A Woman of Passion (20 page)

“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.

She gasped as he went down on his knees before her, cupped her bare bottom with his hands, and brought her close to his mouth. He covered her creamy thighs with kisses, then blew softly upon her curls to separate them. The tip of his tongue unerringly found the bud at the top of her cleft, and he began to make love to her with his mouth.

Before Bess could protest, she became highly aroused and stared mesmerized into the mirror. She watched her fingers thread through his hair to hold his head to her hot center and saw her body arch with the unbelievable pleasure he gave her. A deep, sultry laugh escaped from her lips as she remembered what Frances had said. Unbelievably, Rogue's head was between her legs!

Bess cried his name over and over when she reached climax. She was unable to stand and slid down on her knees, sagged into his arms, and buried her face against his chest. When the room stopped spinning, she drew back and looked into his eyes.

“Am I very wicked?” she whispered.

“Bess, my darling, you are the most innocent yet the most passionate woman I have ever known.”

A shocking thought suddenly struck her:
This is what the princess was talking about. My God, this is what the admiral is doing with Elizabeth!

T
he Holy Days of Christmas were upon them before they knew it. The Greys moved their entire household to Chelsea, as Lady Frances declared that Christmas was for children and she wanted to bring Lady Jane from Hampton Court Palace to spend this time with her parents and her sister, Catherine.

“I'll be glad when Christmas is over,” Frances sighed, “and we can enjoy ourselves at the New Year's celebrations. I remember in the good old days, when the king finally rid himself of that religious fanatic, Catherine of Aragon, and was in hot pursuit of Anne, Christmas was spectacular fun. We celebrated with such racy abandon and merriment that the entire Court never slept and was intoxicated for all twelve days!”

Bess closed her eyes as the painful memories of last Christmas washed over her. During the year of her marriage to Rob, the days had seemed endless, yet looking back she realized they had passed in the blinking of an eye. When Bess lifted her lashes and saw herself surrounded by the luxury of Chelsea Palace, she put the
bittersweet past behind her. The year 1546 had begun with such deep despair for her, yet it had gone on to be incredibly good to her. Bess offered up a fervent prayer of thanks. If fortune continued to smile upon her, 1547 promised to be the best ever!

Bess knew she wouldn't see much of Rogue this month, as the privy council sat every day, either at Whitehall or at Baynard's Castle, nearby in the Strand. Baynard's Castle was the magnificent abode of William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke, whose countess was sister to Queen Catherine Parr. But Bess decided this was most fortunate. Their relationship had become dangerously intimate, and a figurative step back to cool off would be best. She, too, would be busy accompanying the Greys, who would be dividing the Holy Days between Chelsea and Hampton Court.

On the short barge ride upriver, the air was freezing. Henry Grey's glance moved from Frances, huddled in furs, over to Bess, who wore only a woolen cloak. “Aren't you cold, my dear?”

She smiled up at him. “Nay, milord, I'm far too excited about visiting Hampton Court Palace. This time I intend to have a good look at the king, the queen, Prince Edward, and Princess Mary.”

“Brace yourself for disappointment, darling,” Frances warned dryly. “The Tudors are an unpalatable lot.”

Young Catherine Grey, wearing a little fur cape, shivered, and Bess pulled her close to keep her warm.

“Lady Mary is nothing like the Lady Elizabeth, even though they are sisters—rather like Lady Jane and myself.”

“You, my poppet, take after your mother,” Bess told her. “Do you miss your sister Jane?”

Catherine put her lips to Bess's ear. “Even though
she's too prim and proper to piss, I do miss her sometimes.”

Bess laughed and hugged her close. As the barge pulled in at the Hampton landing, a picture of Elizabeth in Tom Seymour's arms flew into her mind, and with her newfound knowledge of sexuality, Bess wondered how she would be able to look Elizabeth in the eye.

As it happened, the moment Elizabeth welcomed the Greys, she turned questioning amber eyes on Bess and, as she kissed her cheek in greeting, whispered, “Do you still have your hymen?”

Bess blushed and whispered back, “Yes! Do you still have yours?”

“Unfortunately, my answer would have to be in the affirmative,” Lady Elizabeth said without lowering her voice. “Do let us hurry from the vicinity of the chapel before I'm coerced into attending Mass with the hypocrites. Oh, Lud, speak of the devil!”

As two ladies and their female attendants approached down the Long Gallery, Elizabeth swept to the floor in a graceful curtsy. Bess, Lady Frances, and little Catherine Grey all followed suit.

“Your Royal Highness, Lady Mary, may I present Mistress Elizabeth Hardwick?” The Lady Elizabeth's demeanor was regal.

Bess stared in disbelief at the two middle-aged women whom Elizabeth addressed. Since Queen Catherine Parr had had three husbands and numerous lovers, Bess had expected her to be an alluring courtesan. Instead, she saw a prim and proper figure who could have been mistaken for a respectable vicar's wife. “Your Royal Highness,” Bess murmured.

The Lady Mary was an even greater shock to her. Bess had always imagined the princess to be young and fair,
but she was neither. Mary was a little, dumpy, thirty-year-old spinster, with graying hair escaping from her starched cap. “Lady Mary,” Bess murmured.

The two royal ladies clutched their bibles and stared back at the vivid creature in peacock-blue velvet. Bess sensed immediately that the Lady Mary disliked her on sight. She watched her eyes flick over both her and Elizabeth with disapproval, as if to say:
Birds of a feather!
Finally, the royal ladies turned their attention to Lady Frances and little Catherine, greeting them warmly.

Elizabeth gave them a direct lie. “I was on my way to join you at Mass, but Cousin Frances has asked me to take her to Father. I beg you to excuse me today.”

“That was a narrow escape,” Frances said with her usual irreverence. “The queen looks worn out; what the hell has Harry been doing to her? Not his husbandly duty, by the look of her.”

“I cannot believe that was your sister,” Bess said softly.

“Neither can I,” Elizabeth said dryly.

“Looks like a bloody suet pudding,” Frances declared. “Why doesn't she get that hair dyed, instead of eating pickled bibles!”