A Woman of Passion (55 page)

Cecily came forward and curtsied. “Lady Talbot, all your things are upstairs, even your portable bathing tub.”

“How on earth did you manage to spirit everything away without my knowledge?” Bess asked, utterly confounded.

“It was simple enough,” Shrewsbury teased. “You were closeted with lawyers and couldn't see what was going on under your nose.” He dipped his head to whisper in her ear, “If you hurry, there will be lots of time for us to bathe before dinner.”

Bess decided two could play a teasing game. She blushed and reached up to whisper back, “No, no, Shrew, if we bathe together, they'll all know!”

He kept a straight face. “Nonsense. Talbot servants are trained to notice nothing of a salacious nature.”

“That's a relief.”

“That they are well-trained?”

Her laugh was sultry. “No, that you intend to be salacious!”

“I love you, Vixen.”

“You'd better, you black devil!”

Upstairs, he had chosen adjoining rooms for them so
they would have extra space. Cecily had brought Bess so many clothes they took up an entire double wardrobe; then of course there was the huge bathing tub. Shrewsbury decided one of the chambers would be their bathing and dressing room, the other their bedchamber.

One of his gifts lay across the bed. Bess saw it immediately and lifted it to her cheek to caress the delicate material. It was a white silk bedgown, edged in white fox. On the breast was embroidered a gold coronet with her new initials above it:
E.S.

“Shrew, it's exquisite, but woefully impractical.”

“What do you mean?” He knew she adored beautiful lingerie.

“My lover is impatient—he'll tear it to tatters.”

“Then leave it on the bed and we'll just look at it.”

“Not a chance! Perhaps my husband has more patience than my lover?”

“I doubt that, my beauty.”

But miraculously, as he began to undress her, Bess found his hands amazingly gentle. He handled her as if she were precious and fragile as porcelain. When they were both naked he lifted her tenderly and carried her into the adjoining chamber, where the bathing tub of steaming water awaited them. He stepped in first to make sure it was not too hot, then gently scooped her up and eased them down into the water, with her in his lap.

She rested her head against his shoulder and gazed up at him in wonder. He was so big and dark and dangerous-looking that gentleness was the last thing she expected from him.

“Did I not just vow to cherish you?” he murmured, lifting her fiery hair from the nape of her neck and nuzzling it sweetly. He wrapped his arms about her, kissed the tip of her ear, then whispered all the things about her
beauty that enchanted him. “The curve of your back is so sinuous, it makes me want to stroke you like a feline— stroke you until you purr. Your waist is so small, I can span it with my hands. One of my favorite things to do is splay my fingers out across your rib cage, like this, then slowly move them up beneath your breasts, like so. You have so many soft, silken places I like to touch, and the most exciting part is your eager, passionate response to everything I do to you, my beauty. You allow me to indulge all my fantasies. What man hasn't dreamed of bathing with his beloved? Holding you captive in my lap allows me to touch and caress all your most intimate, vulnerable places.”

He dropped a kiss on the top of her head, and his possessive hands stroked down her body until they captured her hips. He lifted her slightly so that his thick shaft lay in the cleft between her legs, then his fingers threaded through the red tendrils that covered her mons. He toyed with her lightly, arousing her, but taking great care not to bring her to climax.

Before the water cooled, he took the soap between his hands and rubbed until he created a rich, thick lather, then he stroked the cream over every inch of her body, turning her skin to the texture of velvet. Bess shuddered at the exquisite sensations his knowing fingers aroused, yet his ministrations were strangely soothing, making her feel languid and very much loved.

“Let me lather you, darling.”

“No, sweetheart, if you touched me it would be all over. I want to enjoy my state of arousal a little while longer. I have a perfect night planned for us.”

He stepped from the tub and knelt down to her. Then he lifted the sponge and trickled water over her shoulders to remove the creamy lather. He wrapped her in a thirsty
towel and carried her to the bed, gently patting her dry. Then he gazed down at her, worshiping her with his eyes and then his lips. He touched her with such reverence, Bess felt as if she were floating on a cloud. He feathered kisses into her hair, touched his lips to her temples, her eyelids, her slanting cheekbones, and finally he kissed her lips with such heart-stopping tenderness, Bess almost cried with happiness.

He gazed into her eyes and whispered lovingly, “I want the consummation of our marriage to be perfect for you.” Then, without lust, he made real love to her, cherishing and worshiping and honoring her with his body until she dissolved in liquid tremors and yielded her heart and soul to him.

A
velvet box sat beside Bess's plate at the breakfast table, and her husband schooled his impatience for her to open it. She dallied over her bread and honey, and sipped her chocolate slowly to tease him, until she herself could stand the anticipation no longer. Finally, she cast him a saucy glance from beneath her dark lashes and lifted the lid.

He watched intently as her face became suffused with surprise, then disbelief, then possessiveness, and finally joy. She lifted one of the eight-foot loops of pearls with reverence, marveling at their size and lustrous opalescence. She knew they had been brought from the Orient by the first Earl of Shrewsbury and that they were now priceless. “Oh, Shrew,” she breathed raptly as she lifted them over her head.

He came around the table and kissed her deeply. “I warrant you are the first Countess of Shrewsbury whose luminous beauty eclipses that of the pearls.”

They spent the summer day outdoors, enjoying the setting that seemed to have been created especially for
lovers. Rufford had three streams that meandered through its secluded grounds, and the gardens were walled with the same lovely weathered stone as the cloisters. The wide flower beds held a profusion of delphiniums, larkspur, carnations, nicotine, and stocks. The wooded walks were edged with heavenly-scented lavender and rosemary. Lupines and harebells danced on the warm summer breeze, and flowering vines and English roses climbed up every wall and stone archway.

They held hands and talked and kissed and made endless plans for their future together, as lovers have done since the dawn of time. They knew their time alone would be fleeting, and they reveled in their isolation.

Shrewsbury had brought his favorite cook to Rufford, and as the newlyweds sat across from each other in the formal dining room—behaving with decorum before the servants but devouring each other with their eyes—everything they ate tasted like ambrosia.

Each successive day mirrored the first. After a night of passionate lovemaking, he presented her with another rope of the fabulous Shrewsbury pearls at the breakfast table. It was like an epilogue to his loving, thanking her for the deep pleasure she brought him, telling her that she lingered in his consciousness, and hinting at the coming night's possibilities. He seemed completely under her spell, bewitched by her special magic.

They went for long rides with Bess sitting between his thighs, they went hawking, and fishing, and lay on cushions in a wooden punt as it drifted across the abbey's small lake. Whenever she touched him the blood flowed thick and hot in his veins and flooded his loins with a sweet, heavy ache. Bess was aware of how her loveliness affected him by the way his avid eyes devoured her. He was always close enough to hear the rustle of her petticoat
and inhale her intoxicating woman's scent. She could bring him fully to life by just a look or a touch. She filled his senses and fired his imagination. Sometimes both of them were overcome by the most violent, most savage passion, and at other times they rolled in the long grasses, helpless with laughter.

When dusk descended they always went for a romantic walk in the gardens, lingering in the night-scented darkness until the moon came out and turned everything to silver. Then he carried her to bed, oblivious of the servants who did their best to give the lovers privacy. Their week stretched to eight days, then nine, but finally, reluctantly, they made plans to ride to Sheffield after one more precious day alone together.

Bess raised the lid of the antique jewel casket, lifting the strands of priceless pearls, then letting them slide through her fingers so that the reflecting candlelight made them shine with a deep luster. “Now that I have all eight strands, I think I shall have my portrait painted wearing the pearls.”

“Wearing
only
the pearls,” he suggested huskily.

Bess knew immediately what he wanted. She waited until he went into the dressing room to shave, which he did every night before he made love to her, then she quickly undressed and adorned herself with the ropes of pearls. She stood before the mirror admiring her reflection, allowing the strands to fall about her naked body in different provocative ways.

As they slid across the smooth flesh of her breasts and belly, it thrilled her to think she was wearing a fortune in precious jewels. How many women had been so indulged? Cleopatra perhaps? Helen of Troy?
Even Elizabeth Tudor has nothing so fine as these!

Bess gathered up all eight strands and wrapped them
close about her throat so that the pearls fell down her back in an opalescent waterfall. They were long enough to loop beneath her bottom cheeks, making her look like a nautch dancer from a prince's harem.

In the mirror she saw the tall, dark figure loom behind her. His face was taut with desire, his eyes black with passion. She felt his fingers trace down her spine, setting her all ashiver, then his hands began to caress her bottom, stroking in circles that went ever smaller until his fingers slid into the deep cleft of her cheeks, seeking pleasure points she didn't know she possessed.

She felt the engorged head of his phallus rub against her, urgent and throbbing. Her buttocks tightened as a spasm quivered up her back and slithered between her legs to her woman's center. Bess was reeling from the dark, erotic sensations he was arousing in her. She felt the hot, wet glide of his tongue trace down her neck and across her shoulder, and fire snaked through her breasts and down into the pit of her belly.

When she moaned his name, he gathered her up and took her to the bed. He placed her in a prone position on her hands and knees with her beautiful bottom arched in the air and curved his long body over hers. When he thrust into her sheath, the sensation was new and strange to Bess, but almost immediately she realized this position allowed him to stroke across her bud directly, stimulating her to climb and build from the moment he entered her.

His hard body fell into a powerful rhythm, and hers began to move with his. Her hands clutched the bedcovers as they plunged together, riding one surging wave after another in uninhibited splendor. Both could feel the loops of pearls rolling sleekly between their bodies, creating a delicious friction across the curve of her bottom that made them feel decadent.

When his hands took possession of her full, lush breasts, glorying in their weight, Bess began to cry out her intense pleasure. They exploded together and he pulled her back against him, shuddering as he unleashed a final surge of raw passion.

Much later, after the storm had abated, she sat up in bed, cradled between his legs so they could talk. Bess asked, “Shrew, do you want more children?”

“Splendor of God, don't you think we have enough?”

She laughed with relief. “I do indeed; I don't want to start all over again with babies.”

“We will have enough to do arranging suitable alliances for the nine children who are not yet espoused,” he pointed out.

“Shrew, I meant to speak of this before we were married, but you were so impetuous, you didn't give me a chance.”

“Sweetheart, if it's about our children, can't it wait? We will be at Sheffield the day after tomorrow. All too soon they'll be dominating our lives again.”

“Darling, I've already waited too long to broach this subject. I have great plans for their futures, and I need your approval.”

He finished his wine as he listened to her talk and knew he had never felt so replete and happy in his life.

“I intend to dower all of my children generously. Upon their marriage each will get one of my manor houses and five hundred acres of property.”

“That is more than generous, my love,” he murmured, closing his eyes contentedly.

“I want our children to found a great dynasty, and it must all be set out exactly, stating who is to marry whom and assigning lands and assets. It must be signed by both
of us and given to the lawyers so they can draw up the legal documents.”

“Mmm, darling, set all your ideas down on paper and I'll look it over.” He moved down in the bed and gathered her against him. “I love sleeping with you; my bed will never be cold again.”

The following day a light summer rain was falling, and Bess spent the entire morning sitting at the desk in the cozy paneled study that was tucked off the main hall. She had thought about these marriages between their Cavendish and Talbot children for so long, she knew just exactly who would be paired with whom.

Bess wanted Gilbert Talbot for her youngest daughter, Mary. He stood a very good chance of becoming Earl of Shrewsbury someday and making her daughter a countess. Of all Shrewsbury's sons, Gilbert was most like his father, dark with an attractive air of arrogance, and she knew Mary, with her fiery curls and stubborn temper, was most like herself.
It will be a match made in heaven; they will be just like Shrew and I.

Since her eldest son, Henry Cavendish, would get Chatsworth, Bess wanted Grace Talbot for her daughter-in-law. She had a special place in her heart for Grace, and since the child had already fallen in love with Chatsworth, what could be more fitting? Harry was a few years older than Grace and would have to wait to consummate the marriage, but it would give him time to sow some wild oats and enjoy his tour of the continent before he settled down.