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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.
“This is my good friend, William Cavendish,” Henry Grey explained, as his companion elbowed him aside and lifted Bess's hand to his lips.
She knew her fingers trembled in his big hand, and her legs felt as limp as wet linen the moment he touched her.
“When did you last see the king?” Cavendish demanded.
“Never, milord.” Bess withdrew her hand from his and added coolly, “but his portraits are everywhere.”
“Ahh! All were painted in his prime, when he was at the peak of his vigor and virility. His vanity will not allow his subjects to see him as he really is.”
Here is arrogance, Bess thought. The man thinks himself better than the king! “All men are vain, milord,” Bess said pointedly.
It was Henry Grey's turn to laugh. “Touché, Cavendish, you are every bit as vain as the king, and as dissolute,” he murmured to his friend, who took a mistress as casually as he selected a new pair of riding boots.
With difficulty, Bess tore her glance from the powerful figure of Cavendish. “I have a letter for Lady Frances—”
“You've missed her, my dear, she's gone off to Dorset House for items she plans to take to Chelsea next week. We have only just returned from Bradgate in Leicestershire. Why do ladies constantly move from one house to another?” he asked quizzically.
“For the sheer pleasure of it, milord.” Bess smiled. “If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I shall seek out Lady Frances at Dorset House.”
Cavendish spoke up. “Mistress Hardwick, I have my boat here. Permit me to drop you at Whitefriars' water stairs.”
Bess couldn't believe her ears. Shrewdly, she covered the eagerness she felt with a show of reluctance. “I couldn't possibly take such shameful advantage of you, milord.”
Her clever words were provocative, filling his head with wicked thoughts. “Nay, I consider it my duty to provide you with safe escort, mistress.”
Bess wet her lips. “You offer me safe escort, milord, but who, pray, will protect me from you?”
“I refuse to take offense,” Cavendish said with a grin. “You are a very wise young woman to exercise caution with the men of London. The Marquess of Dorset here will vouch for my character. I must insist on delivering you safely to Dorset House.”
Bess said pertly, “If you insist, milord, how can I possibly refuse?”
It was her first concession to him, and Cavendish vowed it would not be her last.
“She's very young, Rogue,” Henry Grey reminded his friend, deliberately using his rakish nickname.
“I'll handle her with the greatest care,” Rogue Cavendish promised with a devilish glint in his eye.
As they walked down to the river, Bess assessed Cavendish openly. He was a big man with wide shoulders and a broad chest. His face was tanned from being outdoors, and he had a generous mouth that was no stranger to laughter. He had dark auburn hair and warm brown eyes that presently danced with amusement. But Bess was already aware that Rogue Cavendish was cocksure of himself, and she suspected that he was on the prowl for a pretty face. On the positive side, however, he had very influential friends and was showing a marked interest in her.
He boarded the barge first, then turned to help her. His powerful hands spanned her slim waist as he swung her into the air. Bess snatched off her embroidered cap before it fell into the river, and her glorious hair came tumbling down like molten red gold. As he lifted her to the deck, he gave the impression of sheer brute strength, and once again her knees turned weak.
The sight of her hair and the feel of her slender body beneath his hands had a marked physical effect on Cavendish. He hardened quickly.
Bess removed herself from his hands immediately. She was sexually innocent and knew little of male arousals, but she was far too wise to let his actions pass without a rebuke. “Sir, I must protest. I do not permit gentlemen to handle me in such a familiar manner.” She moved to the stern and sat down, spreading her skirts across the padded seat to prevent him from sitting close to her.
Cavendish grinned down at her and decided to stand. He signaled his bargeman, then braced his well-muscled legs to hold his balance. Men's fashions had been set by the king, designed to show off the male physique with tight hose and wide-shouldered doublets that ended just short of covering a man's most threatening parts.
Bess didn't seem to notice. She inhaled the tangy scent of the Thames. “I love London; imagine having three houses on the river!” she said, her mind still on the Greys' holdings.
“Chelsea Palace doesn't belong to the Greys, though they have the use of it. Would you like three houses?” he asked quizzically.
“Certainly I would. Though just one on the river would satisfy me, I warrant.”
“I wonder,” Cavendish mused, sensing a powerful ambition that matched his own. How challenging it would be to try to satisfy her. “Do you have a first name?” His tone was still amused.
She lifted her eyes to his. “Mistress Elizabeth Hard-wick, companion to Lady Zouche. Do you have a title?” she asked him directly.
