A Woman of Passion Page 3

  Cavendish was so gallant, he had Margaret eating out of his hand in seconds. His devilish gaze flicked over Bess in the far corner, and she knew immediately his words were meant for her.

  “Forgive me for coming uninvited, but I haven't been able to get you out of my mind since yesterday.”

  “Cavendish, you are a flatterer and a rogue. It's been far too long since we've seen you.”

  “You are even lovelier than I remember.”

  Bess's mouth curved into a smile as she lowered her eyes and bent her head over her work.

  William's glance fell on the sleeve that Lady Zouche had been embroidering. “I've interrupted your needlework. Tudor roses—I had no idea you were so talented.”

  “ 'Tis a gift for Lady Frances; we are invited to Chelsea next week.”

  “I, too, am invited. I was going to decline, but you have quite changed my mind. Suddenly, I cannot wait.”

  His voice was deep and, to Bess, held a wealth of hidden meaning. If he did not stop, Lady Zouche would suspect something. She must find a way to warn Cavendish to guard his wicked tongue. When a footman came in with wine and wafers, Bess jumped up quickly, relieved the servant of the tray, and brought it forward.

  “Thank you, dear child.” Lady Zouche picked up a wineglass and, turning her back on Bess and Cavendish, carried it to a side table across the room.

  With her back to Lady Zouche and a forbidding look of disapproval on her face, Bess offered him the tray and whispered, “Stop!”

  His eyes glittered with amusement. He knew Margaret could neither hear him nor see what he did. “No,” he murmured. He noticed the drop of blood on her finger, quickly raised it to his lips, and sucked.

  Bess yelped and almost dropped the tray. She felt her cheeks begin to burn. He really was a damned rogue to toy with her right under Lady Margaret's nose. She could be dismissed on the spot.

  “Is something wrong, Bess?” The question was sharp with suspicion.

  “Yes, my lady, I'm afraid I've spilled the wine.” Bess very deliberately tipped the glass so that it splashed over Cavendish, then bit her lip at her own daring. “Forgive me, sir. I'll get a footman.” Bess glanced up into his eyes and saw that her deliberate act had not angered him; rather, it had challenged him.

  Though the village of Chelsea was only a few scant miles upriver from the city of London, it was considered to be in the country. Here, too, sumptuous mansions had been built along the river, but all were surrounded by meadows, beyond which lay dense woods.

  Magnificent Shrewsbury House, which was owned by the Talbots, one of the wealthiest noble families in England, was at Chelsea, and opposite Kew Gardens was the enormous, square Syon House, which belonged to the Dudleys. Just a mile away, the tall, slender brick towers of Richmond Palace rose above the Thames, and farther upriver lay the resplendent and incomparable Hampton Court Palace.

  Bess was so thrilled about the Chelsea visit, she hadn't been able to sleep. The anticipation of being in the company of Rogue Cavendish made her dizzy with excitement, yet at the same time it disturbed her. She knew that she had caught his fancy, but he was a man of the world and it might be hard to hold his interest, and more difficult still to get him to declare himself. She knew she must walk a fine line and not step over the boundaries of propriety, but skirt the edges close enough to make him want her. Bess shivered at the thought.

  Chelsea Palace took her breath away. The rooms were spacious, with many windows to let in the light, and her imagination took flight. Bess decided that when she built her dream house, it would have more glass windows than walls.

  Frances Grey greeted Bess just as warmly as she welcomed Margaret Zouche and her daughters, making no distinction between her noble friend and her daughters' companion. Everyone, especially Bess, loved Frances for her easygoing manner and lack of pretention, rare qualities in one of royal blood. Frances had a beautiful face and lovely golden hair, but her figure was full and could only be described as plump.

  Even though Chelsea Palace had scores of servants, Frances had brought along so many ladies-in-waiting, nursemaids, and governess–companions for the Grey children, who were slightly younger than the Zouche girls, that Bess realized she would have few duties to perform apart from sitting with the two friends while they indulged in endless gossip.

  Over the past year Bess had learned every scandalous detail of Henry Tudor and his royal court. She knew all about Anne Boleyn's imperious manner, sulfurous moods, and deformed little finger. She learned that Anne had kept the king panting after her for six long years without letting him bed her. When Anne did finally give in, he got her with child immediately, then moved heaven and earth to marry her. Frances had chuckled and said, “It was easy for Anne to deny Henry intercourse, for she loved Harry Percy and didn't give a fart for the king—oh, sorry, Margaret, I meant to say she didn't give a fig for the king.”

  Bess also had heard all the disparaging remarks Henry had made about not wanting to ride that “Flanders mare”—Anne of Cleves, his fourth wife—and she had also learned every indiscretion ever committed by the wanton little Catherine Howard, his fifth. Now she sat listening as Frances divulged the very latest gossip.

  “When Thomas Seymour returned from his mission to Germany, Catherine Parr fell into his bed like a peach … well, perhaps more like a persimmon, with that prim mouth and air of respectability she pretends.”

  Margaret interjected, “I didn't know Lord Latimer had died—”

  “He hasn't, but I warrant his days are numbered!”

  “Oh, Frances, how can you say such things?”

  “Because I know for a fact Henry has propositioned her! She confided it to her sister, in strictest secrecy. Naturally her sister couldn't wait to tell me.”

  “Oh, poor Catherine.”

  “Don't feel too sorry for her, Margaret. She's been married to two rich, old husbands and knows to perfection how to manage men. She's learned how to suck more than persimmons. Catholic too,” sniffed Frances, who was staunchly Protestant.

  “But if she loves Thomas Seymour—”

  “God's balls, Margaret, love pales into insignificance when pitted against ambition. Why settle for the king's brother-in-law, when the king himself waggles his weapon?”

  “You think she has aspirations to be queen?”

  “I do. What does she have to lose besides her head?” Frances slapped her plump thigh with mirth, and Bess bit her lips to keep from laughing at such shocking irreverence.

  “But if he is having his way with her, he has no need to wed her,” Margaret pointed out.

  “I didn't say he was having his way with her; I said he had propositioned her. Catherine is wise enough to let him dip his dickie once, then cut him off. Cockteasing is still the surest method of trapping a husband.”

  Bess sat listening, absorbing the noblewomen's lessons about men. She felt disappointed when Lady Margaret's daughters came running into the salon and interrupted the conversation.

  “May we please go to the stables with Lady Jane, Mother? She has a new white palfrey.”

  “Bess will go with you, but you must promise to be careful.”

  Frances assured her friend, “There are dozens of grooms, Margaret; your young ladies will be perfectly safe.” She smiled at Bess. “You must select a mount for yourself while you're down there; we are having a hunt tomorrow.”

  Bess's spirits soared.

  “Oh, I don't think we will join you, Frances. I haven't ridden since I was in Derbyshire last year,” Margaret demurred.

  Bess's spirits plummeted.

  “Lud, Margaret, if I can cram my bulk into a saddle, you can make the effort. No one shall be excused; everyone rides, children and all. Let the bloody grooms earn their pay.”

  Inside the vast stables the girls discovered a litter of kittens nesting in the hay. They swooped them up in their arms with cries of delight and carried them outside. So that the mother cat would not be distressed, Bess picked her up and began to stroke he
r with murmured endearments. The black and white feline, unused to such gentle attention, nestled in the crook of her arm and began to purr. “Sweet puss, do you like to be stroked?”

  Bess jumped as a shadow loomed above her. The cat took such alarm, it left a long scratch on her thumb as it leapt to safety.

  “Sweet puss,” Cavendish murmured, pleased to see her the moment he rode in and dismounted.

  Bess gasped at the pain in her thumb and at his closeness.

  “Did you come to meet me?” he teased.

  “You have a fine conceit of yourself, sir.” She waved her thumb. “This is the second time you've wounded me.”

  He took her hand and saw the blood upon her creamy skin. For one erotic moment he pictured drops of blood across a creamy thigh, and the urge rose up in him to take her right there in the hay. Instead, he removed his riding glove and stroked her thumb with his, brushing the blood away. He stroked again. “Do you purr?”

  She looked him directly in the eye. “I have claws.”

  “Sheathe them,” he murmured huskily. Sheathe me! he invited silently.

  Bess lowered her lashes, knowing they were long and dark and pretty. “We shouldn't be alone.” With cool deliberation she pulled her hand from his.

  “If I hadn't thought we could be alone together, I wouldn't have come. Besides, we're not alone; we're in a stable filled with grooms and children.” Cavendish turned and spoke to his manservant, who hovered at a discreet distance. “Take my bags up, James. I'll follow shortly.”

  Bess stepped away and spoke to him over her shoulder. “Lady Frances bade me choose a mount for tomorrow's hunt, but I haven't yet decided if I'll join the chase.”

  He closed the distance between them, took her arm, and led her down a row of horse stalls, in the opposite direction from the girls. “Do you ride well?”

  “I like to ride astride,” she confided.

  He stopped walking and stared down at her. Already aroused, he found her words acting upon him as an aphrodisiac. The serious look on her face told him she was not being deliberately provocative, she was simply stating a fact, but her facts were exciting him in a very primal way. He looked in to a few more stalls. “You'll have to ride sidesaddle tomorrow. Here's a little mare with clean lines that will serve you very well.”

  Bess saw that the chestnut horse was undistinguished in any way, and her glance strayed to more showy animals.

  “Wear green tomorrow,” he said.

  Taken aback by his remark, Bess turned to look at him. He was gazing at her with an expression of intense interest.

  She loved green because it provided such a flattering contrast to her fiery-red hair. But why did he want her to wear green? “Is green your favorite color, sir?”

  “Green will blend in with the trees to make us invisible.”

  “Oh!” She gasped in surprise, suddenly comprehending why he had suggested the unremarkable mount for her. A small flame of hot anger kindled inside her as it occurred to Bess that he was well-versed in such matters as arranging clandestine assignations with women. Was Rogue Cavendish a practiced womanizer? Was she out of her depth? Her eyes moved over his broad chest, across his wide shoulders, and came to rest on his sensual mouth. Then she wondered what it would feel like to be kissed by this powerful, attractive man. Suddenly, Bess couldn't bear the fact that other women knew, while she did not. But she felt her anger subside as she realized a man should be experienced in these matters. What good would he be otherwise?

  Lifting her eyes to his, she saw that he was amused. He was so attractive, he could probably have his pick of any woman in Court circles, yet for some reason his fancy had settled on her. Clearly he had seduction in mind, and she'd be willing to bet he was a man who enjoyed the chase. The enormous challenge he represented was too much for Bess to resist. The corners of her mouth lifted. This might be a game to him, but she was deadly serious. She wanted him every bit as much as he wanted her, possibly more, though not for the same reasons. Cavendish would be an extraordinary feather in her cap.

  “I've decided to join the chase after all, sir.”

  “Elizabeth”—he said her name like a caress—“you may call me William.”

  “William,” she said slowly, testing the name on her lips, and liking the taste of it. Then she tossed her curls and pertly added, “You may call me Mistress Hardwick.”

  THREE

  As Bess helped Lady Zouche dress for dinner, the older woman fretted, “I've no notion what I can wear tomorrow.”

  “I packed your riding habit and a pair of your favorite boots, Lady Margaret.”

  “You are so competent, Bess. However did you think of it?”

  “Your daughters insisted I pack theirs. They said everyone rides at Chelsea.”

  “I finally learned the reason Frances moved upriver this week. The king has moved the Court to Hampton, and she was afraid of missing something.”

  “Hampton Court Palace,” Bess said with reverence. “How I would love to see it.”

  “And so you shall, my dear. We are going there on Thursday. Little Lady Jane Grey has been invited to reside there and be tutored with the royal children. Frances wants to inspect their apartments and living quarters. She isn't sure if she will let her go this year or wait until next.”

  “Lady Jane is very young,” Bess said, trying to contain the excitement she felt.

  “She's the same age as Prince Edward, and the cousins are very fond of each other. The king thinks his son would benefit from a playmate. Surrounded by adults, he has become far too serious, like a little old man. Frances has confided that there is an understanding between her and the king to betroth the royal children if they seem suited, and of course if Lady Jane is to be Edward's future queen, it makes a good deal of sense to educate them together.”

  Bess thought it was a match made in heaven, for Lady Jane reminded her of a little old woman, but she had more sense than to voice such an opinion.

  “I think it's acceptable for you to dine with us, Bess. Frances has such liberal ideas, she doesn't expect her ladies to go to the servants' hall.”

  “I'll take a tray with the girls, my lady, then see them safely to bed.” Bess knew she would never be able to eat with Cavendish's bold eyes on her. Let him wait and wonder where she was; it would do him good!

  Two hours later Bess changed into a dark violet gown and pinned her curls high on the crown of her head. She had no jewels, but she did have a small fan she had embroidered with silk violets. She took the long way downstairs, stopping in each regal chamber to admire the treasures and furnishings displayed so elegantly here at Chelsea.

  Bess had a deep and abiding passion for beautiful things. She stood before a medieval tapestry depicting a hunt scene and marveled that it had been lovingly preserved through the centuries. Royalty never let anything out of its clutches once it had been acquired. Bess understood such behavior. If ever she was fortunate enough to possess something of value and beauty, she would treasure it forever and ensure that it would be passed down to her children and her children's children.

  She saw that the dining hall was empty and the company had moved into a long gallery lit by myriad candles. Music floated down from a minstrels' gallery. As she paused on the threshold, Bess pretended this all belonged to her … her liveried footmen serving wine, her musicians, her guests.

  While Lady Frances was ordering the servants to set up card tables—she knew full well that men much preferred gambling to dancing—William Cavendish came up behind her and fondly slipped his arms around her. She smiled up at him. “What shall it be, whist?”

  He put his lips close to her ear and murmured suggestively, “I want to play with her—the little redhead who just arrived. Be a darling and arrange it for me, Frances?”

  “She is a rather tempting morsel.”

  “She tempts me,” Cavendish admitted.

  Frances was willing to indulge him. She liked Bess, the girl was unusually bright and high-spirited, and it would b
e diverting to watch the byplay and see how well she acquitted herself. Frances watched Bess seek out Lady Margaret, and a sly idea popped into her head immediately. Knowing how much her friend detested cards, Frances pounced on her. “We need a fourth for whist, Margaret.”

  “No, no, I dislike the pasteboards. John should be here, somewhere.” She looked beseechingly at Bess. “Has Lord John arrived yet?”

  “No, my lady.”

  “Come, Margaret, it shall be Henry and I against you and Cavendish.”

  Margaret paled. “I couldn't. I would try his patience beyond bearing.”

  “Then perhaps Bess will help me out?”

  “Yes, yes, Bess, do attend Lady Frances.”

  “But I have no skill, my lady.”

  “Nonsense, a clever girl like you will pick it up in a trice.” Frances took her arm and led Bess down the salon.

  The two men greeted Bess, and Henry Grey, with his impeccable manners, helped her into a chair.

  “Bess may partner me since she doesn't know how to play.” Frances sat down facing her and the two men took their seats. Cavendish picked up the cards, shuffled them, and informed Bess, “We'll play long whist. We use all fifty-two cards; each player gets thirteen.” He dealt them out one after the other in rotation. “A game is for ten points—the holding of the honor cards is counted.”

  Bess nodded her head, even though she didn't fully comprehend. She focused her complete attention on Cavendish, listening to his every word, watching his every move. Gradually, it came to her that each pair of partners tried to take tricks. The ladies lost every hand against the men, and Bess was grateful that Lady Frances seemed not to mind. Bess grasped the concept quickly, learning the honor cards; then it occurred to her that if she kept track of the cards that had been played, her chances of winning would be vastly improved.

  They changed partners so that Bess and Henry Grey were pitted against Lady Frances and Cavendish. “Enough pissing about, Henry, it's time to play for stakes. Rogue and I will clean you out!” Frances declared.