Venus (13 page)

“Do you not? Then you have much to learn about the ways of loving, sweetheart.” He smiled, but there was a gravity in his intent gaze that held her spellbound. “I would have that which no man has yet taken …”A finger moved to trace the long, sensuous line of her lower lip. The tip of her tongue darted, dampening his finger in a gesture that was as artless as it was enticing. He drew a long, slow breath, losing himself in the glowing hazel pools as he lifted a strand of hair from her bosom, twisting it absently around his finger. “But I would have you render it joyfully, and in free spirit.” He watched her, saw the contemplation of his words lead to comprehension. “Well, moppet?” he prompted softly. “How do you answer me?”

It was this that he had been promising with those caresses and the deep, glowing intensity of his gaze; this that she had been wanting with a powerful, but until now indefinable, longing. Polly found she could not answer him. Words stuck in her throat, and she looked helplessly into that searching but smiling countenance. She noticed the way his wayward red-gold eyebrows flew upward at the edges, the curl of his eyelashes, the blue flames simmering in the emerald depths of his eyes.

“I will have your answer,” he said, low but insistent. “Will you render me what I ask, joyfully and in free spirit?”

Polly moistened her lips, swallowed in an effort to lubricate her parched throat. He would have her declare this desire that she had not recognized until this moment. He was not asking her simply to agree to yield her body in payment for his assistance. It was not a whore he wanted, bought and paid for, but a lover. That illumination loosened her tongue,
set the blood to resume its customary speed and course through her veins.

“Joyfully and in free spirit” she returned without a quaver.

“Ahhh.” It was a long-drawn-out sound of quiet satisfaction. His lips hovered above hers, and Polly waited breathlessly. But with a laugh he straightened, letting the strand of hair he held drop back to her breast. “Perhaps not. I am of a mind to sharpen the appetite with a little procrastination.” Polly’s pout of disappointment brought the laughter dancing again in his eyes. Releasing his warm grasp of her wrists, he went to pull the bell rope by the hearth.

Young Tom appeared, breathless in his haste to answer the summons, his eyes darting with fascinated speculation at Polly. The entire household was buzzing with the story of the enormity of Polly’s behavior—behavior that could not conceivably go unpunished. Lady Margaret might even call the constable, Bridget said. Assault on the mistress, it had been. The master would surely have to take my lady’s part this time. But as far as Tom could see, Polly showed no ill effects from having been closeted with his lordship for above a half hour. Indeed, far from being red-eyed with weeping, she was smiling.

“Send a message to the stables, Tom,” Kincaid instructed the lad. “I want the carriage brought ’round in twenty minutes.”

“Yes, m’lord.” Tom backed to the door, his eyes still on Polly. She dropped one eyelid in an unmistakable wink, and his gaze widened in amazement.

“I do not think Tom expected to find me in one piece,” she observed with a chuckle as the door closed.

Nick, opening the little drawer in his desk where he kept his strongbox, looked up and observed, “’Twas fortunate I was here. Nothing I have said in the past would have prevented Margaret’s laying her stick across your shoulders with unbridled venom, I fear.”

“I would not have done it had you not been here,” Polly replied. “I am not such a fool as to court danger.”

Nick unlocked the box, turning his attention to the contents. Maybe she would not knowingly court danger, but he was conspiring to expose her to the possibility of a threat much greater than any posed by Margaret and her hazel stick—the penalty for conspiring to bring about the downfall of one of the most powerful men in the land. If she was discovered, she would pay that penalty whether she had been spying wittingly or no. But he would not allow the conspirator’s concerns to intrude on those of the lover—not at this juncture. He drew out a purse of golden guineas, dropping it into his coat pocket. When a man contemplated a night’s absence from his home, it was well to be prepared.

“Run abovestairs, moppet, and pack up your belongings,” he instructed. “The carriage will be here shortly.”

“We go to find lodgings?” Polly asked, glancing out of the window, where snowflakes drifted, breaking loose from the leaden sky. “’Tis snowing.”

“The lodgings are found.” Nick’s eyes followed hers. “We’ll be snug and warm before that becomes serious.”

“But when were they found?” Bewilderment crept up on her again. “I thought you had only just decided—”

“Did you now?” His smile was teasing. “Then you were mistaken, my love. Now, begone and collect your things. I do not wish to delay overlong.”

Polly, devoutly hoping that she would not come face-to-face with the Lady Margaret, left the parlor. The hall was empty, and despite her knowledge of his lordship’s protection and her own new status, she could not prevent herself from scurrying like a field mouse up the stairs and into the privacy of the servant’s attics.

She had little enough to gather up: just the clothes that Kincaid had bought her at the Royal Exchange, a comb and a few ribbons she had bought for herself on the same day with the sovereign, and a piece of lace that she had bought from Big Rob that morning with her last remaining pennies. She was wrapping her worldly goods into a bundle when the door creaked open. She swung ’round nervously, but it was Sue who crept in.

“Y’are going to be all right, Polly?” she asked in a hesitant whisper. “’Tis said that her la’ship is turning you off without a character. What will ye do?”

“I can tell you, Sue, I want no truck with any of Lady Margaret’s characters,” Polly declared, sitting upon the bed with a mischievous smile. “Think how tedious ’twould be to be of a character to suit the Puritan.”

“Oh, Polly, y’are awful. Ye shouldn’t say such things. ’Tis so disrespectful!” gasped Sue, her hand over her mouth, although her eyes danced responsively.

“’Twas not exactly respectful to throw a bucket of dirty water at her,” Polly said airily. “Oh, you should have seen her face, Sue!” She went into a peal of laughter. “But I cannot tell you what I am going to do because you will be shocked.” This morning’s discussion about brazen hussies of Covent Garden breeding was not easily forgotten. For all that Polly knew that matters were not to be so conducted, she knew that Sue and her like would not draw the fine distinctions when it came to carnal pleasures enjoyed without the sanction of a wedding ring.

She herself was possessed of a feeling that she could not name—part excitement, part apprehension. Since that December night, she had been hovering on the edge of a wondrous unknown. On the surface she had gone about the tedious work of a maidservant, enlivened by the time she spent with Lord Kincaid. Beneath this apparently ordinary exterior existence had seethed a secret life of hidden desires, of unspoken promises, of visions of expanded horizons and dreams come true.

Now that secret life was to become the exterior life. Now she was about to break free truly, to leave behind her all that was dreary, brutal, exploitative—in short, all that had informed her practical existence until this afternoon. And the excitement was charged with the apprehension of what had only hitherto been known as dream and in imagination. Tonight she would lay her head upon some strange pillow, and she would have crossed into this new life through a physical experience that she longed for even as she feared it.

“Oh, Polly, I’m afeard for ye,” Sue said. “Without a decent place and a character, ye’ll be sent to Bridewell as a vagrant. They’ll whip ye at the cart’s tail. If ye steal—”

“’Twill be Newgate and the common hangman,” Polly finished for her. “Those are not in my destiny, Sue. Have no fear of that. But I cannot tell you what is.” She put her arms around her friend’s plump body and hugged her. “You watch out for yourself with Big Rob and his like! Somewhere there’s a husband for you, and he’ll take you away from this miserable place.”

“I wish I could go with ye,” Sue said dismally. “If n y’are really going to be all right.”

“I am, but I must go alone.” She turned back to her cot, where lay her bundle, pathetically small in this dim, drear chamber that exemplified every dim, drear aspect of the life she was leaving.

“Oh, Sue,” she said suddenly, tears starting in her eyes, “I wish you could come.” She hugged her fiercely once more, gathered up her bundle, and flew down the narrow wooden stairs to the landing. There she paused to compose herself before descending the main staircase with the deliberate grace of any young lady of breeding.

But there was one more trial in wait for her. In the stone-flagged hallway stood Lady Margaret, in clean gown and shoes, every inch of her radiating malevolence and outrage. Instead of throwing this abominable slut out into the snow to sink, as she surely would without references or money, into the mire of criminal vagrancy, her brother-in-law was actually taking the creature under his protection, was actually going to escort her from the house in his own carriage!

Beside her, his expression studiously neutral, stood Kincaid.

“You would set up such a one as your whore?” Lady Margaret spoke with cold loathing, spite glistening in her eyes. “I had thought you more fastidious, brother.”

Polly quivered, the color draining from her face. Nick moved beside her. “Say nothing,” he insisted in clear tones. “That is no accusation for
you
to answer.”

“I will answer—”

“For once you will do as you are bid!” Nick, recognizing that he must take charge of this ugliness without a moment’s delay, made no attempt to moderate the harshness of the command. Polly bit her lip, falling silent in sudden confusion. It was as if she were being attacked on all sides.

“I daresay you will find life with your brother in Leicester infinitely more to your taste, Margaret,” Nicholas was saying with deceptive sweetness, even as he gripped the back of Polly’s neck with firm fingers that imparted reassurance as they demanded her silence. “I shall, of course, be desolated at your departure, but I do understand how one of your tastes and principles would find my roof quite unsuitable.” He knew as well as did Margaret that her brother, an impoverished country divine, father of a hopeful family, could not possibly offer his sister a permanent home.

Margaret’s realization that she had overstepped the line was painfully revealed on her face. She looked, Polly thought with glee, rather like a landed fish. For an instant, the temptation to take advantage of her enemy’s discomfiture with a well-aimed thrust offered powerful vengeance for all the injustices and unkindnesses of the last weeks. Then came the thought that to do so could only show her in an ill light, would be a demonstration of the kind of behavior one would expect from a tavern-bred slut, would simply confirm Margaret’s accusation. It was one thing to defend oneself from physical attack with whatever means came to hand, quite another to kick an enemy who was already down.

“I will await you in the carriage, sir,” she said, her tone one of lofty dignity. She gathered up her skirts, moving in stately fashion to the door, which was instantly opened by the fascinated Tom. The lad followed her to open the door of the coach, to let down the footstep.

“My thanks,” Polly said, as condescending as any duchess. But sadly, mischief got the better of her. “Old trout! She is well served,” she whispered, grinning at Tom as she settled herself on the seat. He snorted with laughter, leaning in to exchange a further confidence, and then jumped backward
as Lord Kincaid came down the steps. His lordship regarded the footboy’s suffused countenance, then looked sharply into the carriage. Polly’s eyes were brimming with deviltry.

Kincaid climbed into the coach, told Tom that he might go to his bed when he pleased, then sat back in the darkness as the boy closed the door on them. Whatever exchange had taken place between those two, Polly had quite clearly recovered herself, he reflected with an inner chuckle. That had been a most impressive display for one in such an ambivalent position.

Polly glanced sideways at her companion, but could see nothing of his expression. “You are not vexed, are you, sir?”

“Vexed!” he exclaimed. “With
you?
God’s grace, no!”

“Then may I ask where we are going, my lord?”

He could hear the mischief in the dulcet tone, and recognized that Mistress Polly was more than restored. “To Drury Lane,” he informed her, slipping an arm around her shoulders. “And I think it is time that you practiced using my name. There are times when ‘sir’ and ‘my lord’ are appropriate, and times when they are not. The latter time has arrived.”

“Oh,” Polly said a few minutes later, absorbing the demonstration of this fact with apparent interest. “When you do that, I should call you Nicholas, is it so?” That same dulcet tone, laced with wickedness, set his nerve endings tingling with the most delicious anticipation. Unless he much mistook the case, this young woman was eventually going to prove herself an inventive and playful lover.

“When I do that, and a great many other things,” he declared, drawing her back into his embrace.