That was Clara Hamilton’s first thought upon waking in Branson’s bedchamber, alone. And then she remembered how she came to be alone. They had quarrelled. She told him to get out. Branson did as she asked, for once. Branson Reilly-Hamilton. Her cousin. Her betrothed. Her jailer. She could bear anything but a lie, but she could bear his pity even less. A lie, she could forgive. Pity was inexcusable. Clara rose wearily from the four-poster bed and put her feet on the floor. She had not slept a wink all night. And Branson—where did he sleep? She crossed to the window and gazed over the Somerset countryside. The view was beautiful beyond compare. Clara’s spirits sank. Branson was not waiting for her on the Down as he had done yesterday, magnificent astride his horse, his cloak lifting behind him like black wings. Yesterday, she almost believed he had feelings for her. How easily she was persuaded! She’d succumbed to his magnetic presence and his possession of her body, never seeing that he was manipulating her to gain her trust—a trust he meant to abuse.
