A Woman of Passion (2 page)

The night before she departed for London, when she would be cut off at a stroke from her loving family, Bess experienced the nightmare that had been plaguing her ever since they had been thrown out of Hardwick Manor. It seemed to recur when she was feeling especially vulnerable.

Bess walked in to a room that was empty, stripped bare. She ran downstairs and found the bailiffs carrying off everything she possessed in the world. Bess begged and pleaded and cried, all to no avail. Outside, her family's meager belongings were being piled on a cart. They had been put out of their house and had nowhere to go. Fear washed over her in great waves. Panic choked her. When she turned around, the cart was gone, her family was gone, and even Hardwick Manor had vanished. Bess had lost everything she'd had in the world. The suffocating terror mounted until it engulfed her.

Bess awakened, screaming … everything was gone … she was overwhelmed with helplessness, hopelessness.

The following morning, the excitement of traveling to London soon dispelled the terror of the nightmare. Once inside the magnificent treasure-filled Zouche mansion,
Bess no longer harbored any doubts that she had done the right thing in leaving home. She was completely certain that she was fulfilling her destiny and had an overwhelming desire to become wealthy enough to buy back Hardwick Manor for her family.

Suddenly plunged into a world of riches and privilege, Bess became wildly ambitious. Like a sponge, she soaked up everything about her new way of life and made herself indispensable to Lady Zouche and her daughters. And now, just over a year later, on the threshold of womanhood, Bess had the feeling that something momentous was about to happen in her life.

As she descended the stairs from the third-floor gallery, Bess paused in her headlong rush as she saw young Robert Barlow coming in the other direction, gasping for breath. He was a page in the Zouche household, from the same village in Derbyshire as herself.

“Rob, sit down before you fall down,” Bess said, retracing her steps to the gallery. She shoved the tall, thin youth down on a carved settle and noted his gray pallor. He was as delicate as a girl and had little vitality.

“My chest hurts terribly when I climb stairs,” he gasped. Nonetheless, he managed a smile, apparently grateful for her attention.

“Go up to your bed and lie down. I think you are growing too fast and it robs you of strength.” Bess enjoyed such robust health herself that the boy's languor alarmed her.

“I can't, Bess, I have to take this message to Suffolk House and await a reply.”

Bess plucked the letter from his hand. “I'll take care of it, Rob. Go up now; none will even miss you.” Bess knew
she should delegate the delivery of the letter to a footman, but on a sudden impulse she decided not to do so. London! How she adored it, and the Strand—with its magnificent mansions that belonged to the nobility—was her favorite place to walk in the most glorious city on earth.

The letter was addressed to Lady Frances Grey, Marchioness of Dorset, who was Lady Zouche's dearest friend in the world. The first time Bess had met Frances Grey and learned she was the daughter of King Henry Tudor's sister, she had been overwhelmed. But during the past year, Bess had visited the Greys' London residence so frequently that she had come to feel at ease in the great lady's presence.

Bess had thought the Zouche residence, which reflected the feudal lifestyle of the past, impressively grand, until she had experienced Suffolk House, where the Greys held court on a regal scale. Though they were immensely rich and powerful, Bess thought Frances and Henry Grey the kindest, friendliest people she had ever known. And even though their daughters, Lady Jane Grey and Lady Catherine Grey, were in the line of succession to the throne, they were good friends with Lady Zouche's daughters. Thanks to Bess's position as the girls' companion, she was included in that friendship.

Using a back door that led from the kitchens, Bess stepped into the warm summer sunshine and quickly walked down Bedford Street to the Strand. If the stretch of land along the river had been paved with gold, it wouldn't have seemed more fantastic to her for there stood one huge mansion after another, all no doubt crammed with riches, treasures, and servants. At first Bess thought of them as the many mansions of heaven, which Jesus had referred to, according to the scriptures.
Nay, more like paradise, she decided. Her footsteps slowed as she strolled past Durham House and York House. Just imagining the vast rooms behind the tall windows, whose walls held priceless paintings, set her blood singing. Someday, Bess vowed, I will have my own town house in London.
What about Hardwick?
a tiny voice whispered. Bess tossed her red curls, dislodging the embroidered cap perched precariously on her head. “Hardwick shall be my
country
home,” she answered loftily, ignoring the liveried servants who sent her admiring glances.

Ambitious men got whatever they wanted, so why shouldn't a woman be ambitious? She was only going to live once, so why not make it count? Bess was determined to be a great success and get her fair share of this world's riches. She swore it, vowed it, pledged it like an oath. Bess envisioned her future with clarity. She knew exactly what she wanted and knew there would be a price to pay. But that was only right, a mere bagatelle. She would pay the price gladly, even with abandon. She would walk through fire or barter her soul to have it all!

It had not taken Bess long to make herself indispensable to Lady Zouche. She made sure her employer saw that she was quick-witted and shrewd, and had an ability to manage people that would have been wasted in a menial position in the Zouche household. She had adapted so quickly to the lifestyle of the aristocracy, had such beautiful manners and an abundance of energy, that Lady Zouche had recognized the jewel she had acquired and appointed Bess companion to herself and her daughters.

Happier than she had ever been in her life, Bess knew that now was her opportunity to catch a husband. Though she was not of noble birth and had no dowry, she was young, beautiful, and had the benefit of influential
connections in the exalted ranks of the upper aristocracy. Moreover, Tudor court circles attracted the richest, most ambitious men in England.

Bess made her way through the formal gardens behind Suffolk House, inhaling the fragrant scent of lavender and late-summer roses. She scanned the lawns leading down to the river, expecting to find Lady Frances outdoors on such a warm afternoon. Until she reached the steps, Bess did not notice the two men above her on the terrace. As she looked up, the sun dazzled her eyes so that she thought for a moment the resplendent figure before her was King Henry. Bess drew in a swift breath and sank down in a graceful curtsy upon the terrace steps. Her skirts formed a pool of pale green, and the sun burnished the tendrils of red-gold hair escaping from beneath her cap.

From their vantage point above her on the terrace, the two men were privileged to a delicious display of pert breasts. William Cavendish's mouth curved sensually. “Cock's bones, there's a dish I'd like to taste.”

Henry Grey, Marquess of Dorset, jabbed his friend in the ribs and strode toward Bess. “Mistress Hardwick, surely there is no need for such formality between us?”

As he raised her from her curtsy, Bess blushed, for she could see that the man behind him was not Henry VIII. “Forgive me, Lord Dorset, I thought you were entertaining the king,” she said breathlessly. She saw the man's dark brows momentarily draw together as if he were displeased at the comparison, then watched as he threw back his head and laughed. Bess was stunned. He was at least six feet tall, with thick dark hair that curled attractively about his collar. His square, determined jaw was clean-shaven, showing off the deep cleft in his chin. His eyes, brimming with amusement, were such a deep shade
of brown that they looked black. All in all, he was the most compelling male she had ever seen.

“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.”