was unconcerned. The girl would not get far; night was coming on. Her choices were either the forest or return to the Hall with him. The chapel was within an easy walking distance of Windemere Hall. Clara Hamilton might be unbalanced but she was not stupid.

  He found her hesitating at the end of the path, clearly weighing her options.

  “This way, cousin,” he called to her cheerfully and cut a path across the meadow. “You’d better come along to Windemere now that you’ve got this far. Dine with me. I shall enjoy getting to know you again. You were only a girl when I saw you last. We shall reminisce over old times. Come on! It is my company or that of the wolves and I can assure you, I don’t bite.”

  She followed in silence until Windemere Hall emerged on the rise of the hill.

  Clara Hamilton gasped as its stone façade came into view, towering majestically against the dark green forest that was dotted with the soft yellows of autumn. An emerald lawn spread out before the house like a velvet cape.

  “Windemere ... it is unchanged,” she said breathlessly. “It is magnificent. As beautiful as I remember—”

  She fell strangely silent.

  “What do you remember, Clara?”

  “Nothing. Nothing.” She bit her lip and spun around. “There was a lake nearby. We used to swim in it when we were children.”

  “It is still there,” Branson said brusquely. “Let’s get inside. I think it is going to rain.”

  Clara stepped over the threshold just as the storm broke.

  §

  HER COUSIN made Clara intensely nervous. They were alone at the Hall. His servants were day labourers from the village, employed only to open the house and cook Mr. Hamilton’s meals when he was at home. There was no one living at the Hall except Branson.

  “I prefer it that way,” he said. He was crouched at the hearth, coaxing the kindling to a blaze. A meal was laid on a small table nearby. “My needs are simple.”

  He stood when the fire was burning to his satisfaction. “Allow me to take your cloak. Sit down. You must be hungry.”

  He removed the mantle from her shoulders and draped it over a narrow settee. She refused to sit, choosing to stand and watch him instead.

  Branson Hamilton wore a black frock coat that fit his broad shoulders to perfection. The high collar and white silk at his throat drew her eye to his square jaw, high cheekbones and
compelling blue eyes. His crown of golden hair distracted one from his brows that were knitted together in a scowl.

  “Are you frightened?”

  Clara snapped. “You know that I am. Edgar told me you have admirers. You are rich, handsome and clever. I do not have your gifts. From the start I suspected that your proposal was too good to be true. There is little in me to tempt such a man as you into wedlock. Your cruelty was unnecessary, cousin.” She faltered and dropped her gaze. “I have done you no harm.”

  “You have harmed someone dear to me.” He stood at the hearth and stared morosely into the blaze. “So much so that I mean to hurt you in return.”

  Clara’s hands began to shake and she lowered herself to the chair. “There were other ways than a false marriage proposal. I am not a fortress. I am only a girl.”

  “You are also a daughter. Arthur Hamilton’s daughter. I believe you would do anything to help your father.”

  She lifted her face. “I would.”

  He turned fully and looked her square in the eye. Branson put his hands behind his back and planted his feet in a wide stance. His eyes glittered in the low light.

  “Prove it. Take your clothes off. Here. Now. Undress for me and I will keep Arthur Hamilton out of prison. Refuse and I shall stand up at the stockholder’s meeting on the first of October and expose his crime to all of the investors.”

  Her breath choked in her throat and her flesh felt scalded. Clara jumped to her feet and pressed her fingers to her cheeks to cool them. “Why are you doing this?” she cried frantically. “What have done to offend you?”

  “What you have done does not signify. It is what you are willing to do that matters,” said Branson. “What lengths are you willing go to save Arthur from prison?”

  “That isn’t fair! What you are asking is impossible,” she cried. “I am not your wife. I cannot.”

  “No one outside of these walls knows that you are not my wife. Your family believes this is your wedding day. It follows that this must be your wedding night. There is nothing wrong with undressing for the man you have married. And if no one is the wiser, there can be no objection. What I ask is possible, reasonable and desirable. Begin with your collar button if you please. You will find it is not as difficult as you think.”

  “No. You are my cousin.”

  “That is no objection. I was going to be your husband. Do you want to help your father or shall I tell him that he has you to blame for his fall from grace?”

  Clara stood irresolutely by the fire, conscious of the silence in the great hall, of the dark shadows in the corners and the isolation she found herself in with Branson Hamilton.

  “Are you absolutely certain there no one else in the house?” Clara indicated the dinner laid on the small table, a simple meal of beef stew and a loaf of bread; nevertheless, someone must have prepared it.

  “Piers acts as butler and jack-of-all trades; he made the stew. Quince is my stable master and driver. There is no female in the house, if that is your concern. I’ll not have a woman on the premises.”

  “Because you know what you are doing is wrong. You cannot hold me here. I’ll not stay, Branson.”

  “Suit yourself.” Branson took a seat and bent over his bowl of stew. “Remove your wedding gown, let me see you naked, and then you may go to hell for all I care.”

  She stared at him, not believing her ears. Branson seemed oblivious to her stunned silence and continued to eat lustily. She had never witnessed a man so unabashedly open in his appetites. Her cousin’s loathsome nature seemed to worsen every vile minute she spent in his company. Clara could have snatched up the poker and bashed in his skull.

  Her hand twitched at her side.

  “Do it,” he said in a low voice as if reading her mind. “Revenge yourself against me. Only consider this: you have not stuttered since your arrival. Whatever the cause of your anxiety, it is not me who frightens you. My conscience is clear.”

  She opened her mouth to frame an argument but none came. It was true, she was horrified by his blackmail demand—but the blackmailer himself did not frighten her.

  Branson Hamilton set his bowl down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He stood, towering over her, and then bent to whisper in her ear. “I believe you want me to see you naked, cousin,” he said seductively. “I can see it in your eyes. We are the same, you and I. Not so different in our appetites after all.”

  “That’s absurd. I only want to help my father,” she breathed. His mouth was very near to hers. “Do you swear—do you swear an oath as a gentleman that you will not hurt him. Swear, and I will do as you ask.”

  “I swear, but not as a gentleman for I am not a gentleman. I’ll swear as your cousin. On my oath, cousin, I will not harm your father for your sake.”

  “Then I will undress. Nothing more.”

  She removed her bonnet and set it on the settee beside her cloak, stalling for time.

  “Unpin your hair. I want to see it loose.”

  Branson Hamilton’s eyes reflected the flames roaring on the hearth. He would not relent. He returned to his chair and sat down in a reclining position. Taking his ease, he folded his hands over his middle, and watched.

  CLARA RELEASED her hair from its combs and then opened the satin buttons of the bodice, one by one, gaining strength and courage with each.

  To give Branson what he wants will do no harm and could do much good, she reasoned. Her cousin would not tell anyone and risk being branded a villain. Her father would have the backing he required to keep out of prison and he’d know Clara was responsible for saving him. Gaining Arthur’s love and approval was paramount. All else paled in comparison. She was unlikely to marry in any case and her virtue was worthless without a suitor.

  Branson turned slightly in his chair. His handsome profile was caught in the firelight. This view of him was lascivious and far more sinister than the boy she remembered. The man forcing her to disrobe was Branson Reilly. Her cousin’s twisted alter ego was reflected in the heated look in his eyes.

  Clara wondered at her own twisted nature. She had not fainted or fallen down weeping as heroines did in novels of seduction and defilement. She had no soft feelings for her cousin but she was intrigued by his deep commanding presence. The act of stripping for him violated every code of society. And yet ... and yet....

  “You are despicable,” she said quietly as the last button was released. For all her brave reasoning, tears rolled silently down her cheeks.

  “I am as you find me,” he said coolly. “Now remove the bodice, if you please. Do not imagine your tears will change my mind. I have a great deal of money and no woman to enjoy. I will not beg you, cajole you, flatter or bully you. Remove your clothes for the offer on the table or remove yourself from my home. I will not keep you under my roof after this.”

  Clara lifted her chin. It steadied her to hear the cold tone in his voice. His callous treatment of her feelings was better than the wheedling of a hypocrite. Branson Reilly did not desire anything more than the sight of her breasts. He did not pretend to like her and she need not pretend to like him. If anything, Clara would give him cause to regret his lust.

  She loosed the stays on her corset and then wrenched the lace chemise open. Her breasts sprang free, unbound, and jiggled embarrassingly wanton and large. Clara risked a glance at Branson. Her skin burned when she met his eyes.

  Branson Hamilton wore his lust for his cousin naked and unabashed on his face. His long legs sprawled open, clad in tan breeches and high black boots that were caked with mud. His black coat was open and the white silk collar gleamed against his dark neck.

  The bulge between his legs grew harder and larger before her eyes.

  “You are beautiful,” he said in a thick voice. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a woman half so beautiful. I wonder if there anything you would refuse me if it would help your father. I am astonished at your boldness, Clara. How much more will you wager to save our precious Arthur?”

&n
bsp; Chapter Four

  “YOU PROMISED, Branson. You swore on our relationship you would not ask more of me than this. I cannot explain the duty of a daughter to her family to a man like you. You are incapable of understanding. Whatever you wanted from me, you have received it. I am not your friend and I am not your lover.”

  “True, but you are not fully naked either,” Branson replied carelessly. “Remove your skirt and whatever else you have on underneath and do it quick. I’m impatient to see my shy little cousin’s legs and buttocks.”

  Clara wrenched at the gored glacé silk with a sob remembering how her mother had picked it out believing her daughter would be married in it. She raised her eyes to the ceiling and swiftly dropped the garment to the floor, followed by the crinoline petticoat. All that remained were the silk stockings rolled up to her thighs, her white kid-leather boots, and the drawers made of gossamer-thin satin that were chosen especially for her wedding night. Her mother had said she must let her husband remove those.

  “You want this experiment to proceed as much as I do,” growled Branson. “We are alone and far from London; we’ll make our own rules here. Take off your drawers, Clara. Let me look at you.”

  Recalling her mother’s solemn instruction gave her courage. She faced her cousin. “If you want to see more of me, you will have to take these off yourself. That privilege was reserved for my husband.”

  Branson hesitated as though expecting a trick. Then he rose to his feet and stood in front of her. Firelight flickered across his face. She felt his hands on her waist. His eyes locked with hers as he pushed the silk garment down over her hips to her ankles. Clara rested her hand on his shoulder to keep her balance and stepped out of the drawers.

  She was naked from her thighs to her hair.

  “You must not touch me,” she breathed. “You may look your fill until your eyes burn out of their sockets, but you must not touch me.”