A Woman of Passion (19 page)

“Does she exercise great influence over the king?”

“Yes, but not by sexual congress, as she thought before they were wed. She is more nurse than lover these days; my father's temper is intolerable. He is a selfish, monstrous tyrant, and Catherine has aged ten years in as many months trying to appease him. Like all his other wives, she is afraid of him.”

“You cannot appease a tyrant,” Bess said quietly.

“Exactly! Thank God I don't need to.” A wild peal of laughter escaped Elizabeth. “I have Catherine to do it for me!”

C
avendish expected to escort Bess to the wedding of William Parr and Elizabeth Brooke, but she refused him. “It is all right to court me in private, but certainly not in public. I shall accompany the Greys,” Bess told him firmly.

Although William Parr was the queen's brother, because of the divorce scandal the wedding had to be a private one rather than a lavish Court affair.

“The bride looks lovely,” Bess murmured to Frances, wishing it were her own wedding.

“Elizabeth Brooke has a very shrewd head on her shoulders. Today, not only did she become Marchioness of Northampton, but the clever little jade made herself sister-in-law to the Queen of England. How's that for sleeping your way to the top?”

Bess's low, sultry laugh caught the attention of the bride's eldest brother, Harry, heir to the Cobham title and fortune. He begged an introduction, then danced attendance on her throughout the celebration. Young Harry Brooke suddenly decided he was in the market for
a wife, and the vivacious flame-haired widow made his blood thicken in his veins.

Cavendish seethed quietly as he sat with his daughter, Cathy, who was espoused to Harry Brooke's younger brother, Thomas. As Bess and Harry danced down the length of the ballroom, Cathy said, “You have acquired marvelous taste in ladies, Father. I liked her the moment I saw her.”

“She had the same effect on me, sweetheart.” William recalled the first time he laid eyes on her from the Suffolk House terrace, and suddenly he wanted to choke his friend Harry Brooke.

“Why don't you ask Bess to dance?”

“Last time she left me standing in the middle of the dance floor, and the little hellcat wouldn't hesitate to do it again.”

A short time later Bess danced the galliard in the arms of Sir John Thynne. The couple were engrossed in deep conversation, seemingly oblivious to anyone else in the room. “Who is that gentleman? He looks familiar,” Cathy asked.

“Too bloody familiar,” Cavendish muttered. “He is my good friend John Thynne, Lord Edward Seymour's property agent. He's building his own country house at Brentford.”

“I hope he isn't looking for a wife,” Cathy said innocently.

Cavendish shot to his feet. “Come, sweetheart, I'll introduce you to him.” When the dance ended, Sir William greeted Sir John warmly. “John, may I present my daughter, Mistress Catherine Cavendish. She's betrothed to young Thomas Brooke, but I'm sure he won't object if Cathy dances with you.”

As Sir John, ever the gentleman, bowed to his friend's
daughter, Cathy and Bess exchanged a highly amused glance. When the music started, Sir John murmured politely, “Would you do me the honor, mistress?”

Sir William bowed formally to Bess and solemnly echoed the question. “Would you do me the honor, mistress?”

Bess bit an amused lip. “I thought older men preferred to sit on the sidelines. Still, it is a coranto, a rather staid measure. I don't suppose you'll do yourself an injury.”

“When you danced the galliard, you gave a shocking display of petticoats and lace stockings.”

For once Rogue Cavendish didn't seem amused, so Bess tried to make him laugh. “Isn't that the whole point of the galliard, to titillate? John is stronger than he looks; I wondered if he'd be up to it.”

“He was
up
, all right, as was every other male who looked at you. I thought your breasts were going to fall out of that low-cut gown!”

“Is that what your eyes were riveted upon?” She gave him a dazzling smile. “Your jealousy would be flattering if it weren't so ridiculous. All we spoke of were houses.”

“A subject that stirs your passion! Did he invite you to Brentford?”

“As a matter of fact he did.”

“And did you accept?” he asked dangerously.

Bess lifted her chin. “As a matter of fact I did.” The music stopped. “Excuse me, Sir William. I promised Harry Brooke the next dance.”

The hour was late by the time the raucous bedding of the newlyweds was celebrated, and at last the guests, flown with wine, began to take their noisy leave. As Bess and Henry helped an unsteady Frances climb up into the Greys' coach, she felt a pair of powerful arms seize her
from behind in the darkness. Before she could cry out, Bess found herself being lifted into a carriage emblazoned with the Cavendish stags. With blazing eyes she watched Rogue Cavendish slide in beside her and slam the door closed. He was not his usual laughing self, and Bess should have been warned by his dark mood. Instead, her temper flashed.

“Is this an abduction? Will you carry me off and rape me?” she challenged.

“God's bones, you invite rape!”

She flew at him, intending to rake his face with her fingernails. He caught her wrists and held them tight as iron manacles. “Stop acting like a common trollop, or I'll take you over my knee.”

“Stop acting as if you own me, for you don't!”

“Splendor of God, it's time I put my brand on you!” He dragged her into his arms and crushed her mouth with his.

Bess bit down on his lip and had the satisfaction of hearing him utter a filthy curse. He did not allow her to free herself from his embrace, however.

“You led those men on to make shameful advances today!”

“There is nothing shameful about them. Their intentions are perfectly honorable. Both have marriage in mind; they are that kind of men.”

“I
am that kind of man!”

Bess knew he was consumed with jealousy. It was the closest he had come to promising her marriage, and she reveled in the feeling of power it gave her.

“I have marked you for mine, and I won't allow other men to fondle you.” This time his mouth was so possessive and demanding, Bess opened her lips with a pleasurable little sigh and allowed his tongue to ravish her.

His hot mouth trailed down her throat, and his lips traced the curves of her breasts where they swelled from her gown. Then suddenly he had her breasts bared, cradling them in the palms of his big hands as his tongue curled about a taut nipple and drew it into his mouth like a cherry.

Bess cried out at the unbelievable sensations he was arousing in her. Her blood was on fire and she went wild, offering him her other breast to feast upon.

“Have you any idea what you do to me?” His deep voice was hoarse and ragged.

“Tell me,” she invited huskily.

“Rather, I'll show you.” He took her fingers and drew them to his swollen groin. He was too big to cup in one hand, and Bess eagerly brought up her other hand to cover his hardness. The moment she touched him, his phallus thrust forward. He lifted her skirt and slid his hand boldly up her leg. When he touched the bare flesh on the inside of her thigh where her stocking ended, Bess shuddered involuntarily.

“Don't, William! I'm still virgin.”

“What the devil are you talking about?” he growled.

“My husband was only a boy, William; I'm not sure the marriage was consummated properly. In any case I still
feel
virgin.”

“Bess, you never cease to amaze me!” William was momentarily stunned, then he became skeptical. “Are you sure this isn't just the wine talking?”

Bess wished she hadn't mentioned her virginity. “I confess I've had far too much to drink, and it has made me behave shamelessly. Fortunately, I know you won't take advantage of me.”

The carriage jolted to a stop, and William withdrew his hand as a liveried Suffolk House footman opened the
carriage door. Cavendish blocked the servant's view to give Bess a chance to pull her bodice up over her naked breasts, then he climbed out and turned to lift Bess to the ground.

The Greys' coach pulled up beside them, and Henry climbed out. “Bess, my dear, would you help me with Frances? She's a little unsteady.”

“I'm not unsteady; I'm randy as a nanny goat. Weddings always have that effect on me! How about you two?” Frances winked owlishly at Bess and William.

As the footman stood at attention, pretending to be both blind and deaf, the humor of the situation struck them and they began to laugh. “She's right,” William whispered in Bess's ear. “I'm randy as a billy goat. I'd better sleep at Court tonight.”

“Henry, I need a good bedding, and Bess, I need you to get me out of these bloody corsets!” Frances declared at the top of her lungs.

The winter season proved to be the busiest in years. November 1546 did not have enough nights to accommodate all the masques, balls, and entertainments in which the nobility wished to indulge.

Cavendish had to journey to Canterbury before winter made the roads impassable. His prime occupation was ferreting out the wealth of the religious orders, which they were adept at hiding. In his absence Bess had many would-be suitors, who vied with each other to partner her when she attended masques thrown by the Dudleys or the Herberts. Yet none of them captured her heart or had the physically devastating effect on her that Cavendish wrought, and by the time he returned in early December, Bess was counting the days.

When Cavendish arrived at Suffolk House, Frances invited him to dine and asked him to join them at Hertford House in Cannon Row. “Edward Seymour and his delightful countess are giving a play tonight to honor the king and queen. I wouldn't miss it; I need a good laugh.”

“I don't believe it's a comedy, my dear,” Henry ventured.

“Don't be obtuse, Henry, it isn't the play that will amuse me but the maneuvering of that rabid bitch, Ann!”

“I thank you for dinner, Frances, but I believe I will forego the play.” He had just come from an interview with His Majesty. Cavendish sat across from Bess, devouring her with his eyes. He could have been eating roast dog for all the attention he paid to his food.

Bess was gowned in pale lavender velvet slashed with silver. She wore the amethysts he had given her, and she knew it pleased him. Bess watched his eyes linger on her half-exposed breasts, then rise hungrily to her mouth. As she watched him she sensed that he wanted to tell her something in private. Suddenly, she didn't want to attend the play she had been looking forward to all week. When dinner was over Bess pressed her fingers to her temples. “I have the headache; perhaps I shouldn't attend the play either.”

Lady Frances stood and shook out her voluminous midnight-blue skirts. “Of course you shouldn't, darling.” Frances lifted an arched brow at Cavendish. “Rogue has an infallible cure for the headache—something about putting your head between your legs, or was it putting his head between your legs—anyway, it's something delightfully ingenious.”

“Frances, you're bloody incorrigible!” Henry rebuked, hurrying her from the room before she said something even more outrageous.

As Cavendish followed Bess up the gilt staircase, he was afforded a glimpse of heliotrope petticoats and stockings. For a moment he was stunned at the outrageously bold color of her underclothes. Such garments were obviously not meant to be hidden but displayed for some man's eyes. Immediately jealous as fire, he wondered whom Bess had been seeing in his absence or, more to the point, whom had she intended to meet tonight?

The moment they entered her private rooms, Cavendish locked the door. When Bess opened her mouth to protest, he said, “You need to be kept under lock and key, I'd say, by the look of your undergarments.”

“What in the world are you talking about?”

He grabbed her hand and pulled her before her mirror. “In that pale lavender and silver you look sweet and innocent as an angel.” He lifted her skirt to reveal her ankles. “But beneath the gown, you are dressed like a harlot!”

Determined not to lose her temper the moment they were alone together, she laughed up at him in the mirror. “And have you much experience with harlots, Sir Cavendish?”

He groaned and slid possessive arms about her. “Did you go to Brentford?”

“Of course.” Bess saw no reason to lie.

“And?”

“It's going to be lovely. Sir John has a feel for houses.”

“To hell with houses! Did he feel you, that's what I want to know? Or did you hold him off with that fictitious virginity tale?”

Her temper flew up the chimney. Bess spun around from the mirror to face him. “Sir John Thynne is a gentleman, which is more than I can say for you!”

Cavendish made a rude noise. “You forget he's a friend of mine.” He refused to believe that she preferred Thynne to himself. “It's his great country house that attracts you, isn't it? Is that what you want, Bess?”

She drew back her hand to slap his arrogant face, but he seized her arm and pulled her roughly into his embrace. Panting furiously, she said, “I gave up an evening in the company of the King of England to be with you tonight. I must be mad!”

“I smell better than Henry Tudor.” Rogue's mouth came down on hers in a kiss that branded her as his. He lifted his mouth a fraction from her lips and murmured, “I just came from an interview with him.”

“The king?” Suddenly her eyes widened with anticipation.

“He just confirmed my seat on the privy council.”

“William!” Bess's arms went up around his neck, and he lifted her from her feet and swung her about the room. “Who else knows?”

“No one but you, Bess. You are the first.”

Her heart melted with joy. “Why didn't you tell me right away, instead of accusing me of dalliance? I swear you provoke my temper apurpose.”

“Perhaps I do. Anger arouses your passion.” He slid his arm beneath her knees and lifted her high so that the pale lavender velvet fell back, revealing her legs.

“You'll ruin my new gown!”

“Then let me remove it. You're longing to show off your harlot's undergarments anyway.”

“They are perfectly respectable!”