“I WOULD TAKE CARE OF YOU, ELIZABETH.”
She gave him a level look. “I have more good sense than to allow you to seduce me, milord. I have no dowry; I must make my own way in this world. I want a respectable marriage, and without my honor that would be impossible.”
Impatience rose up in him. “God, you are an innocent wench!”
Bess flashed him a radiant smile. “Ah, and therein lies the attraction.”
Cavendish threw back his head and laughed. She was part girl, part woman, yet wise beyond her years. Her candor held him in thrall. The perfume of the night-scented stocks stole to them from the garden beyond the balustrade, beckoning them into the velvet blackness. He saw the longing in her eyes, then heard her sigh with regret.
“I must go. Now. You are far too tempting, Rogue Cavendish.”
He felt his body stir with soaring desire but crushed it down for the moment. “I'll let you go, but I give you fair warning that tomorrow I will take up exactly where I left off.”
Bess picked up her skirts and hurried toward the French doors, but before she disappeared inside, she called provocativley over her shoulder, “You may try, milord, but it remains to be seen if you will succeed.”
PRAISE FOR VIRGINIA HENLEY'S
A WOMAN OF PASSION
“THIS IS WHAT HISTORICAL ROMANCE IS SUPPOSED TO BE … filled to the brim with fascinating characters, made all the more intriguing by Ms. Henley's ability to turn historical figures into flesh and blood people of vast appetites, ambitions and passions.”
—Romantic Times
“NO ONE SETS FIRE TO THE PAGE LIKE VIRGINIA HENLEY.”
—CHRISTINA SKYE, author of 2000 Kisses
“A WOMAN OF PASSION IS MORE THAN JUST AN ELIZABETHAN ROMANCE. Instead, it is biographical fiction that brings an era and a brave person to life. This well-written fictionalized account of the real life and events of Bess Hardwick may be Ms. Henley's best work to date, which is saying a lot because her résumé of erotic historical romances include some of the all time best works.”
—HARRIET KLAUSNER
“AN ENJOYABLE TALE.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“A MUST FOR HENLEY FANS … Basing her novel on a historical figure, Henley re-creates the licentiousness, greed, and gluttony of the Tudor court, and presents a heroine comfortable with her own highly erotic nature and force of will.”
—Booklist
Books by Virginia Henley
A WOMAN OF PASSION
A YEAR AND A DAY
DREAM LOVER
ENSLAVED
SEDUCED
DESIRED
ENTICED
TEMPTED
THE DRAGON AND THE JEWEL
THE FALCON AND THE FLOWER
THE HAWK AND THE DOVE
THE PIRATE AND THE PAGAN
THE RAVEN AND THE ROSE
This book is dedicated
to strong, vital women everywhere.
You know who you are.
PROLOGUE
Derbyshire, England
August 20, 1533
“What the devil are you doing?” the little red-haired girl demanded as two burly farmers lifted the oak dresser.
Ignoring her, the men hauled the dresser outside and came back upstairs for a bedstead. Bess Hardwick put her hands on her hips and commanded, “Stop!” When they did not obey her, she stamped her foot and cursed them soundly.
Clutching her rag doll closely to her chest, she ran downstairs and literally staggered with shock when she found the rooms empty. She rushed outside and saw the oxcart filled with her family's possessions. Though visibly upset, her mother stood by passively, as did her older brother and her sisters.
“No! Noooo!” Furiously, Bess ran to the wagon and began to unload their belongings. She managed to pull down a wicker linnet cage, but the rest of the furniture was tied down and far too heavy for her to budge. The little redhead threw herself on the ground, kicking her heels and screaming at the top of her lungs, in a royal tantrum.
“Do ye want me to tan her arse, missus?” one of the men asked.
“No, no. Bess has an overabundance of passion. She feels things more deeply than others. There is nothing any of us can do—it just has to run its course before she can stop.”
Bess Hardwick was in a full-blown rage, but rage was the only thing that kept her sickening fear at bay. First her father had gone and then the servants; then one by one the farm animals had disappeared. The best pieces of furniture had been sold, and now they were losing their home. Where would they go? How would they live? Where would they sleep? What would they eat? One uncertainty piled on top of another, becoming a mountain of stark, cold terror.
Bess was ready to fight, ready to take on the entire world, but the rest of her family had no fight in them.
“Come along, Bess, we cannot stay at Hardwick, it is no longer our home,” her mother said, gently pulling her to her feet.
“I'm not going!” she cried stubbornly as she sat down in the dusty road, glaring daggers at her family.
After a full minute's wait, Elizabeth Hardwick nodded for the driver to start. “Bess will follow; she has no other choice.”
The imp of Satan sat, unyielding as the Rock of Gibraltar, as the wagon descended the hill, getting smaller and smaller, then finally disappearing down the rutted track. When she found herself alone, with no audience but the bird and her rag doll, Bess opened the door of the wicker cage. “Well, at least you don't have to leave. You may live here forever.” The linnet hopped out of the cage and flew up into a large oak.
Bess got to her feet and went to stand in front of the half-timbered house where she had been born. She spoke to it, never doubting that Hardwick Manor could hear and understand every word. “You are mine! Don't be sad. I will be back to claim you. The rest of them are useless. It's going to be up to me!”
Bess's father had died and left her when she was four, but she remembered standing with him in front of the house on this very spot. She could still feel his hand on her shoulder and hear his words in her ear: “Land is wealth, my wee lass. Land and property are the most important things on earth. Hardwick! Even our family name comes from the land. Hang on to Hardwick, Bess, no matter what.”
Bess swallowed the hot bile in her throat and dashed a hand across her nose and eyes, rubbing dirt into the snot and tears that ran down her face. She would be six on her next birthday, and six was far too old to cry. Bess looked at her doll. “Are you ready to go, Lady Ponsonby?” After pausing for a moment, she added reluctantly, “Then so am I.” Feeling almost torn in half, she turned away from the house and walked stoically in the direction of the cart, clutching Esmeralda Ponsonby by her rag arm.
An empty feeling settled inside her and expanded until it filled her entire belly. Something warned her she had better get used to it; she doubted it would ever go away. Bess hadn't gone far when the linnet deserted the oak tree and fluttered after her, twittering in distress. Bess felt it alight on her head and make a little nest for itself amongst her fiery curls. “Foolish little bird,” she muttered. “I wouldn't leave Hardwick if I were you.”
ONE
London, 1543
“Something glorious will happen today. … I feel it in my heart!” The corners of Bess Hardwick's generously shaped mouth lifted in a smile as her gaze traveled the entire length of the gallery of the grand London mansion. She had been with the noble Lady Zouche and her daughters for a year now, and that incredible year had changed her life forever.
When they had been forced out of Hardwick, her mother, Elizabeth, had taken refuge with her sister Marcella, who was also a widow. Bess soon grew very close to her aunt, recognizing that they were kindred spirits with strong, decisive personalities
. At Marcella's instigation, the two sisters had put their heads together and concocted a plan. Listening to them had taught Bess that the most important goal in a woman's life was marriage and the greatest lesson that could be learned was how to catch a husband. Since Aunt Marcy was rather horse-faced, with a tongue sharp enough to clip tin, their man-trap had to be baited with Bess's more docile mother, Elizabeth.
In what seemed a remarkably short time, Elizabeth Hardwick captured the younger son of Sir Francis Leche of Chatsworth. Unfortunately, Ralph Leche, Bess's new stepfather, had little money of his own, and when the babies started to arrive, he had difficulty supporting them all. Even the house in Baslow village that Ralph leased from his father, Sir Francis, became overcrowded, especially after Aunt Marcy moved in to help with the children. So once again the sisters put their heads together to concoct a plan to improve their family's lot in life.
It had been nothing short of a miracle when the noble Lady Margaret Zouche decided to pay a visit to her country home at Ashby-de-la-Zouche. Elizabeth and Marcella had known Lady Margaret when they were girls because of some distant relationship, and they decided to visit her immediately to ask if one of the Hardwick daughters could be found a suitable position in her London household. Such service with a noble family was a traditional way for children of poor kinsmen to further their education and gain experience in running a vast household. When Lady Zouche indicated she was amenable to their request, the sisters rushed back to Baslow to make the monumental decision.
Which Hardwick daughter should be pushed from the nest to make her own way in the world? “Though it's an unpaid position, it is a God-sent opportunity to make useful connections for her future. Mark my words,” Marcella prophesied, “Bess will be our salvation!”
“Bess?” Elizabeth said uncertainly, for she had two daughters older than Bess, both of whom were far more suited to following orders.
“Of course Bess,” Marcella said implacably. “She has your beauty and my sharp tongue, and to top it all off, her glorious flaming hair will make London sit up and take notice of her. Her sweet, biddable sisters would be dumb as doorknobs! Bess will seize the opportunity and run with it. Bess isn't sweet, she's tart, and at barely fourteen already has the breasts of a courtesan! I shall miss her with all my heart, but it is a wonderful opportunity for her.”
Bess had never been separated from her family; she'd never even slept alone. She shared a bed and all her secret dreams with her sister Jane. Bess feared she would miss her gentle mother and her aunt Marcella. Her aunt dispensed such sage advice, and she wondered how she would manage without her.
The night before she departed for London, when she would be cut off at a stroke from her loving family, Bess experienced the nightmare that had been plaguing her ever since they had been thrown out of Hardwick Manor. It seemed to recur when she was feeling especially vulnerable.
Bess walked in to a room that was empty, stripped bare. She ran downstairs and found the bailiffs carrying off everything she possessed in the world. Bess begged and pleaded and cried, all to no avail. Outside, her family's meager belongings were being piled on a cart. They had been put out of their house and had nowhere to go. Fear washed over her in great waves. Panic choked her. When she turned around, the cart was gone, her family was gone, and even Hardwick Manor had vanished. Bess had lost everything she'd had in the world. The suffocating terror mounted until it engulfed her.
Bess awakened, screaming … everything was gone … she was overwhelmed with helplessness, hopelessness.
The following morning, the excitement of traveling to London soon dispelled the terror of the nightmare. Once inside the magnificent treasure-filled Zouche mansion, Bess no longer harbored any doubts that she had done the right thing in leaving home. She was completely certain that she was fulfilling her destiny and had an overwhelming desire to become wealthy enough to buy back Hardwick Manor for her family.
Suddenly plunged into a world of riches and privilege, Bess became wildly ambitious. Like a sponge, she soaked up everything about her new way of life and made herself indispensable to Lady Zouche and her daughters. And now, just over a year later, on the threshold of womanhood, Bess had the feeling that something momentous was about to happen in her life.
As she descended the stairs from the third-floor gallery, Bess paused in her headlong rush as she saw young Robert Barlow coming in the other direction, gasping for breath. He was a page in the Zouche household, from the same village in Derbyshire as herself.
“Rob, sit down before you fall down,” Bess said, retracing her steps to the gallery. She shoved the tall, thin youth down on a carved settle and noted his gray pallor. He was as delicate as a girl and had little vitality.
“My chest hurts terribly when I climb stairs,” he gasped. Nonetheless, he managed a smile, apparently grateful for her attention.
“Go up to your bed and lie down. I think you are growing too fast and it robs you of strength.” Bess enjoyed such robust health herself that the boy's languor alarmed her.
“I can't, Bess, I have to take this message to Suffolk House and await a reply.”
Bess plucked the letter from his hand. “I'll take care of it, Rob. Go up now; none will even miss you.” Bess knew she should delegate the delivery of the letter to a footman, but on a sudden impulse she decided not to do so. London! How she adored it, and the Strand—with its magnificent mansions that belonged to the nobility—was her favorite place to walk in the most glorious city on earth.
The letter was addressed to Lady Frances Grey, Marchioness of Dorset, who was Lady Zouche's dearest friend in the world. The first time Bess had met Frances Grey and learned she was the daughter of King Henry Tudor's sister, she had been overwhelmed. But during the past year, Bess had visited the Greys' London residence so frequently that she had come to feel at ease in the great lady's presence.
Bess had thought the Zouche residence, which reflected the feudal lifestyle of the past, impressively grand, until she had experienced Suffolk House, where the Greys held court on a regal scale. Though they were immensely rich and powerful, Bess thought Frances and Henry Grey the kindest, friendliest people she had ever known. And even though their daughters, Lady Jane Grey and Lady Catherine Grey, were in the line of succession to the throne, they were good friends with Lady Zouche's daughters. Thanks to Bess's position as the girls' companion, she was included in that friendship.
Using a back door that led from the kitchens, Bess stepped into the warm summer sunshine and quickly walked down Bedford Street to the Strand. If the stretch of land along the river had been paved with gold, it wouldn't have seemed more fantastic to her for there stood one huge mansion after another, all no doubt crammed with riches, treasures, and servants. At first Bess thought of them as the many mansions of heaven, which Jesus had referred to, according to the scriptures. Nay, more like paradise, she decided. Her footsteps slowed as she strolled past Durham House and York House. Just imagining the vast rooms behind the tall windows, whose walls held priceless paintings, set her blood singing. Someday, Bess vowed, I will have my own town house in London. What about Hardwick? a tiny voice whispered. Bess tossed her red curls, dislodging the embroidered cap perched precariously on her head. “Hardwick shall be my country home,” she answered loftily, ignoring the liveried servants who sent her admiring glances.
Ambitious men got whatever they wanted, so why shouldn't a woman be ambitious? She was only going to live once, so why not make it count? Bess was determined to be a great success and get her fair share of this world's riches. She swore it, vowed it, pledged it like an oath. Bess envisioned her future with clarity. She knew exactly what she wanted and knew there would be a price to pay. But that was only right, a mere bagatelle. She would pay the price gladly, even with abandon. She would walk through fire or barter her soul to have it all!
It had not taken Bess long to make herself indispensable to Lady Zouche. She made sure her employer saw that she was quick-witted and shrewd, and had an ability t
o manage people that would have been wasted in a menial position in the Zouche household. She had adapted so quickly to the lifestyle of the aristocracy, had such beautiful manners and an abundance of energy, that Lady Zouche had recognized the jewel she had acquired and appointed Bess companion to herself and her daughters.
Happier than she had ever been in her life, Bess knew that now was her opportunity to catch a husband. Though she was not of noble birth and had no dowry, she was young, beautiful, and had the benefit of influential connections in the exalted ranks of the upper aristocracy. Moreover, Tudor court circles attracted the richest, most ambitious men in England.
Bess made her way through the formal gardens behind Suffolk House, inhaling the fragrant scent of lavender and late-summer roses. She scanned the lawns leading down to the river, expecting to find Lady Frances outdoors on such a warm afternoon. Until she reached the steps, Bess did not notice the two men above her on the terrace. As she looked up, the sun dazzled her eyes so that she thought for a moment the resplendent figure before her was King Henry. Bess drew in a swift breath and sank down in a graceful curtsy upon the terrace steps. Her skirts formed a pool of pale green, and the sun burnished the tendrils of red-gold hair escaping from beneath her cap.
From their vantage point above her on the terrace, the two men were privileged to a delicious display of pert breasts. William Cavendish's mouth curved sensually. “Cock's bones, there's a dish I'd like to taste.”
Henry Grey, Marquess of Dorset, jabbed his friend in the ribs and strode toward Bess. “Mistress Hardwick, surely there is no need for such formality between us?”
As he raised her from her curtsy, Bess blushed, for she could see that the man behind him was not Henry VIII. “Forgive me, Lord Dorset, I thought you were entertaining the king,” she said breathlessly. She saw the man's dark brows momentarily draw together as if he were displeased at the comparison, then watched as he threw back his head and laughed. Bess was stunned. He was at least six feet tall, with thick dark hair that curled attractively about his collar. His square, determined jaw was clean-shaven, showing off the deep cleft in his chin. His eyes, brimming with amusement, were such a deep shade of brown that they looked black. All in all, he was the most compelling male she had ever seen.