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Bess's spirits plummeted.
“Lud, Margaret, if I can cram my bulk into a saddle, you can make the effort. No one shall be excused; everyone rides, children and all. Let the bloody grooms earn their pay.”
Inside the vast stables the girls discovered a litter of kittens nesting in the hay. They swooped them up in their arms with cries of delight and carried them outside. So that the mother cat would not be distressed, Bess picked her up and began to stroke her with murmured endearments. The black and white feline, unused to such gentle attention, nestled in the crook of her arm and began to purr. “Sweet puss, do you like to be stroked?”
Bess jumped as a shadow loomed above her. The cat took such alarm, it left a long scratch on her thumb as it leapt to safety.
“Sweet puss,” Cavendish murmured, pleased to see her the moment he rode in and dismounted.
Bess gasped at the pain in her thumb and at his closeness.
“Did you come to meet me?” he teased.
“You have a fine conceit of yourself, sir.” She waved her thumb. “This is the second time you've wounded me.”
He took her hand and saw the blood upon her creamy skin. For one erotic moment he pictured drops of blood across a creamy thigh, and the urge rose up in him to take her right there in the hay. Instead, he removed his riding glove and stroked her thumb with his, brushing the blood away. He stroked again. “Do you purr?”
She looked him directly in the eye. “I have claws.”
“Sheathe them,” he murmured huskily. Sheathe me! he invited silently.
Bess lowered her lashes, knowing they were long and dark and pretty. “We shouldn't be alone.” With cool deliberation she pulled her hand from his.
“If I hadn't thought we could be alone together, I wouldn't have come. Besides, we're not alone; we're in a stable filled with grooms and children.” Cavendish turned and spoke to his manservant, who hovered at a discreet distance. “Take my bags up, James. I'll follow shortly.”
Bess stepped away and spoke to him over her shoulder. “Lady Frances bade me choose a mount for tomorrow's hunt, but I haven't yet decided if I'll join the chase.”
He closed the distance between them, took her arm, and led her down a row of horse stalls, in the opposite direction from the girls. “Do you ride well?”
“I like to ride astride,” she confided.
He stopped walking and stared down at her. Already aroused, he found her words acting upon him as an aphrodisiac. The serious look on her face told him she was not being deliberately provocative, she was simply stating a fact, but her facts were exciting him in a very primal way. He looked in to a few more stalls. “You'll have to ride sidesaddle tomorrow. Here's a little mare with clean lines that will serve you very well.”
Bess saw that the chestnut horse was undistinguished in any way, and her glance strayed to more showy animals.
“Wear green tomorrow,” he said.
Taken aback by his remark, Bess turned to look at him. He was gazing at her with an expression of intense interest.
She loved green because it provided such a flattering contrast to her fiery-red hair. But why did he want her to wear green? “Is green your favorite color, sir?”
“Green will blend in with the trees to make us invisible.”
“Oh!” She gasped in surprise, suddenly comprehending why he had suggested the unremarkable mount for her. A small flame of hot anger kindled inside her as it occurred to Bess that he was well-versed in such matters as arranging clandestine assignations with women. Was Rogue Cavendish a practiced womanizer? Was she out of her depth? Her eyes moved over his broad chest, across his wide shoulders, and came to rest on his sensual mouth. Then she wondered what it would feel like to be kissed by this powerful, attractive man. Suddenly, Bess couldn't bear the fact that other women knew, while she did not. But she felt her anger subside as she realized a man should be experienced in these matters. What good would he be otherwise?
Lifting her eyes to his, she saw that he was amused. He was so attractive, he could probably have his pick of any woman in Court circles, yet for some reason his fancy had settled on her. Clearly he had seduction in mind, and she'd be willing to bet he was a man who enjoyed the chase. The enormous challenge he represented was too much for Bess to resist. The corners of her mouth lifted. This might be a game to him, but she was deadly serious. She wanted him every bit as much as he wanted her, possibly more, though not for the same reasons. Cavendish would be an extraordinary feather in her cap.
“I've decided to join the chase after all, sir.”
“Elizabeth”—he said her name like a caress—“you may call me William.”
“William,” she said slowly, testing the name on her lips, and liking the taste of it. Then she tossed her curls and pertly added, “You may call me Mistress Hardwick.”
