The Rose of York: Love & War by Sandra Worth Page B

he is most handsome.”
    “Theyalsosayhe’sdebauchedandsportswithwantonwomen,” Bess said, lifting her chin with disgust. “I am no harlot.”
    Jacquetta watched her daughter slyly. “ Non , you are certainly not. Your head is always clear to reason.”
    “He favours merchants’ wives.” Bess lifted her chin higher. “I’m no lowly merchant’s wife.”
    “ Non , indeed. He has never met anyone like you. You can manage him.”
    Bess smiled coldly. “The King is a man, and men are fools. They think with what hangs between their legs. If I play the part with timid glances and soft words, I shall get back my lands without compromise.”
    “And he can go back to his merchants’ wives,” said Jacquetta, suppressing a smile. She threw her daughter a glance that was part admiration, part pity. Admiration for the cool remoteness that protected her from the pain of emotion. Pity that she’d never know the ecstasy of passion. She tied her daughter’s hair loosely with blue ribbons to match her dress and carefully arranged Bess’s violet satin cloak over her graceful shoulders. “ Alors , go now and save our fortune!”
    With a child in either hand, Bess walked the short distance to the stately oak tree, a landmark of Whittlebury forest. Massive and splendid, it stretched out its branches as if to bless the woods it dominated. Her two sons, six-year-old Thomas and four-year-old Richard, could scarcely contain their excitement at the prospect of seeing the King. Taking up her stance beneath the oak, she waited.
    The morning wore on. The children grew impatient. Bess had almost despaired when barking dogs and galloping horses emerged from the trees and headed towards her, the King alone in front, leading the hunting party. Her heart racing, she stepped out from the shade into the sun.
    Edward saw her standing there with the sun streaming through her pale gold hair and shimmering over her violet cloak, reflecting a rose aura around her so that she appeared almost an illusion. He blinked, focusing his gaze. He pulled up sharply.
    “Good God, lady! What do you here?”
    She knelt with her sons. In the sudden motion of bending her head, her cloak loosened and her glorious gilt hair tumbled out and swept the ground. She raised her head slowly and her emerald eyes met those of the King. Edward saw that her face was pure oval with a milk-and-roses complexion, the line of forehead and nose carved with perfect symmetry, her lips full as rosebuds. But it was the eyes that held him, those cool green eyes that looked at him lazily through half-closed lids and exuded an erotic magnetism. He stared, unable to drag his gaze away. Beneath his red velvet riding jacket, his heart pounded wildly.
    “Lady, I bid you rise,” he said.
    The hunting party arrived and waited nearby, exchanging covert grins. They knew how Edward felt about beautiful women. And this one was a beauty, indeed.
    Bess rose and Edward’s eyes clung to her. She looked a goddess in her simple gown with her cape flowing from her statuesque shoulders.
    “What is your name, fair creature?”
    “Lady Elizabeth Grey, my lord.”
    “Grey,” he said, noting the sweep of golden lashes against smooth skin, the lift of the red lips, the short, perfect white teeth and pointed chin. Nor did his practised gaze miss the fullness of the breasts that hugged her closely fitted gown. “And what would you have of me, my lady?”
    “Your Grace, my husband was killed at the battle of St. Alban’s and I come to beg you to restore my husband’s estates to me, and to grant my father an audience.”
    “Your father?”
    “Lord Rivers, Sire.”
    “Ah, Richard Woodville,” said Edward, who never forgot a name. He glanced around at Hastings, sitting comfortably in his saddle, leaning on an elbow, watching them. Hastings quirked an eyebrow and they exchanged an amused glance. Richard Woodville was the lowborn knave who’d managed to marry royal blood and get himself made lord. While