A Woman of Passion (32 page)

By the end of the week Bess rode out with William across their vast acres, which now included the villages of Baslow and Edensor. Their older children accompanied them on ponies—Francie, dark and laughing, the very image of her father, and their little sons with their red curly hair, exactly like their mother's. William offered up a prayer of thanks that Bess was so quickly recovered. He marveled at her stamina; watching her, it was impossible to believe she had ever been ill.

That night, in the privacy of their magnificent bed-chamber, Bess became quite playful. She undressed very slowly, her movements calculated and lithe as a cat, then she donned a black silk night rail that clung to every lush curve of her body.

“What do you think of this? I quite like to wear silk next to my bare skin.”

“It was clearly designed with seduction in mind,” William replied, keeping a safe distance between them.

“Yes, black silk begs for seduction.”

He turned his back and poured himself a goblet of Rhenish wine, trying to ignore the sultry tone of Bess's voice. “You'd better put on your bedgown—I don't want you to catch cold.”

“I'm never cold,” Bess purred. “Darling, pour me some malmsey.”

“Malmsey makes you wanton.”

Bess climbed onto the bed and began an undulating dance. “Mmm, it makes me sybaritic.”

“Herbs in milk would be better for you,” he said repressively.

Bess began to laugh. “Aunt Marcy has been feeding me borage, chamomile, and
clary
, for God's sake. Clary is
so lust provoking, I'm going to crawl out of my skin if you don't take off your clothes and pay some pointed attention to me!”

“Bess, no more babies.”

She stopped swaying. “What?”

“We have enough children. I don't want to ruin your glowing health by getting you pregnant every year.”

Her eyes filled with amusement. “But abstaining from sex would certainly ruin my glowing health.”

He took a tentative step toward the bed, desire for her playing havoc with his good intentions. “I … I'll have to withdraw.”

Bess fell down on the bed and rolled about, laughing helplessly.

“What's so bloody funny?”

“Ohmigod, you are, Rogue Cavendish! You could no more withdraw than you could abstain!” Bess kicked her legs in the air, convulsed with laughter.

William grabbed her ankles playfully and pulled her toward him. The silk nightgown climbed up her legs, exposing the fiery triangle at the apex of her white thighs. Her knees fell apart, luring him down to feast upon her. His powerful hands slipped beneath her bottom cheeks and he raised her to his mouth. His thrusting tongue soon found the tiny bud between her hot folds, and as she writhed and arched her beautiful body for him, he felt her woman's center flutter, then pulse, then explode in intense orgasm.

“Rogue, I need more,” she implored, knowing the brief satisfaction would not be lasting.

“And I want to give you more,” he growled.

“I want you inside me. I love to feel your weight and your power. I know you have a fierce desire for me, and I need to feel you unleash it. My body screams out for you
to master it.” Her words inflamed him, as she knew they would.

“What the hell am I going to do?” he demanded desperately.

The corners of her mouth went up in a seductive smile. “Fortunately, Marcella has prescribed an herb that prevents conception. It's called dragonwort, and she has a whole bed of the stuff growing in the herb garden.”

William groaned with relief and stripped off his garments with all speed. Bess wasn't the only one with needs. He needed her thighs wrapped about him as he plunged inside her; he needed her moaning and frenzied beneath him. He needed to bring her release at the exact same time as he spent. Then he needed to hold her against him until she softened with surfeit.

W
hen Cavendish returned to London, trouble awaited him. Lord Treasurer Paulet summoned him and told him that Queen Mary had ordered an audit of the queen's treasury.

“We have spies in our midst who have run to the queen with tales of discrepancies.”

“I have held treasury offices for thirteen years without complaint,” Cavendish said bluntly.

“I explained to Her Grace that your appointment carries a very low salary and that you are entitled to take profits. Nevertheless, she insists that your account books be opened for scrutiny.”

“I can turn over the two books that are made up, but my clerks have a dozen more account books in rough that are not yet engrossed.”

“I advise you to get the accounts in order immediately, William. I know from my own offices that private accounting gets mixed with official business, so get them sorted out as soon as you can.”

The auditors came into Cavendish's treasury offices
and began the slow process of digging out receipts and payments. It dragged on for weeks, and then months, going back over all the thirteen years he had held office.

Cavendish scrupulously kept it all from Bess and warned his clerks and his secretary, Bestnay, not to breathe a word of what was going on. But the pressure he was under, month after month, took its toll on William. Sometimes, after a fifteen-hour day, he suffered chest pain, and the only thing that eased it was wine.

When the auditors made their final report, it stated that there was a discrepancy of over five thousand pounds, and the lord treasurer had no choice but to demand an explanation from Cavendish that would satisfy the queen. Sir William defended his accounting by revealing that over the years many clerks had disappeared with money. He also said that he was owed money from the reigns of the two previous monarchs, which he collected when Mary came to the throne. Cavendish even produced personal receipts for the money he had paid to raise men to help Mary gain the throne.

At the beginning of August, William had not yet been charged, but he knew the possibility existed and consulted his London lawyers. Worn out with work and worry, he retired to Derbyshire to prepare a formal defense. Five thousand pounds was a vast sum of money, when an average wage was three pounds per annum.

William knew he must find a way to break the news to Bess. Cavendish hoped to successfully defend himself—if he was actually charged—and salvage his career, but it was only fair to warn Bess of the possibility that they could lose everything for which they had worked so hard.

Before he left London William bought his wife an anniversary present. It was a book with a gold filigree cover studded with ten rubies, which held two small portraits
they had had painted the year before. He had promised to be home before the twentieth because Bess had a party planned.

When William arrived home on the eighteenth, Bess thought he looked exhausted. “Darling, are you feeling all right?”

William dismissed her anxieties. “The journey was tiring, all the better inns were filled, and I must have eaten something that disagreed with me.”

Bess was in the midst of preparations for the anniversary party. In her usual thorough way she took a personal hand in every phase of the planning, down to the finest details. Since it was mid-August she planned the celebration for outdoors in Chatsworth's incomparable formal gardens, but she wisely had a backup plan to have it in the magnificent twin galleries if it rained.

Bess decided it would be a perfect time to show off the Cavendish children, so when the invitations went out, she told the guests to bring along their own children. Of course, that meant they would have extra servants with them, and Bess made certain there would be food and accommodation for all.

Bess noticed that William drank a bottle of claret at supper, then during the evening he drank another. When she discovered him asleep in a chair, she realized just how tired he must be. Her face softened as she watched him sleep. She saw how much gray was in his once dark-auburn hair and was surprised that she had hardly noticed it until now. With a little shock she realized that he was fifty. The age difference had never mattered to them; William was so rugged and vital. But tonight, watching him sleep touched her heart with tenderness. Perhaps it was time that he slowed down a little.

August 20 dawned beautiful. Carriages began to arrive
early in the day, and the Cavendishes were at the front door to greet their guests and give them a tour of the two completed stories of Chatsworth. Bess showed off her proudest possessions, which were her children. She and nine-year-old Francie were in identical summer gowns of white silk muslin. Her daughter carried a posy of pink rosebuds, while Bess wore a full-blown rose tucked into her low décolletage.

Her three little sons, Henry, William, and Charles, wore matching doublets and hose, with feathered caps atop their red curls, and her two baby daughters were in the charge of their nursemaids. Soon the grounds were ringing with the shouts of children as they raced about, chasing butterflies and soaking themselves in the fish ponds. Laughter filled the air as fashionably dressed ladies paraded about the lawns beneath their parasols, and men gathered in groups to discuss rents, horses, politics, war, and the shocking state of the realm.

All Bess's family were there, rubbing shoulders with the noble families of the north. Among the guests were the earls and countesses of Westmorland, Pembroke, and Huntingdon, as well as the Marquess of Northampton, Lady Port, the Nevilles, the Fitzherberts, the Pierreponts, and last, but certainly not least, the aging Earl of Shrewsbury. Bess had invited all the Talbots, not simply because they were the wealthiest and most powerful family in England, but because they were her closest neighbors and a lot of their landholdings ran together.

Bess hadn't seen the old earl since he had stood as godfather to one of her sons. When she saw him on the arm of his heir, George Talbot, she was shocked at how much he had aged. He was also totally deaf, so Bess swallowed her animosity toward his arrogant son and said,
“Thank you so much for bringing him, Talbot. Your father was always so generous to me.”

His dark eyes swept over her. “The Talbots are always generous to beautiful women, Lady Cavendish.”

Bess ground her teeth. “Is Lady Talbot with you?” she asked pointedly.

“I'm afraid not. Gertrude has just presented me with another son.”

“Congratulations, Lord Talbot. How many children do you have?” Bess asked politely.

“Six—the same number as you, Lady Cavendish.”

Bess was momentarily startled. Surely he was too young to be the father of six children. Then she remembered that he was exactly the same age as herself, and if she could have six, then so could he.

Bess excused herself. It was time for the buffet to be set up, and as her liveried footmen carried out the huge silver trays laden with food and wine and fancy delicacies, she had never felt prouder in her life. The venison, lamb, veal, and game birds all came from their own land. The trout came from the Derwent, the fruit from their orchards, the cheeses and milk from their own dairy farms. Chatsworth even brewed its own beer. There wasn't a woman present who didn't covet Chatsworth; there wasn't a man who didn't covet its chatelaine.

In the afternoon the nursemaid brought baby Mary to her mother. “I'm so sorry to bother you, ma'am, but she won't stop crying.”

“Ellen, my children are never a bother to me. Give her to me; I'll soon rock her to sleep.” Bess took her daughter in her arms and walked toward the sanctuary of the rose garden, which was separated by a walk of tall yews. When the baby felt herself pressed against her mother's ample bosom, she tried to suck. Bess laughed.
“Oh, no, you don't; I weaned you weeks ago.” She sat down on the edge of the stone fountain, and within a minute the child was asleep. Bess handed her back to her nurse, who gratefully carried her off. Bess closed her eyes with contentment, breathing in the heavenly fragrance of the roses.

George Talbot watched her from the yews. He overheard what she said to the nurse and was astounded that she breast-fed her babies. The thought was unbelievably arousing to him, but then everything about Bess Hardwick aroused him—it always had. Christ, he'd pay a thousand pounds for a glimpse of her suckling a child. It was ridiculous that sparks of animosity should fly between them every time they spoke. Talbot was determined to make a fresh start. He would try to behave himself and win her over. She was the most enticing challenge he'd ever encountered. He closed the distance between them before she opened her eyes.

“Lady Cavendish.”

Bess lifted her lashes and looked up at the extremely tall dark man gazing down at her. “Lord Talbot?” She said his name with a question that implied,
What do you want?

“I would like us to be friends. We have known each other for a very long time, but we have not been friends.”

Her brows arched. “And whose fault is that?” she demanded.

“I know the fault is mine, Lady Cavendish, and I wish to repair it.” He hoped he sounded sincere.

Bess looked up at him.
No wonder he is arrogant. Not only is he heir to a princedom, he's the handsomest man I've ever seen—in a dark, devilish way, of course. Women must throw themselves at him.

“I was such a callow youth, Lady Cavendish. Your
beauty stunned me. I was totally infatuated. I treated you outrageously to make you notice me, but all I succeeded in doing was angering you.”

Bess smiled. “I have a quick temper.”

“I would like to think I have matured since those early days.”

Bess's eyes filled with amusement. “So would I.”

“Am I forgiven?”
Christ, did I really call her Mistress Tits?

He hadn't actually apologized, just excused himself, but Bess knew he was not the kind of man who would ever say he was sorry. She decided to be gracious. She stood up, gave him a radiant smile, and reached out her hand.

Talbot didn't take it. Instead, he took the rose that nestled between her breasts.

The smile left her face, and her dark eyes flashed their fury. “The day we met I thought you an arrogant swine. You have not changed one iota—you are still an arrogant swine!”

“Vixen!” he taunted.