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THIRTEEN
Cavendish expected to escort Bess to the wedding of William Parr and Elizabeth Brooke, but she refused him. “It is all right to court me in private, but certainly not in public. I shall accompany the Greys,” Bess told him firmly.
Although William Parr was the queen's brother, because of the divorce scandal the wedding had to be a private one rather than a lavish Court affair.
“The bride looks lovely,” Bess murmured to Frances, wishing it were her own wedding.
“Elizabeth Brooke has a very shrewd head on her shoulders. Today, not only did she become Marchioness of Northampton, but the clever little jade made herself sister-in-law to the Queen of England. How's that for sleeping your way to the top?”
Bess's low, sultry laugh caught the attention of the bride's eldest brother, Harry, heir to the Cobham title and fortune. He begged an introduction, then danced attendance on her throughout the celebration. Young Harry Brooke suddenly decided he was in the market for a wife, and the vivacious flame-haired widow made his blood thicken in his veins.
Cavendish seethed quietly as he sat with his daughter, Cathy, who was espoused to Harry Brooke's younger brother, Thomas. As Bess and Harry danced down the length of the ballroom, Cathy said, “You have acquired marvelous taste in ladies, Father. I liked her the moment I saw her.”
“She had the same effect on me, sweetheart.” William recalled the first time he laid eyes on her from the Suffolk House terrace, and suddenly he wanted to choke his friend Harry Brooke.
“Why don't you ask Bess to dance?”
“Last time she left me standing in the middle of the dance floor, and the little hellcat wouldn't hesitate to do it again.”
A short time later Bess danced the galliard in the arms of Sir John Thynne. The couple were engrossed in deep conversation, seemingly oblivious to anyone else in the room. “Who is that gentleman? He looks familiar,” Cathy asked.
“Too bloody familiar,” Cavendish muttered. “He is my good friend John Thynne, Lord Edward Seymour's property agent. He's building his own country house at Brentford.”
“I hope he isn't looking for a wife,” Cathy said innocently.
Cavendish shot to his feet. “Come, sweetheart, I'll introduce you to him.” When the dance ended, Sir William greeted Sir John warmly. “John, may I present my daughter, Mistress Catherine Cavendish. She's betrothed to young Thomas Brooke, but I'm sure he won't object if Cathy dances with you.”
As Sir John, ever the gentleman, bowed to his friend's daughter, Cathy and Bess exchanged a highly amused glance. When the music started, Sir John murmured politely, “Would you do me the honor, mistress?”
Sir William bowed formally to Bess and solemnly echoed the question. “Would you do me the honor, mistress?”
Bess bit an amused lip. “I thought older men preferred to sit on the sidelines. Still, it is a coranto, a rather staid measure. I don't suppose you'll do yourself an injury.”
“When you danced the galliard, you gave a shocking display of petticoats and lace stockings.”
For once Rogue Cavendish didn't seem amused, so Bess tried to make him laugh. “Isn't that the whole point of the galliard, to titillate? John is stronger than he looks; I wondered if he'd be up to it.”
“He was up, all right, as was every other male who looked at you. I thought your breasts were going to fall out of that low-cut gown!”
“Is that what your eyes were riveted upon?” She gave him a dazzling smile. “Your jealousy would be flattering if it weren't so ridiculous. All we spoke of were houses.”
“A subject that stirs your passion! Did he invite you to Brentford?”
“As a matter of fact he did.”
“And did you accept?” he asked dangerously.
Bess lifted her chin. “As a matter of fact I did.” The music stopped. “Excuse me, Sir William. I promised Harry Brooke the next dance.”
The hour was late by the time the raucous bedding of the newlyweds was celebrated, and at last the guests, flown with wine, began to take their noisy leave. As Bess and Henry helped an unsteady Frances climb up into the Greys' coach, she felt a pair of powerful arms seize her from behind in the darkness. Before she could cry out, Bess found herself being lifted into a carriage emblazoned with the Cavendish stags. With blazing eyes she watched Rogue Cavendish slide in beside her and slam the door closed. He was not his usual laughing self, and Bess should have been warned by his dark mood. Instead, her temper flashed.
“Is this an abduction? Will you carry me off and rape me?” she challenged.
“God's bones, you invite rape!”
She flew at him, intending to rake his face with her fingernails. He caught her wrists and held them tight as iron manacles. “Stop acting like a common trollop, or I'll take you over my knee.”
“Stop acting as if you own me, for you don't!”
