A Woman of Passion

by Virginia Henley

  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.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  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.”

  “W
e 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.

  In her enthusiasm Bess made a few blots and spelling mistakes, so she took great pains to write out a fresh copy before her husband saw it. Her heart filled with pride as she signed it, Elizabeth, Countess of Shrewsbury.

  “Bess, where the devil are you hiding? The rain has stopped, and I warrant the woods are filled with deer. Let's ride into Sherwood and see if we can bag one. It's our last day here.”

  She knew he loved to hunt and agreed to ride out with him. “I have to change, but I promise I won't be long, darling. While you're waiting for me, you can look over the matches I have proposed for our sons and daughters.”

  He watched her walk away from him, then turn to look over her shoulder with an inviting glance. Her lure was potent; surely she didn't expect him to put his mind on the serious business of espousals when all he wanted to do was help her change her clothes. His eyes scanned the paper on the desk, curious to know what she had been plotting. When he saw that she had paired two of her children with two of his, he threw back his head and laughed, totally amused at how outrageous she could be.

  That afternoon Bess did not bring up the subject that was foremost in her mind. He had read her proposals, and that was a good start. She would give him a little time to reflect and come around to her way of thinking.

  While her husband and his gamekeeper dressed and hung the stag he had shot with a single arrow, Bess helped Cecily with the final packing, and the servants carried their baggage down to the hall in readiness for an early departure to Sheffield. Though she was loath to leave Rufford, Bess was looking forward to her new position as Countess of Shrewsbury and mistress of Sheffield Castle. She couldn't wait to start redecorating their private wing and putting her personal stamp on everything in the Talbot empire.

  Shrewsbury bathed and changed his bloodied clothes, then joined his wife for a glass of wine before dinner. “We've been so happy here, Bess. Let's pledge to come back often, just the two of us.”

  She raised her glass, then glanced down at the paper still lying on the desk. “We mustn't forget to take this.” She gave him a brilliant smile. “What do you think about my clever idea?”

  “Surely you jest! Sweetheart, you can't be serious?”

  The smile left her face. “I've never been more serious in my life. This is very important to me, Shrew.”

  “Who my children marry is of tantamount importance to me too, believe it or not.” His voice dripped with sarcasm and arrogance. “Wherever did you get this preposterous idea?”

  “I got it when you married two of your children to two of William Herbert's!” Bess could feel her anger rising quickly.

  “William Herbert happens to be the Earl of Pembroke. Our children are equal in name and wealth.”

  Bess felt as if her cheeks were on fire. “So you actually think my Cavendish children are not good enough to wed with Talbots, you arrogant swine!”

  “I think no such thing.”

  “Then what do you think?” Bess cried furiously. “Let's be plain with each other!”

  “All right. Since you ask, I will be plain. These things are for me to decide, not you. I will not allow you to be the boss and make the decisions. It's highly amusing that you just assume I will let you have all your own way. You obviously think because I love you deeply, I will allow you to rule me. But I will not, nor will I allow you to run roughshod over me or manipulate me. Bess, I will be master in my own house.”

  “You brute, how dare you speak to me like this!” She hissed like a feline ready to unsheathe her claws.

  “You are a woman, a very beautiful woman, and up to now that has allowed you to have your own way about everything. You have had men dancing to your tune all your life. You may have been able to wrap your other husbands about your fingers, Bess, but not me, my darling. I am not other men, as you will soon learn.”

  “Don't you dare to threaten me, you black beast!” He had immediately taken the offensive position, which left her with no option but to defend herself. “I would not be doing my job as a mother if I did not look after my children's best interests!”

  “Your ambition is insatiable. It consumes you and everything in your path like wildfire. I won't allow it to destroy us!”

  Bess picked up the inkstand from the desk and hurled it at him. It missed, but the ink splattered, then pooled on the priceless Persian carpet.

  His icy blue eyes narrowed. “You forget yourself, madam. You are behaving like a common fishwife.”

  “And you're behaving like a bloody Talbot hound!”

  “I think the servants have heard enough. When you are ready to beg my pardon, I will be upstairs,” he said coldly.

  “I wish I'd never married you!” she screamed.

  “But you did,” he said quietly, “and you also vowed to obey me. Bess, make no mistake, I will bring you to heel if I have to.”

  She gasped, speechless, as he turned his back on her and left the room. She stood there, stunned that she did not hold him in the palm of her hand. “To hellfire with you, Shrewsbury!” She put her hands to her temples and felt her blood pounding. Son of a bitch, son of a bloody bitch! Bring me to heel, begod! I'll show him; I'll leave him! I'll go home to Chatsworth! Tonight! Bess summoned her maid. “Cecily, we are leaving. No, don't bother with the damned baggage.” Bess raised her voice in total defiance. “And you know what you can do with your bloody pearls too!”

  The following morning Bess's mother and Marcella were amazed to find her sitting at the breakfast table.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I live here,” she snapped.
/>   “Where's Shrewsbury?” her mother ventured.

  “Never utter that name in this house again!” Bess summoned her secretary. “Robert, bring the accounts up to the library.”

  Marcella rolled her eyes. “We are in for a monumental battle of wills between the earl and his new countess, I'm afraid.”

  Bess's mother whispered, “It's a miracle it lasted this long.”

  Bess threw herself into her work. After the accounts were done, she visited her tenant farms, ordered the necessary repairs, and she waited for Shrewsbury to come. When he did not she inspected her mines and rode over to Hardwick, where a great seam of coal had just been discovered. She vowed to herself that when Shrewsbury came she would be ready for him. But Shrewsbury did not come.

  During the next week Bess raved and cursed and swore and threw things. Then she flung herself on her bed and sobbed. When she was finally drained of her temper and her self-pity, she began to think more clearly. She still felt that the betrothals were right, but she admitted that she had been wrong not to broach the subject before they were married. When he came she would admit it.

  Bess managed to fill her days, but her nights were endless. She missed Shrewsbury so much, she thought she would surely die. Damn the man, why is he taking so long to come? She answered herself. Because he's arrogant, and stubborn, and willful, and expects everyone to do his bidding without question! She pressed her lips together, knowing she had just described herself. What if he never came? The thought was unendurable. What if he was finished with her? She'd never live down the scandal— she'd be a laughingstock! Yet deep down it was another matter that was breaking her heart. She loved him madly, more than she'd ever admitted, more than she'd ever realized, and obviously a thousand times more than he loved her! What in God's name was she going to do?

  Bess cringed at thoughts of going to Sheffield, begging for forgiveness. She had too much pride; it would choke her! She concocted a dozen plots that might bring him to Chatsworth but abandoned them, knowing he would see through her deceit. She hadn't slept in a week and in desperation took a full bottle of malmsey to bed with her.