Venus v-8 Read online

  "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 wras 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.

  1 '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 Kin-caid.

  "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 recog-nized 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.

  Chapter 7

  The coach and four came to a halt. A strange surge, part terror, part exultation, shuddered through Polly's slender frame. Nick, feeling it, tightened his hold for an instant before leaning forward to swing open the door. The snow swirled thickly now, caught white and effervescent in the yellow light of the lantern held up by the coachman. Nick jumped out, disdaining the footstep, and reached up to catch Polly by the waist, swinging her down beside him.

  "I'll not be needing ye again this night," he said to John Coachman. "Get you and the cattle to shelter as soon as may be."

  The coachman looked worriedly at the sky. "Has the smell of a blizzard, m'lord."

  "Aye. Well, be off without delay. You've not far to go." He turned to Polly, who was squinting through the snow at her surroundings, her head and shoulders coated with white flakes. "In with you, before you become a pillar of ice." He put an arm around her waist, urging her to a door set into a timbered, whitewashed wall. The door swung open before he could knock.

  "I was wonderin' whether ye'd make it in such foul weather," a cheery voice declared. "Fire's bright, and there's a good supper waitin' abovestairs."

  Polly stepped into a small, square hall and found herself the object of scrutiny from a pair of bright black eyes set into a ruddy-complexioned, well-lined face. The scrutiny was interested but far from unfriendly. "This be the young lady, then, m'lord?"

  "Mistress Polly Wyat," Nicholas said formally. "My love, this is Goodwife Benson. She will be looking after you."

  Polly had never been looked after by anyone, except by Prue, way back at the dawn of memory, and even then not with any enthusiasm. She looked blank, searching for an appropriate response. The kindly eyes twinkled as if in understanding.

  "Come along a' me, m'dear. I'll show ye the apartment m'lord 'as taken for ye." The plump body turned and bustled up a narrow flight of stairs. "Two nice chambers," she called over her shoulder. "Clean as a new pin, they be. No vermin in my 'ouse."

  They reached a minute landing, where the goodwife unlatched a solid oak door, pushing it open with a flourish. A neat, paneled parlor was revealed under sloping eaves. A fire sizzled on a stone hearth, and a linen-covered seat ran beneath the low mullioned window. The furniture was plain but highly polished, the hangings and coverings crisply clean and bright. A round table was set with platters, pewter cups, knives, and skewers; the aroma of roasting meat wafted up the stairs.

  "And 'ere's your bedchamber." Goodwife Benson opened a door in the far wall. Here was a room dominated by a big four-poster with a carved oak tester and rose-red curtains. There was a paneled tiring table with a branched candlestick and a crystal mirror above it, the whole warmed by the cheerful blaze of yet another fire.

  Polly was speechless. She was to have two rooms to herself! And such rooms! Her eyes flew to Nicholas, standing behind her, watching her with the enigmatic smile she had come to expect, even though she frequently did not know why he should have it.

  "It's to be 'oped all's to your satisfaction, mistress," the goodwife said when Polly remained silent.

  "Oh… yes… p-please… th-thank you… indeed, it is," stuttered Polly.

  "Then I'll see to your supper," the woman said comfortably. "Ye'll be sharp-set, I'll be bound."

  "Indeed we are," Nicholas said when it became clear that Polly had once again lapsed into muteness. Goodwife Benson bustled out, and he snapped his fingers in front of the bewitched Polly. "Wake up."

  Her eyes focused, and she saw he was laughing at her. "Am I to live here alone?" she managed to ask, still unable to grasp the idea of so much space for one person.

  "I'm hoping I may be a frequent visitor," he said quizzically, unfastening the clasp of her cloak.

  "Y-yes, of course, sir," replied Polly, hearing how absurdly polite and formal she sounded, unable to blame Nick for the ready laughter brimming in the emerald eyes. "Shall… shall you be staying tonight?"

  "Well now." He pulled pensively at his chin, "If I were issued an invitation, I just might be induced to accept it. It being such a dreadful night, you understand? Blizzard threatening…"

  Her lips twitched. Peeping up at him through her lashes, she swept him a deep curtsy, sinking to her heel, one t
oe delicately pointed. "I do beg you will take shelter in my humble abode, my lord. I should never rest easy if I thought you were out in such a storm."

  "I shall be eternally grateful, madame." A magnificent leg returned her salutation, and Polly, assailed by giggles, lost her balance and collapsed with an undignified thump on the floor. Nick picked her up. "What a lamentable performance," he chided. "I thought I had taught you to execute a curtsy with more decorum." Drawing her into his embrace, he pushed up her chin, consuming that ravishing countenance with his gaze, feeling her pliancy under his hands, seeing the image of her body in the eye of memory.

  "I want you." The naked hunger in his eyes and voice

  sent laughter scuttling to the four corners of the bedchamber. Then the sound of footsteps next door, the smells of roasting mutton, Goodwife Benson's cheery summons to table, broke into the charmed circle. "Anticipation must again whet the appetite," he said with a rueful smile. "And you will be the better for your supper. Lovemaking on an empty belly leaves something to be desired." He ushered her into the parlor, where a roast of mutton steamed enticingly upon the sideboard and a platter of oysters sat upon the table, ready opened, glistening pearly gray in the candlelight.

  He held her chair for her, unfolded a linen napkin on her lap, poured wine into her cup, then took his place opposite. For all the ease of their past companionship it was the first time that she had sat at table in his company. There had never been any question before but that matters between them would be conducted on the terms of tutor and pupil, master and servant. Now Polly felt unaccountably nervous, as if these present attentions were awarded mistakenly and should have had some other recipient than a Newgate brat of unknown parentage. Then she remembered that she was an actor, that she could be whomsoever she pleased. She raised her glass in salutation, her eyelashes fluttering, lips curving delicately.