A Woman of Passion

by Virginia Henley

  “This is my good friend, William Cavendish,” Henry Grey explained, as his companion elbowed him aside and lifted Bess's hand to his lips.

  She knew her fingers trembled in his big hand, and her legs felt as limp as wet linen the moment he touched her.

  “When did you last see the king?” Cavendish demanded.

  “Never, milord.” Bess withdrew her hand from his and added coolly, “but his portraits are everywhere.”

  “Ahh! All were painted in his prime, when he was at the peak of his vigor and virility. His vanity will not allow his subjects to see him as he really is.”

  Here is arrogance, Bess thought. The man thinks himself better than the king! “All men are vain, milord,” Bess said pointedly.

  It was Henry Grey's turn to laugh. “Touché, Cavendish, you are every bit as vain as the king, and as dissolute,” he murmured to his friend, who took a mistress as casually as he selected a new pair of riding boots.

  With difficulty, Bess tore her glance from the powerful figure of Cavendish. “I have a letter for Lady Frances—”

  “You've missed her, my dear, she's gone off to Dorset House for items she plans to take to Chelsea next week. We have only just returned from Bradgate in Leicestershire. Why do ladies constantly move from one house to another?” he asked quizzically.

  “For the sheer pleasure of it, milord.” Bess smiled. “If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I shall seek out Lady Frances at Dorset House.”

  Cavendish spoke up. “Mistress Hardwick, I have my boat here. Permit me to drop you at Whitefriars' water stairs.”

  Bess couldn't believe her ears. Shrewdly, she covered the eagerness she felt with a show of reluctance. “I couldn't possibly take such shameful advantage of you, milord.”

  Her clever words were provocative, filling his head with wicked thoughts. “Nay, I consider it my duty to provide you with safe escort, mistress.”

  Bess wet her lips. “You offer me safe escort, milord, but who, pray, will protect me from you?”

  “I refuse to take offense,” Cavendish said with a grin. “You are a very wise young woman to exercise caution with the men of London. The Marquess of Dorset here will vouch for my character. I must insist on delivering you safely to Dorset House.”

  Bess said pertly, “If you insist, milord, how can I possibly refuse?”

  It was her first concession to him, and Cavendish vowed it would not be her last.

  “She's very young, Rogue,” Henry Grey reminded his friend, deliberately using his rakish nickname.

  “I'll handle her with the greatest care,” Rogue Cavendish promised with a devilish glint in his eye.

  As they walked down to the river, Bess assessed Cavendish openly. He was a big man with wide shoulders and a broad chest. His face was tanned from being outdoors, and he had a generous mouth that was no stranger to laughter. He had dark auburn hair and warm brown eyes that presently danced with amusement. But Bess was already aware that Rogue Cavendish was cocksure of himself, and she suspected that he was on the prowl for a pretty face. On the positive side, however, he had very influential friends and was showing a marked interest in her.

  He boarded the barge first, then turned to help her. His powerful hands spanned her slim waist as he swung her into the air. Bess snatched off her embroidered cap before it fell into the river, and her glorious hair came tumbling down like molten red gold. As he lifted her to the deck, he gave the impression of sheer brute strength, and once again her knees turned weak.

  The sight of her hair and the feel of her slender body beneath his hands had a marked physical effect on Cavendish. He hardened quickly.

  Bess removed herself from his hands immediately. She was sexually innocent and knew little of male arousals, but she was far too wise to let his actions pass without a rebuke. “Sir, I must protest. I do not permit gentlemen to handle me in such a familiar manner.” She moved to the stern and sat down, spreading her skirts across the padded seat to prevent him from sitting close to her.

  Cavendish grinned down at her and decided to stand. He signaled his bargeman, then braced his well-muscled legs to hold his balance. Men's fashions had been set by the king, designed to show off the male physique with tight hose and wide-shouldered doublets that ended just short of covering a man's most threatening parts.

  Bess didn't seem to notice. She inhaled the tangy scent of the Thames. “I love London; imagine having three houses on the river!” she said, her mind still on the Greys' holdings.

  “Chelsea Palace doesn't belong to the Greys, though they have the use of it. Would you like three houses?” he asked quizzically.

  “Certainly I would. Though just one on the river would satisfy me, I warrant.”

  “I wonder,” Cavendish mused, sensing a powerful ambition that matched his own. How challenging it would be to try to satisfy her. “Do you have a first name?” His tone was still amused.

  She lifted her eyes to his. “Mistress Elizabeth Hard-wick, companion to Lady Zouche. Do you have a title?” she asked him directly.

  Cavendish laughed. “No … not yet. I have to work for a living.”

  “What is it you do, sir?”

  She was so direct, without subterfuge, he found it enchanting. “I am the king's representative with the Court of Augmentation.”

  She recoiled from him. “God's blood, is that anything like the Court of Wards?”

  He considered the question philosophically. “Specifically, I deal with the dissolution of the monasteries, but both courts serve the same purpose: raising vast amounts of money for the Crown.”

  “You steal property!” she accused.

  “Softly, Elizabeth,” he warned. “You may say anything you wish to me, but accusations against the Crown are considered treason. I worked under Thomas Cromwell until he lost his head. I survived his downfall and now work directly for the king, but only because I guard my tongue.”

  Bess leaned forward and confided, “My family owns Hardwick Manor in Derbyshire, but because my brother, James, was a minor when my father died, the grasping Court of Wards stepped in and took it from us until he comes of age.”

  “I'm sorry. There are ways to avoid such losses.”

  “How? My mother protested, but the bloody Court ruled against her,” Bess replied passionately.

  “The property could have been held by trustees. You should have had a lawyer. They are costly but worth every penny. The side with the better lawyer always wins.”

  Bess pondered his words for a moment. “That's a valuable piece of advice you've just given me. Oh, I wish I were a man. The things they teach men are so worthwhile. Lady Zouche's daughters are taught Latin and Italian, which are nearly useless, in my opinion. I persuaded the Zouche steward to teach me to keep the household accounts, a far more practical skill.”

  “For when you run your own vast household,” Cavendish teased.

  “Don't laugh at me, sir. I shall have my own household!” she vowed. “I want to learn so many things … how to buy and sell property, for instance. Oh, I warrant you could teach me a lot. I am insatiable!”

  His groin, finally starting to behave itself, suddenly went wild. Lord God, he thought, the things I'd like to teach you. His mouth curved. “You'd make an apt pupil.”

  They were at Whitefriars' stairs, and perversely William didn't want to let her go. He jumped up onto the stone steps to hand her from the barge. “You have been delightful company, Mistress Elizabeth Hardwick. Lady Zouche is an old acquaintance of mine; it seems high time I paid my respects to her.”

  Bess at last relented and gave him a dazzling smile, perfectly aware that she had engaged his interest.

  TWO

  Later that day, when Bess handed her employer a letter from Frances Grey, she suspected that she was about to be severely scolded for absenting herself all afternoon without permission.

  “Robert Barlow was indisposed, Lady Margaret,” she explained, “so I delivered your letter to Lady Frances myself. She was extremely pleased
to see me, for she had an invitation for you.”

  Margaret Zouche opened the letter and eagerly scanned its contents. “Oh, how lovely. We are invited to Chelsea for all of next week. Frances and I will be able to catch up on the latest gossip! Bess, my dear, there is so much to do, I don't know where to start.”

  “Don't worry about the girls, Lady Margaret. I shall begin packing immediately.”

  “You are so organized, I don't know how I ever managed without you. Come to my dressing room; I should like your advice on what clothes I will need for Chelsea.”

  Bess was delighted. She took a great interest in Lady Zouche's wardrobe and had a natural flair for fashion. When she arrived in London, Bess had owned only one change of clothes, but now, thanks to her wealthy employer, she possessed four dresses. As she accompanied Lady Margaret to her dressing room, Bess decided this was the perfect opportunity to double her wardrobe!

  As the two women looked over dozens of expensive gowns, Bess said casually, “A friend of Lord Dorset bade me carry his regards to you. Now, let me think, could his name have been Cavendale?”

  “Rogue Cavendish! He's Henry Grey's dearest friend and a devil with the ladies. I must include him in my next dinner party; Sir John enjoys his company, and I admit he's set my heart aflutter since I was a girl.”

  Bess looked unsure. “This gentleman seemed older than you, Lady Margaret.” The ploy worked like a charm.

  “That's most flattering, Bess, but I believe we're about the same age. He was widowed when he was quite young … he can't be much more than thirty.”

  “Thirty? When you wear pink you look no older than twenty.”

  “La! Remember the ages of my daughters! I shall take the pink to Chelsea.”

  “Some colors age a woman,” Bess murmured.

  “Really? I never thought of it before. Which colors?”

  “Shades of purple, definitely, and gray is so drab.” Bess stroked an emerald velvet gown covetously. “Green makes the skin look sallow, I think.”

  Lady Margaret gathered up the offending garments. “Here, take them; aging isn't a problem for you, dear child.”

  As Bess hung the precious dresses in her wardrobe, she hummed a merry tune. The sleeves were separate and interchangeable, and in her mind's eye she pictured how striking the green velvet sleeves would be paired with the elegant gray and how vividly the colors would contrast with her blazing hair. Bess had known in her bones that today would be lucky for her. She rubbed her cheek against the velvet and thought breathlessly of Rogue Cavendish. A widower in his thirties! No wonder he had seemed so worldly. And she was going to see him again. There was little doubt that Lady Zouche would invite him and no doubt whatsoever that Cavendish would accept!

  Bess suddenly remembered poor Robert Barlow and ran up to the attic on the fourth floor, where the male servants were boarded. She rapped lightly on the door to his room before opening it. He was lying on his narrow bed. “Are you recovered, Rob?” she asked softly.

  “I feel much better. Thank you, Bess, for what you did today. I wrote a letter home, telling them how good you are to me.”

  She saw the look of adoration on the boy's face and wished he would stop mooning over her. “Next week we are going to Chelsea. You will have an opportunity to rest and regain your strength while we are away.”

  Robert looked crestfallen. “I will miss you sorely, Bess.”

  “What rubbish!” she said impatiently, hurrying off to ready her charges for dinner.

  In the Great Chamber at Whitehall, Henry Tudor entertained his courtiers at dinner. As William Cavendish and Henry Grey pushed their chairs away from the banquet table, the latter remarked, “As has become custom, the food and wine were far too rich and plentiful.”

  Cavendish drained his goblet. “Speak for yourself, Henry. He's catering to the greatest appetites in England tonight, my own included.”

  “I take it you are not referring to food and drink.”

  Cavendish's amused glance swept the hall. “The raw ambition of the people in this room tonight is exceeded only by their lechery.”

  “Your own included,” Henry added lightly, stroking his blond mustache.

  Frances Grey kissed Cavendish. “We're at Chelsea next week; do come, William; I'll arrange a hunt. You didn't come to Bradgate this summer, as you promised, so I won't take no for an answer!”

  As Frances moved off toward the dancing, Cavendish thought the blood sport here tonight would be greater than anything Chelsea had to offer and was glad he had pressing business in Dover. Then he wondered what had put him in such a cynical mood. He was thankful that his occupation involved a good deal of travel and he was not expected to dance attendance at Court regularly. The king had surrounded himself with beautiful females every night since he had beheaded foolish little Catherine Howard, and most of them went willingly to his bed.

  Cavendish saw his old friend, Lord William Parr, just returned from putting down trouble on the Scottish border, and sought his company. Parr was of medium height, but his military bearing and close-cropped beard gave him an air of authority. Cavendish was in time to hear Parr make an assignation with the beauteous Elizabeth Brooke, daughter of Lord Cobham. As she kissed Cavendish, she murmured in his ear, “No tales, Rogue,” so William forebore to tell his friend that she had been spreading her legs for the king.

  “You two seem very cozy,” Parr accused.

  “That is because I have just betrothed my daughter to the lady's brother.” Marriage was the single most important step to advancement in Tudor society, and the espousal of children was a serious business.

  “Splendid!” Parr clapped him on the back. “When I wed Elizabeth, we'll be related.”

  Cavendish did not ask Parr what he planned to do with his present wife.

  Thomas Seymour, the handsomest man at Court, made his way across the room to greet Cavendish and Parr. Seymour's sister Jane had made him brother-in-law to the king, and though Jane was now in her grave along with three of Henry's other wives, the king was extremely fond of his late wife's brother. Thomas put his arms around both men in a friendly gesture. His golden beard curled about his laughing mouth, making him look like a young god just stepped down from Olympus. “Cavendish, you're a bloody genius. Your plunder of the monasteries has made me a wealthy man.”

  “God's death, that incautious tongue of yours will send us all to the block.”

  Seymour roared with laughter, and Cavendish couldn't help but like the good-natured young devil who hadn't a cautious bone in his body. Thomas was enjoying the intimate favors of Lord Parr's sister, Lady Catherine, in spite of the fact that she was wed to old Lord Latimer. Seymour thumped Parr on the back and said outrageously, “Do keep me informed of Latimer's health; the old swine can't hang on much longer.” Wealthy widows were snapped up within a week at Court.

  William Parr looked at Cavendish and quipped, “Christ, before long we'll all be related.”

  When Cavendish caught sight of Lady Catherine Parr Latimer, his gorge rose. Her demeanor was the epitome of respectability, yet she was cuckolding her husband with Thomas Seymour, and according to his friend Frances Grey, Catherine Parr was also the king's latest choice of bedmate. The Court is no better than a brothel—an incestuous one at that!

  William excused himself and made his way down the chamber, for once ignoring the inviting female glances being cast his way. He noted with cynicism the men who never left the king's side. Edward Seymour, Thomas's older brother, was fawning on Henry, while the equally ambitious Lord John Dudley monopolized the conversation. Cavendish walked directly to the lord treasurer, Paulet, who immediately held up his hand to stay William's words.

  “No need to tell me—your fees are late again, my friend. I am buried beneath an avalanche of paperwork and ask you to exercise patience.”

  “I have a solution, my Lord Treasurer. While collecting money for the Crown, I can collect my own fees at the same time. It will relieve your office of unnecessary work. I'll s
till submit my accounts in detail, but they will be marked paid in full.”

  “Yes, I think we can accommodate each other in such a satisfactory manner. I'll get the king's authority for you. You did a most commendable job at St. Sepulchre's in Canterbury.”

  William thanked the treasurer and moved off, gratified to have accomplished the profitable business for which he had purposely come. He contemplated the cardroom and the ballroom, both overflowing with predatory, expensively gowned females willing to lift their skirts for him at the crook of his finger. But for some reason he found the company tonight unappealing.

  As Cavendish left Whitehall, his mind conjured a picture of a girl with large dark eyes and red-gold hair. Elizabeth Hardwick was the antithesis of the shopworn courtesans who bartered their wares at the Tudor Court. She was so fresh and young and, yes, innocent! His chance meeting with her had shown him just how jaded his palate had become. Rogue Cavendish decided she would make a most enchanting mistress.

  The following afternoon, Bess was giving the Zouche girls an embroidery lesson. She had learned needlework at her aunt Marcy's knee. Not only did Bess do exquisite work, she also drew original designs on the cloth. While the girls worked on samplers, Lady Margaret and Bess were putting the finishing touches on a pair of sleeves that were to be a gift for Frances Grey. Bess had drawn the Tudor roses, whose petals were now filled in with Spanish silk.

  When the house steward announced William Cavendish, Bess was so disconcerted she pricked her finger. Her mistress, all aflutter, dismissed her daughters and flew to the mirror. When Bess arose to follow them, Lady Zouche said, “I really shouldn't be alone with him —just sit quietly and do your embroidery.”