Page 37 of A Woman of Passion

Cavendish returned to the Great Chamber and sought out Lady Zouche. “Margaret, you're in fine feather tonight.”

“Sir William, I'm so happy to be able to congratulate you on your knighthood. It is long overdue.”

“My sentiments exactly, Margaret. I hear that Mistress Hardwick has returned to your household.”

“She's Mistress Barlow now. Widowed, you know. So very sad. My household is overcrowded with servants, but how could I refuse her a place under the circumstances?”

William fought the urge to strike her. The woman had Bess's services twenty-four hours a day, and she had them free of charge. “Would you tell her that Lady Frances needs her upstairs?”

Half an hour later, when Bess entered Frances Grey's sitting room on the third level, she found William Cavendish pacing the floor. Abruptly, Bess turned on her heel to leave.

He beat her to the door, slammed it, and leaned his full weight against it. “We have to talk, Bess.”

“Indeed?” She arched one of her dark brows as she waved her black fan in front of her face.

He searched his mind, wondering where to begin. His marriage was the sticking point between them, so he knew he must begin there. “Bess, I swear to you that I thought you knew I was married. It was common knowledge; everyone in London knew.”

“Indeed?” Bess continued to wave her fan languidly, apparently indifferent to his words.

“What the devil do you expect? I'm thirty-nine, more than twenty years older than you!”

“Indeed?” Bess stifled a yawn behind the black ostrich feathers.

William clenched his fists and prayed for patience. “I was left a widower with a young daughter. I wed Eliza Parris to give my child a mother and to sire a son. It wasn't until after we were wed that I learned she had a history of miscarriage that left her barren. We've always had separate bedchambers and led completely separate lives.”

“Indeed?” Bess said coolly.

“Put that bloody fan down and stop this ridiculous act of indifference!” William snatched the fan from her fingers and flung it to the floor.

She raised her chin, her eyes glittering dangerously. “Whatever makes you think it an act?” she drawled.

“Because you're punishing me, and you wouldn't feel the need to inflict pain on me if you were indifferent!”

Bess flew at him and raked his face. “Bastard! Whoreson! Ravisher of virgins!”

He grabbed her hands and forced them behind her back. His arms were around her now and he arched her body forward against his. “Little bitch,” he murmured. “I warrant you know just how magnificent you look when you are in a temper.”

Tears of utter rage filled her eyes, and her lips began to tremble. “Damn you, Cavendish, damn you to hell-fire!”

“Too late, Bess. The king's work has already done that.” He brought his mouth down over hers and kissed her deeply, thoroughly.

Bess's temper flared higher, and she pulled away from him. Now she had to fight herself as well as him. “Ravisher!” she accused.

“I wish to God I had taken your maidenhead that day in the forest, and I wish I'd taken you to Ireland as my mistress. Instead, I did the noble thing and urged you to make that honorable marriage that was so bloody important to you. I cared about you so deeply, my conscience wouldn't allow me to despoil you.”

“Your conscience?” Bess laughed in his face. “Don't you dare speak to me of conscience, Rogue Cavendish! You concealed not one but two wives from me, to say nothing of a daughter. You told me when you returned from Dover you'd have a question to ask me about a permanent relationship. You said you wanted us to be together. I was so young and naive, I thought you were going to ask me to marry you. But you knew that was impossible. You had every intention of seducing me! Rogue Cavendish, you have no conscience!”

“Not from this moment on I haven't, my beauty.”

“Oooh!” Bess pounded her fists against his chest and burst into sobs. William swung her up into his arms and carried her to a love seat before the fire. He sat down with his arms still about her and cradled her in his lap. Without a word he removed her lovely black lace ruff and brushed his lips against her throat. Then he threaded his fingers through her hair and kissed her gently, soothingly. “You are still in mourning; when did your husband die, Bess?”

“A year ago Christmas Eve,” she whispered. “He was too young to die.”

“Were you in love with him?” he asked possessively.

“He loved me too much … he adored me. Rob was younger than I was. … He was ill, weak; I had to be the strong one. I'm very wicked. … I felt as if I was just marking time until I could return to London,” she confessed.

“Bess, listen to me. In almost every relationship one loves more than the other, and the one who loves is the lucky one, the happy one. If Robert loved you, then he must have been happy.”

“Oh, he was … even though he knew he was dying, he was happy.”

“Then you can have no regrets. The past is over and done; the future lies before us. I would like to take up where we left off. You and I are well-matched. It is very rare for a man and a woman to love equally, but we could be such a couple. Bess, will you let me take care of you? Will you let me buy you a little house in London? Will you let me love you?”

Bess sat perched upon his knee, her head at war with her heart. She suspected she was in danger of falling in love with Rogue Cavendish all over again. The sight of him made her faint, his voice made her quiver, his touch made her burn. He was so strong; how wonderful it would be to be able to be weak for once. Yet she knew if she became his mistress, that would be all she would amount to in this world. And Bess wanted more. Bess wanted it all, and her ambitious dreams would not allow her to accept less. She picked up the lace ruff and slowly fastened it about her neck.

“You haven't given me your answer, sweetheart.” He looked sure of himself, quite confident she would do as he wished. His eyes looked at her possessively.

She looked at him with tears still clinging to her lashes. “My answer is no, William. I want more.”

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