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Bess yelped and almost dropped the tray. She felt her cheeks begin to burn. He really was a damned rogue to toy with her right under Lady Margaret's nose. She could be dismissed on the spot.
“Is something wrong, Bess?” The question was sharp with suspicion.
“Yes, my lady, I'm afraid I've spilled the wine.” Bess very deliberately tipped the glass so that it splashed over Cavendish, then bit her lip at her own daring. “Forgive me, sir. I'll get a footman.” Bess glanced up into his eyes and saw that her deliberate act had not angered him; rather, it had challenged him.
Though the village of Chelsea was only a few scant miles upriver from the city of London, it was considered to be in the country. Here, too, sumptuous mansions had been built along the river, but all were surrounded by meadows, beyond which lay dense woods.
Magnificent Shrewsbury House, which was owned by the Talbots, one of the wealthiest noble families in England, was at Chelsea, and opposite Kew Gardens was the enormous, square Syon House, which belonged to the Dudleys. Just a mile away, the tall, slender brick towers of Richmond Palace rose above the Thames, and farther upriver lay the resplendent and incomparable Hampton Court Palace.
Bess was so thrilled about the Chelsea visit, she hadn't been able to sleep. The anticipation of being in the company of Rogue Cavendish made her dizzy with excitement, yet at the same time it disturbed her. She knew that she had caught his fancy, but he was a man of the world and it might be hard to hold his interest, and more difficult still to get him to declare himself. She knew she must walk a fine line and not step over the boundaries of propriety, but skirt the edges close enough to make him want her. Bess shivered at the thought.
Chelsea Palace took her breath away. The rooms were spacious, with many windows to let in the light, and her imagination took flight. Bess decided that when she built her dream house, it would have more glass windows than walls.
Frances Grey greeted Bess just as warmly as she welcomed Margaret Zouche and her daughters, making no distinction between her noble friend and her daughters' companion. Everyone, especially Bess, loved Frances for her easygoing manner and lack of pretention, rare qualities in one of royal blood. Frances had a beautiful face and lovely golden hair, but her figure was full and could only be described as plump.
Even though Chelsea Palace had scores of servants, Frances had brought along so many ladies-in-waiting, nursemaids, and governess–companions for the Grey children, who were slightly younger than the Zouche girls, that Bess realized she would have few duties to perform apart from sitting with the two friends while they indulged in endless gossip.
Over the past year Bess had learned every scandalous detail of Henry Tudor and his royal court. She knew all about Anne Boleyn's imperious manner, sulfurous moods, and deformed little finger. She learned that Anne had kept the king panting after her for six long years without letting him bed her. When Anne did finally give in, he got her with child immediately, then moved heaven and earth to marry her. Frances had chuckled and said, “It was easy for Anne to deny Henry intercourse, for she loved Harry Percy and didn't give a fart for the king—oh, sorry, Margaret, I meant to say she didn't give a fig for the king.”
Bess also had heard all the disparaging remarks Henry had made about not wanting to ride that “Flanders mare”—Anne of Cleves, his fourth wife—and she had also learned every indiscretion ever committed by the wanton little Catherine Howard, his fifth. Now she sat listening as Frances divulged the very latest gossip.
“When Thomas Seymour returned from his mission to Germany, Catherine Parr fell into his bed like a peach … well, perhaps more like a persimmon, with that prim mouth and air of respectability she pretends.”
Margaret interjected, “I didn't know Lord Latimer had died—”
“He hasn't, but I warrant his days are numbered!”
“Oh, Frances, how can you say such things?”
“Because I know for a fact Henry has propositioned her! She confided it to her sister, in strictest secrecy. Naturally her sister couldn't wait to tell me.”
“Oh, poor Catherine.”
“Don't feel too sorry for her, Margaret. She's been married to two rich, old husbands and knows to perfection how to manage men. She's learned how to suck more than persimmons. Catholic too,” sniffed Frances, who was staunchly Protestant.
“But if she loves Thomas Seymour—”
“God's balls, Margaret, love pales into insignificance when pitted against ambition. Why settle for the king's brother-in-law, when the king himself waggles his weapon?”
“You think she has aspirations to be queen?”
“I do. What does she have to lose besides her head?” Frances slapped her plump thigh with mirth, and Bess bit her lips to keep from laughing at such shocking irreverence.
“But if he is having his way with her, he has no need to wed her,” Margaret pointed out.
“I didn't say he was having his way with her; I said he had propositioned her. Catherine is wise enough to let him dip his dickie once, then cut him off. Cockteasing is still the surest method of trapping a husband.”
Bess sat listening, absorbing the noblewomen's lessons about men. She felt disappointed when Lady Margaret's daughters came running into the salon and interrupted the conversation.
“May we please go to the stables with Lady Jane, Mother? She has a new white palfrey.”
“Bess will go with you, but you must promise to be careful.”
Frances assured her friend, “There are dozens of grooms, Margaret; your young ladies will be perfectly safe.” She smiled at Bess. “You must select a mount for yourself while you're down there; we are having a hunt tomorrow.”
Bess's spirits soared.
“Oh, I don't think we will join you, Frances. I haven't ridden since I was in Derbyshire last year,” Margaret demurred.
