A Woman of Passion

by Virginia Henley

  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 we
re 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!”

  “Then show me.” As he kissed her, his knowing fingers unfastened the back of her gown, and when he set her feet to the carpet, her dress fell in a pool about her.

  Bess gasped and scooped up the precious gown to cover herself. “You are far too experienced with women to suit me, Rogue Cavendish.”

  “Bess, my sweet, you are a widow,” he reminded her.

  “But I told you I'm—” Bess bit her lip, knowing he didn't believe her.

  He pried the dress from her fingers and laid it carefully across a chair. “Then you should be thankful that I am experienced,” he said softly. “I know how to give pleasure without any risk to you.” He carried her to the love seat before the fire and sat down with her in his lap. His eyes were alight with devilry. “I brought you a present. All you have to do is find it.”

  Her eyes searched his face and then his person. She smiled as her fingers unfastened his doublet and she reached inside. He shrugged out of it, and as Bess ran her hands over his fine linen shirt, he murmured, “Lower.”

  Her eyes dropped to the bulge between his legs. “You devil!”

  He held her fast as she struggled to escape. “I'm teasing you, sweetheart. It's right here.” He reached inside his shirt and placed a small velvet box in her hand.

  Bess lifted the lid and gasped with delight. It was a ring set with a large amethyst surrounded by diamonds. “Oh, it's the most precious thing I've ever owned. William, I don't know what to say.”

  He slipped the ring onto her middle finger. “Then say it with kisses.” He eased her back against the cushions and came over her in the dominant position. Bess offered up her mouth to him, letting him take what he wanted, what she wanted. She had no idea that his kisses would arouse an insatiable hunger in herself that must be quenched.

  He unfastened the tiny busk she wore to cup and mold her breasts, and they spilled into his hands like ripe little melons. “Tell me these belong to me and no other man!” he demanded. His hot mouth laved the upper curves with kisses, then his tongue came out to lick and tease the rose-pink tips until they grew erect.

  Bess loved the strange but deeply pleasurable sensations that suffused her body. His powerful hands and mouth made her wild with desire. Her passion began to mount so quickly, it alarmed her. As his fingers went to her waist to undo the tapes of her petticoat, she clutched at his hands to stay them before he stripped her naked. “I don't want to be nude!”

  Her gasps told him that indeed she did, so long as he took all the responsibility. “You won't be nude; I'll let you keep on your stockings for propriety's sake.”

  Bess couldn't contain her mirth at the absurdity of his words, but when she lay before him clad only in heliotrope lace stockings that bared her creamy thighs and exposed her high mons topped with red-gold curls, the intense anticipation of what he would do to her banished her laughter.

  His dark eyes licked over her flesh like a candle flame. “You have no idea how many times I've pictured you like this, but you are even lovelier than I dreamed.” He looked at her with such adoration, he knew it would make her feel both beautiful and highly excited. When he finally reached out to touch the red curls, Bess gasped, “No!”

  His fingers paused above her mons. “Yes!” he insisted, though his hand was not yet touching her. “Nature gave you a voluptuous body, Bess. I want you to enjoy it.” His hand descended upon her and he held it there, giving her a chance to get used to his touch. Then he slowly pressed a fingertip against her woman's center.

  Bess cried out, arching her back, inviting yet denying his bold advances.

  He encouraged her, “Cry out your passion, sweetheart; it will give us both pleasure. I'm going to stroke you until your bud unfurls its petals. I'm going to make you bloom like a flower drenched with dew.”

  His words lured her in to taking the first tentative steps that would initiate her into the mystical, sensual rites of womanhood. His fingertip made slow circles around her sensitive flesh until it became moist. “I feel it pouting like a sulky child demanding more,” he whispered.

  Bess made little inarticulate cries as her pleasure mounted. Heat leapt from his fingertip, scalding her with a brand of excitement she'd never experienced before. Sensations like threads of fire spread up into her belly, and her breasts tingled deliciously.

  “Hold your bud tightly closed until it's ready to burst open,” he instructed, leaning forward and putting his mouth close to her ear.

  The intimacy of his touching her on such a forbidden part of her body made her feel most wanton, yet incredibly she didn't want him to stop. Reclining before him with her legs apart rendered her completely vulnerable to his demands, yet she felt wickedly insatiable. Bess moaned and writhed as the threads of fire tightened. She gripped his free hand and brought it to her mouth, kissing then sucking on his fingers.

  Suddenly, she felt her taut bud erupt, and then she felt herself bloom, unfurling hotly, darkly. Her woman's center felt as exotic as an orchid, drenched with diamond drops of dew. Bess cried out and bit his hand in a little frenzy of passion.

  When his fingers felt her wetness, he gently slid one up
inside her and, unbelievably, he encountered the barrier of her hymen. “My darling girl, you were telling me the truth!” William was stunned, then joy rose up in him, filling his heart with the fiercest love he had ever known.

  Bess was enthralled with the erotic reaction of her body. It seemed inconceivable that a man's touch could bring such exquisite pleasure. “I was woefully ignorant,” she murmured in wonder.

  Cavendish enfolded her in his arms. “I want you to learn all your carnal knowledge from me.” He'd never wanted to possess anyone or anything as much as he wanted Bess, but his craving was tempered by an overwhelming desire to protect her. He knew that she had crossed a vitally important threshold by allowing him to touch her intimately and bring her sexual pleasure. It showed that she was willing to put her trust in him. Not completely, of course, not yet, but enough to allow her strong sex drive to overcome her natural caution.

  Shrewdly, he knew he must not abuse that trust. He could not unleash the savage desire that had ridden him so long. He must exercise an iron self-control over his fierce hunger to ravish her and instead concentrate on giving her the pleasure without risk that he had promised.

  He cupped her face in his hands and brought her mouth up to his. “You are so lovely, you stop the breath in my throat and slow the blood in my veins.” He kissed her with great reverence, showing her how precious she was to him. Then he deepened the kiss and began to arouse her with his tongue.

  Bess couldn't get enough of his kisses. His mouth was by turns soft and coaxing, then hard and demanding. She gave him back kiss for kiss, matching his ardor, yielding to his ravishing, which unleashed a ferocity that was both wild and sensual.

  His powerful hands stroked down the length of her back, then up again, slipping around to caress her full, luscious breasts. “Let me show you what you look like in your amethysts and lace stockings.”

  Bess had forgotten she was still wearing them, and when he carried her to the mirror and placed her before it, she was shocked at her reflection. Her flaming hair was wildly disheveled, and she had never seen her naked breasts adorned with amethysts as if they belonged to some pagan goddess. The heliotrope stockings contrasted so vividly with her pale thighs and blazing mons that Bess blushed at the erotic vision staring back at her from the mirror.