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THIRTY-FOUR
Bess received many letters of genuine condolence, but the ones from her friends and acquaintances in London urged her to return to Court. Most of them offended her sensibilities, and she read them aloud to the women of her family.
“Just listen to what Anne Herbert writes: There are no better hunting grounds for a husband than here at Court. And listen to this from Lettice Knollys: Do ask Her Majesty to make you a lady-of-the-privy-chamber. At the moment there is only Blanche Parry, Mary Stafford, and myself, and the men at Court are positively randy!”
“The woman has no decency; hasn't she ever heard of a widow's mourning period?” her mother asked.
“They are out of fashion at Court. Rich widows are snapped up like trout flies,” Bess explained.
Marcella remarked, “You will certainly make a very rich prize for some ambitious man, my dear.”
“I shall never marry again. My money, my manors, and my lands will go to my children. My wealth will not go into a husband's coffers; I worked too damned hard for it.” Besides, there is only one man in the world who makes me feel alive, and he's been married since he was twelve.
The month of April forced winter to loosen its icy grip, and spring came with a rush. Bess took full advantage of the milder weather and rode out each day inspecting her acres, her tenant farms, and their newly sown crops. Lambs were beginning to dot the rolling hills, and her heart filled with anticipation that wildflowers would soon blanket the meadows.
Bess was grateful that Shrewsbury had kept a discreet distance, but she knew it would not last. Each time she rode out, she was prepared to encounter him and knew in her heart that sooner or later he would come. The antagonistic relationship they had had for years had undergone a drastic change. He was still the most arrogant man alive, but she had seen the way he looked after his people, had seen the kindness he'd extended to her own tenants, and she knew firsthand his generosity. She finally acknowledged that Lord Talbot was a good man, a fair man, and a kind man. He was moral in every way, except where Bess was concerned. He always contended it was love they felt for each other, while she was adamant that it was lust. But now she began to suspect that her feelings ran too deeply. She must guard her heart against him at all costs—if it was not too late. He had allowed her three months' mourning, and she knew he would come soon.
Bess was surprised by the contents of a letter she received from her old friend Sir John Thynne. He told her that he was coming to Derbyshire to look at several properties. He wanted to see the finished Chatsworth and hinted that he would like to become her neighbor and renew their longstanding friendship. He told her that he had been considering a property called Abbot Stoke, in Lincolnshire east of Sheffield, but that the Earl of Shrewsbury had outbid him.
Bess tucked the letter away in her desk until she could think of a polite way to discourage him. She suspected that Sir John had more than friendship in mind. A beam of sunlight fell across her desk, and she realized she was far too restless to stay indoors. She decided to ride over to Meadowpleck and visit Francie and her new husband. Her daughter had been deeply saddened by the loss of her stepfather, and Bess hoped that the lovely spring weather would lift her spirits.
Heartily sick of wearing black, Bess donned a fuchsia petticoat before covering it with her black riding habit. On her way to the stables, she bent to pick a crocus and Shrewsbury's words came back to her: The winter will pass … spring will come.
Bess cantered toward the River Dove, breathing in the clear Derbyshire air as if it were the elixir of life. She spotted a baby rabbit and wondered if Francie would make her a grandmother this year. She didn't feel old enough to be a grandmother, but she was thirty-three, older if she admitted the truth.
She saw a horseman in the distance, and her heart did a somersault. Just for a moment she experienced panic. Should she turn tail and make a run for it? Bess laughed at her own foolishness. He'd give chase immediately and capture the quarry! She must never take the defensive with the compelling devil, or she'd be as powerless as yon baby rabbit.
She did not lessen her pace until he reined in and stood directly in her path. White teeth flashed in his dark face. “Such an eager welcome—how did you know I was coming, my beauty?”
Bess lifted her chin. “I'm not your beauty.”
“You are, you know,” he contradicted.
“And I had no idea you were coming!”
“You're a liar, Bess. You knew I'd come; mayhap not today, but soon.”
Bess knew she must not lose her temper. She was a respectable widow; she would act sedately. Her lashes swept her cheeks. “Lord Talbot, I am in mourning.”
He laughed out loud. “Your petticoat is showing.”
“You black devil!” she spat, yanking her riding habit down to cover her boots.
“No need to pretend with me, Vixen—I know you inside and out.”
Bess gasped, “You lewd, crude beast!”
He grinned wickedly. “That's what makes me a perfect match for you, my beauty.”
Suddenly, Bess began to laugh. “Why do you taunt me apurpose when you know I get angry as fire?”
“I like to rouse your passion. Anger is part of your passion—the only part I can rouse without making love to you.”
“Shrew, please stop.”
“Bess, the open door to freedom lies before you. Surely you have the courage to cross the threshold and come to me?”
“God in heaven, you're like a pit bull when you want something.”
