Venus (17 page)

“Don’t talk with your mouth full. I have told you before; it is both ill bred and inelegant,” was Kincaid’s affable response to this sweetly uttered piece of provocation.

Benson returned before Polly could marshal her wits for a further attack, and his lordship was shortly arrayed in a velvet gown, which, judging by its size, was not the property of the goodman. The latter took away all my lord’s garments, including his shoes, with the statement that the buckles could do with shining.

“Do you shift your linen
every
day?” Polly asked in genuine astonishment.

Nicholas took his seat at the breakfast table. “It is customary. Sit down, now. ’Tis most ill mannered to eat standing up.” He poured ale into a pewter tankard, drinking deeply, before slicing bread and bacon for himself.

“I have never known it to be customary,” declared his companion, sitting opposite him. “And ’tis not ill mannered to eat standing up if you do not have the time to sit down.”

“But you do have the time,” he reminded. “And will continue to have; just as you will find yourself amongst people with whom it is customary to shift their linen regularly, if not on a daily basis.”

“That is a little difficult if one has only one petticoat and smock,” pointed out Polly, helping herself liberally to a dish of anchovies and olives.

“That will be remedied as soon as the snow has cleared sufficiently for a shopping expedition. Until it does, we should perhaps use our enforced seclusion to continue your
studies. I must teach you a few of the French words that are in frequent use. They must come easily to your tongue.”

“That sounds somewhat tedious,” Polly said with a comical grimace. “I can think of many more amusing ways to while away the time. Can you not?”

“Without question,” he agreed, managing to conceal the fact that he had quite failed in an attempt to react imperviously to the frankly wanton invitation in the hazel eyes. “And if you wish to abandon your ambition of an introduction to Master Killigrew, then I see no reason why we should bother with such tedious activities.”

Polly lowered her eyes to her plate. She had been outmaneuvered in that mischievous little play, and it clearly behooved her to sharpen her wits if she wished to indulge in such amusements in future.

Kincaid grinned. Her thought processes were transparently easy to divine. She looked up, caught the grin, and burst into laughter. “It is odious in you to gloat so! I have not had as much practice as you have in the art of conversational exchanges.”

“Oh, was that what that was?” he murmured. “I had thought it more in the nature of a ham-fisted attempt to score unnecessary points on the subject of my sartorial habits—a subject, I might add, on which you are not equipped to expatiate.”

“I do not know what that means,” Polly declared. “But I collect it is in the nature of a snub.”

“Correct,” he agreed gravely, then found himself obliged to engage in spirited defense as she hurled herself upon him with an indignation not entirely feigned. “That is
not
an acceptable way of expressing annoyance,” he gasped, once he had managed to get sufficient grip upon her to allow him to draw breath. He held her firmly on his knee, her legs trapped between his, her wrists clipped in the small of her back, his other hand twisted in the honeyed mane tumbling over her shoulders. “One does not give physical expression to anger, you rag-mannered brat; at least, not in court circles. One uses one’s tongue and one’s wits to best effect.”

“Well, as you have just pointed out, I am not very good at that,” she retorted with an experimental wriggle that achieved nothing.

“You do not appear signally successful at this, either,” laughed Nick. “Cry peace!” He tugged on her hair, bringing her face round and down to his. The fight left her rapidly as he invaded her mouth, continuing to hold her head fast until she returned the kiss with the eagerness that so delighted him, the soft body melding, pliant and welcoming, with his.

“But I am more successful at this, am I not, my lord?” she whispered, her tongue swooping in tantalizing darts against his eyelids as she moved her body on his lap to considerable effect.

“Without question,” he groaned, hardening beneath her.

“And I learn very quickly, do I not?” Her tongue dipped into his ear, probing the whorls and contours with devastating thoroughness.

“Indubitably.” Nick groaned again. Sliding his hands beneath her, he lifted her, pulling up her skirt and petticoat. “There, now sit down again,” he whispered urgently, twitching aside his gown, turning her so that she sat astride his lap.

“Oh,” Polly said, realizing what was happening when her bare thighs met his. “Is it possible like this?”

“Can you think of any reason why it should not be?” He smiled and guided her opened body onto the impaling shaft.

“No, none at all,” breathed Polly, taking him within herself … And then, much later, in accents of wonder and awe, “Not a reason in the world!”

It was two days later before the self-enclosed world of the lovers was breached. There had been no snow for ten hours, and the front door was freed of obstruction. Polly tumbled outside with all the vigor and eagerness of a cabined kitten set free, exclaiming as always at the wonderland where the filth of the streets, the soil of the kennels, the ordure-ridden
straw of the cobbles, was vanished under a pristine carpet. Nicholas followed her, laughing at the enthusiasm that plunged her headlong into a drift. Other folk appeared on the lane, blinking in the snow’s dazzle, calling jovial greetings. One or two snowballs were thrown—a sport that instantly appealed to Polly. She was engaged in a merry battle with a couple of stable lads, her newfound dignity cast to the four winds, when Richard De Winter appeared, astride a powerful beast who clearly made up in strength what he lacked in elegance as he highstepped his way through the drifts.

Lord De Winter was privileged to witness the moment when his old friend, habitué of the court of King Charles, received, full in the face, a snowball thrown by a laughing girl who pranced, taunting, in the snow, neatly evading all missiles directed at her. Nick, with a roar, descended upon the dancing sprite, retribution clearly in mind, and Polly, squealing, took to her heels, her cloak flying out behind.

“Oh, what a joyous sight it is to see children at play,” mocked Richard.

Kincaid ceased his pursuit at the sound of the familiar voice and turned, laughing, brushing snow from his face and coat. “Why, Richard, you are well come, indeed. And intrepidly so. The streets are passable?” A snowball flew through the air, struck De Winter’s mount squarely on the neck. The horse threw up his head with an annoyed whinny, and both men swung round on the culprit.

“I beg your pardon,” Polly said, one hand pressed to her lips, eyes wide in apology. “It … it seemed to leave my hand of its own accord.” She plowed through the snow toward them. “Lord De Winter, I bid you good day.” She reached up a hand, smiling with genuine warmth. Her hood fell back, offering him an unhindered view of that radiant countenance framed in a braided coronet, glinting richly gold under the sun’s glow. “Pray grant me absolution, sir. I had not quite realized that playtime was over.”

“There is nothing to absolve,” he responded cheerfully,
swinging from his mount. “Think you that one of your playfellows could be persuaded to have a care for my horse?”

Nicholas beckoned one of the lads, and the animal was handed over. “Polly, see if the goodwife has the makings of a punch bowl, will you?”

“Why, yes, my lord. Certainly, my lord. Will there be anything else, my lord?” Polly curtsied in the snow, gathering up a handful as she rose. She patted it thoughtfully between her hands, smiling benignly.

De Winter, with a punctilious care, straightened the lace edging to his glove. Nicholas said, “Mistress Wyat, would you be so good as to request Goodwife Benson to supply me with the makings of a punch bowl? I should be forever in your debt.” Polly tossed the snowball from hand to hand, debating.

“It is always wise to recognize when one has won a point,” De Winter said softly. “Even in sport.”

Polly cast him a sharp glance, met smiling gray eyes, and chuckled, tossing the snowball to the ground. “You give good counsel, sir. Come within and warm yourself. I will see what can be coaxed from our hosts.” She disappeared in the direction of the kitchen and the Bensons’ apartments, and Nicholas ushered his friend to thè parlor abovestairs…

“Some considerable transformation,” remarked Richard, stepping over to the fire.

Nicholas did not assume that he was referring to Kincaid’s new surroundings. He nodded. “She shows great ease at adapting. I do not think that Killigrew will find anything amiss.”

“And the chains …?” Richard took snuff, discreetly avoiding his companion’s eye.

“Are in place.” Kincaid strolled to the window, looking down at the lively scene in the street. Was it possible for those chains to become mutual bonds? He had intended to lead an innocent along the paths of love, to kindle passion in her and teach her the infinite joys of fulfilling that passion. Thus would he forge the chains of love that would ensure her loyalty. For himself, he had intended to consummate a
desire he had felt since he had first laid eyes upon her. He had consummated that desire, and looked forward with intense pleasure to its continued satisfaction. But something was getting in the way of his clear thinking. It was Polly herself—that candid, mischievous, loving elf who seemed to be weaving chains of her own.

“Ye’ll forgive a somewhat personal remark, Nick, but she’ll be of little value to Killigrew, or to us, with a swollen belly.” De Winter surveyed his friend’s rigid back, remembering the play he had interrupted in the lane. It had a quality that had little place in the formalized relationship of keeper and mistress.

Nick turned slowly, offering a rueful smile. “You may rest assured that at the expense of a slight diminution in pleasure, I am taking the precaution that will prevent such a happenstance.”

De Winter simply nodded. “I am come from the court, where I have been immured these last two days whilst you have been disporting yourself. It would appear that Lady Castlemaine and Buckingham are become fast confidants.”

“That is hardly good tidings, my friend.” Nicholas tossed another log onto the fire. “Had they been pulling against each other, the evil influence of each upon the king would be rendered less harmful. Together …” He shrugged.

“They will encourage him to incalculable foolishness,” continued De Winter. “If they support Monmouth’s legitimacy, and persuade the king to set himself up against Parliament, they will bring the country to the brink of another civil war. The people will not stand for it, Nick.”

“I am aware of it.”

“And you are still minded to avail yourself of any opportunities Mistress Wyat might afford for circumventing the duke?” De Winter spoke casually. “You are in a better position now to assess how skillful she might be in attracting and keeping Buckingham’s attention.”

“You may rest assured that she lacks none of those attributes that will appeal to Buckingham,” Nick said, in a voice as dry as fallen leaves. Sensual, passionate, uninhibited …
What man could resist her? Why the devil was the thought so distasteful?

“So when do you intend effecting the introduction to Killigrew?”

“I see no reason to delay,” Nick said. “Once she has a new wardrobe, one more suitable for an aspiring actor. What she has left to learn, she will learn rapidly enough under Tom’s instruction.”

The door opened at this point, and Goodwife Benson came energetically into the chamber, carrying a tray laden with brandy, hot water, lemons, and spices. She was followed by Polly, bearing a large punch bowl and ladle. “Is it a brandy punch ye’ll be wantin’, my lord? I’ve rum, if ye’d prefer it.”

“Thank you, but brandy will serve admirably,” Nick assured her, moving to take the heavy bowl and ladle from Polly. “If you’d set the tray beside the fire …” The woman did so, cast a critical eye around the room to ascertain that all was in order, before bobbing a curtsy and hastening out, her stuff gown swishing with the vigor of her stride.

Polly settled herself on a three-legged stool before the fire and drew the punch bowl toward her. “I was taught to mix a tolerable punch,” she informed the two men with a serene smile, reaching for the brandy.

Nick regarded her quizzically. “I am not sure that is entirely wise. The last time I had drink of your mixing—”

“That is unjust!” protested Polly. “As it happens, the drink to which I assume you are referring was not of
my
mixing.”

Nick smiled at her. “I spoke in jest, moppet.”

“Aye, I am aware.” Pushing the bowl aside with an impatient gesture, she came to put her arms around his neck, placing her mouth firmly on his. “And I would forgive you even if ’twere not a jest.”

“This is not going to get the punch mixed,” observed Richard pensively, kneeling on the hearth to set about the task himself.

“No, you are right.” Nick pulled Polly’s arms from
around his neck. “Neither is it a practice to be conducted in public, I fear. Pleasant though it is for the recipient.”

“I do not understand what you mean.” Polly looked hurt. “I wished only to kiss you.”

De Winter turned a choke of laughter into a cough and sprinkled nutmeg onto the contents of the punch bowl.

“Will you explain, Richard, or shall I?” Nick asked.

“You. I have my hands full with the punch,” replied his friend.

“Sit down, Polly … No, not on my knee!” Nick put her firmly back on the stool she had abandoned. “Now, listen to me very carefully. ’Tis a lesson I have not yet imparted.”

Polly, looking more than a little rebellious, kept her seat on the stool, folding her hands in her lap. “I do not think this is a lesson I am going to want to learn,” she muttered suspiciously.

“Probably not,” Nick responded, as equable as always. “But it is a vital one nevertheless.” He stood up, reached for his clay pipe and the pouch of tobacco on the mantel, and began to fill the bowl as he talked. “I have told you that any overt discourtesy will put you beyond the social pale. The same applies to public displays of emotion of
any
description. Cool friendship is acceptable, but that is as far as you may go.” He bent to light a taper in the fire, then set it to the pipe.