A Woman of Passion (46 page)

You shall, my beauty, you shall!

“Since you are amenable to dining with me, I invite you to Sheffield to celebrate the wedding of my son and heir next month.”

Bess caught her breath. Shrewsbury's heir would be the greatest catch in England, and she wondered what blue-blooded heiress Talbot would accept as his daughter-in-law. “And who is the lucky bride?” she asked lightly.

“Anne Herbert, the Earl of Pembroke's daughter.”

Bess almost choked with chagrin that William Herbert and his gossipy countess had struck such a profitable alliance for their daughter. Until this moment Bess thought she had done exceedingly well for her daughter Frances, but young Harry Pierrepont's fortune paled into insignificance beside young Francis Talbot's. With an effort Bess restrained her tongue. “How lovely. I shall look forward to receiving the invitation.”

His eyes never left her face. “You haven't said you'll accept.”

Bess smiled. “I accept your invitation; it's your proposition I decline.”

“We'll see,” he replied with generations of inbred arrogance.

Bess wheeled her mount and galloped off, but the ache in the pit of her belly was a direct result of the close proximity of the dark devil she left behind, as was the hardening of her nipples against her crimson silk undergarment.

“Peste take it! That wretched Anne Herbert has pulled off the match of the decade for her daughter. She has espoused the girl to Shrewsbury's heir!”

Marcella raised bristly brows. “I warrant it was Talbot and William Herbert who did the deal. The Countess of Pembroke likely had naught to do with it.”

“The mere fact that she's a countess had everything to do with it. Nothing less than an earl's daughter would do for blood-proud George Talbot!”

Bess's secretary, Robert Bestnay, brought her the post, mentioning that there was an unusual amount today.

“Well, speak of the devil,” Bess said, as she sorted
through the envelopes and found one decorated with the crest of the Earl and Countess of Pembroke. She tore it open and scanned the contents. A small shriek escaped her lips. “God damn and blast it! Not only is their porridge-faced daughter marrying Francis Talbot, their snot-nosed son, Henry Herbert, is to marry Catherine Talbot, Shrewsbury's eldest daughter, on the same day.”

“Well, well, there's nothing like keeping their fortunes in the family,” Marcella observed shrewdly.

“Shrew never mentioned a bloody word to me!”

“Shrew?” Marcella's eyebrows twitched upward.

Bess tossed her head as her cheeks flushed. “ 'Tis the name I call Shrewsbury, among others. Gertrude Talbot must be a coldhearted bitch. Her daughter Catherine cannot be much more than ten. I think it's shameful!”

“When the fortunes involved are as large as Shrews-bury's, they must be protected by early espousals. You have a hard head for business, Bess; I'm surprised at your attitude.”

Bess wrinkled her nose as her innate honesty came to the fore. “I'm just pea-green with envy that it's not my children who are marrying into the Talbot family.” As Bess finished reading the letter, another small shriek erupted. “Anne Herbert says she's looking forward to staying at Chatsworth for a few days. Ohmigod, everyone who is anyone will be coming!”

She flung down the letter, and slowly a look of radiance transformed her face. “They'll all die with envy when they see my house. Robert, get James Cromp for me—Francis Whitfield and Timothy Pusey as well. The battlements must be finished before next month and all the excess stone carted away from the grounds.”

There were letters from Nan Dudley and William Parr, Marquess of Northampton, informing her they
were attending the wedding and hinting for an invitation to Chatsworth. Bess saved Syntlo's letter until last, yet it brought the most startling news of all. Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth would be traveling north to attend the double wedding and would be staying at Haddon Hall, which was only a couple of miles away. “I can't believe it —I'm about to entertain the queen and the entire Court at Chatsworth!”

Bess spoke with the gardeners and the entire inside staff—now considerable—and told them what to expect. She consulted with the gamekeeper to make sure there was a good supply of both red and gray partridge. She inspected the blue livery of her footmen, as well as the bed linen, silver, plate, and china. She took stock of the wine cellar, then sat down at her desk to make a long list of supplies and spices for Syntlo to purchase in London and ship up to Derbyshire. She told her musicians and harpist to learn some new dances and songs, since the queen's courtiers loved music only second to gambling.

All three stories of Chatsworth were now completed, and Bess knew nothing in the north could compare with it. Sheffield Castle, of course, was larger, with far more servants and costlier furnishings handed down through generations of Talbots, but Chatsworth from top to bottom reflected Bess's impeccable taste.

Once she was satisfied that her magnificent house was in order, her thoughts turned to her own wardrobe. She wanted to look spectacular for the wedding and outshine them all. She called her head seamstress to her solar and invited her mother and sister Jane, since they also would need new gowns.

Bess examined a bolt of cloth of gold and another of silver tissue, but both were becoming so commonplace at Court, Bess shook her head. “No, I intend to wear my
Persian sapphires and want something that will show them off to perfection.”

“Your breasts will do that, darling,” her mother supplied.

“I think I'd like a gown of sapphire blue, cut very low in front.”

“Velvet or brocade, madam?” asked the seamstress.

“Both are too heavy for summer. I think taffeta; it rustles and whispers so deliciously.”

“La, anyone would think you were out to catch a man, darling.”

“I think Bess dresses for other women, mother. She always manages to make them look dowdy by comparison.”

“Thank you for noticing, Jane,” Bess said, laughing.

“Will I line the sleeves with silver tissue, Lady St. Loe? That is always so effective against a deep jewel-toned gown.”

“No, I don't want hanging sleeves. I want puffed sleeves, slashed with cream silk.” Bess took up a sketch pad and a piece of charcoal. “I want the very latest fashion—let me show you.” Bess drew a framed collar that stood up in a flared semicircle behind the head. “I want this in cream color to show off my bright hair. Perhaps it could be edged in blue brilliants to match my sapphires.” Bess sighed. “If only I could sew real sapphires on my gowns, but only Elizabeth can afford such indulgences.”

“Would you like sapphire or cream undergarments, madam?”

Bess thought for a moment, then smiled her secret smile. “How about something totally unexpected, like jade green?”

The seamstress blinked, but did not dare to suggest
something less flamboyant. Instead, she changed the subject. “I have the chamois riding breeches ready, madam.”

“Oh, wonderful, I'll try them on. Tell Cecily to fetch my tallest black riding boots and that tight little doublet with the brass buttons.”

Bess donned the male attire and admired the ultrafeminine effect in the polished silver mirror.

“Bess, you don't intend to actually wear those things in public, do you?” her mother asked with disapproval.

“They will be absolutely perfect for riding astride, don't you see?” Bess asked, spreading her legs wide apart and running her hands over the soft buff suede that covered her hips.

Her mother blanched. “Riding astride is something a lady would never do either.”

“Who the devil said I was a lady? And where is it written that a woman cannot wear breeches and sit astride her own horse on her own land?”

A knock on the solar door interrupted her. Bess opened it to find Robert Bestnay.

“I'm sorry to disturb you, ma'am, but Cromp is below and says he must speak with you immediately.”

Bess ran lightly down the broad staircase that led to her office, unmindful of her unconventional attire. “James, is there some sort of trouble?”

“There is, ma'am. A couple of days ago, Tim Pusey had trouble collecting some of your tenants' rents. I sent him back out with instructions to accept no excuses, but it has precipitated some sort of riot.”

“Riot? Which tenants are giving trouble?”

“It's the Chesterfield tenants, I'm afraid.”

“Let's go,” Bess said decisively, taking up her riding gloves and crop from the hall table.

At the stables a groom hurried to saddle her favorite
mare, but she stopped him. “No, I'll ride Raven; he's faster. Don't put a sidesaddle on him.” She threw her leg across the black stallion, and before they were out of the stable yard, she urged Raven to a full gallop.

A huge crowd had gathered in the village of Chesterfield, and bloody fighting had obviously erupted, but the arrival of the Earl of Shrewsbury had put a temporary stop to the rioting.

“These are my tenants; what the devil business is it of yours?” she demanded.

His eyes devoured the woman before him astride the stallion. He watched her hungrily as she dismounted, dug her fists into her hips, and planted her legs firmly apart in a stance of confrontation. “I'm making it my business. It's too close to my property of Bolsover for my liking; riots have a way of spreading if they're not nipped in the bud.”

Bess addressed Tim Pusey, who was nursing a black and swollen eye. “What is this trouble about?”

It was Shrewsbury who answered her. “The farmers who work Hardwick haven't had any wages for weeks, so they refuse to pay their rent.”

“How do you know this before I do?” she demanded angrily.

“Bess, there is little that happens north of the Trent that I don't know about.”

She bristled that it should be so. “If they refuse to pay their rents, I'll clear the bloody land and put sheep on it!”

“Bess, they have no money—they hardly have food.”

She stared at him.
Well, well, who would have guessed the great Earl of Shrewsbury has a compassionate nature?
“I'll speak to my brother about this,” she informed him loftily.

“That will do damned little to solve the problem. James Hardwick has allowed his property and landholdings to go to rack and ruin.”

“Are you saying my brother is to blame for this trouble?” she demanded angrily, furious because what Shrewsbury said about James was all too true.

“He's useless.” Shrewsbury's piercing blue eyes narrowed, challenging her to refute him.

Bess bit her lip and acknowledged the truth of his words. “James doesn't have a good head for business. I make a better man than he does.”

Shrewsbury's eyes traveled up her shapely legs and came to rest on her breasts thrusting beneath the male doublet. “You, Vixen, are all woman, and never more so than dressed in those provocative riding breeches.” He wanted her astride him, not her stallion.

“Black brute,” she murmured, secretly pleased that he thought her provoking.

Angry voices rose up around them. “Will you let me handle this? I could easily put down a riot by force—I have an armed guard of forty soldiers in my pay—but force isn't the answer here.” He didn't wait for her reply but raised his voice to the men milling about them. “There is a job for any man who wants one in my lead and coal mines.”

Bess remounted her horse and added her voice to the earl's. “I, too, have coal to be mined, and sheep to be tended.” Suddenly, Bess remembered what it was like to have absolutely nothing, and her heart constricted. “I'll allow a week's hunting on any of my lands to fill your larders. If there's aught else you need, speak to my stewards.”

The crowds gathered about Bess and the earl to offer their thanks. The mounted pair slowly walked their
horses through the throng, uncomfortable with the display of gratitude.

“Ride with me,” Shrewsbury said quietly.

Bess urged Raven forward with her heels, and the two black stallions galloped abreast until the village was left behind and they entered a copse of beech trees. Their horses slowed, then stopped as the riders looked at each other. Shrewsbury urged his mount closer to hers until their stirrups touched. “Christ, I swear you're dressed this way to provoke my lust.”

“I'd rather provoke your temper.”

“Look at the effect you have on me, Vixen.” His hand indicated his swollen groin. “Can we not be secret lovers?”

She lifted her chin. “It would take more than six stiff inches to tempt me to sin.”

“Seven,” he corrected.

They stared for a moment, then both burst into laughter at the absurd things their sexual desire made them say to each other. Bess sobered. “I shall speak to my brother about Hardwick. Thank you for aiding me today.”

“Bess, it is always my pleasure to
serve
you.” The double entendre gave him the last word.

You are a witty devil when the spirit moves you. We could have such fun together, damn you to hellfire!

S
ince she was practically on the doorstep, Bess rode straight to Hardwick Manor, deciding not to go home and change her clothes first. The male attire would lend her authority for what she had to say to her brother.

As she rode up to her old home, Bess realized how much she loved it, in spite of the fact that the small manor house had fallen into a dilapidated state. She reined in and sat staring at it, remembering how devastated she had been that day when they had been evicted. Her heart ached for its sad state of disrepair, and she felt a wave of guilt wash over her, because she had transferred her affection to Chatsworth.

She remembered the promise she had made to this house:
I will be back to claim you!
And she had kept that promise. But she had gotten it back for James because Hardwick was his birthright, and look what he'd done to it. Anger replaced her sadness and guilt. Why couldn't James be a man? Why couldn't he make the five hundred acres of Hardwick pay?

She swung down from the saddle, tethered Raven to a
tree, and strode up to the front door. She rapped with her riding crop, then walked in. Bess dismissed the servant who approached and spoke directly to her sister-in-law. “Where is he, Lizzie?”