Venus

by Jane Feather

  Polly nibbled her lip. “It does not sound very pleasant.”

  “It isn’t,” Richard said. “But one becomes accustomed to it. Now, I accept that you could not possibly have any firsthand knowledge of court life; that was not, as it happens, the point of my question. However, I would like you to tell me what, if anything, you have heard about the way the court is managed. Do you know the names of any of the king’s counselors, for instance?”

  Polly frowned. “I beg your pardon if I was impolite. I did not mean to be, but it seemed a silly question. I see now that it wasn’t.” She looked intent and anxious at the two men with an expression of heartrending penitence.

  “There is no need for such a tragic mien,” Nick said with a slight smile. “You are pardoned, and I trust you will remember the lesson in the future. Now, why do you not answer Richard’s question?”

  Polly thought, playing with the quill pen between her fingers. “Sometimes there was talk in the tavern; occasionally there would be a traveler, or a merchant … They would complain of the taxes … The king spending a lot of money …” She looked up for confirmation.

  Richard nodded. “Anything else you remember?”

  “Some quarrel with the Dutch,” Polly said. “There is talk that there will be another war, and it will be very expensive and there’ll be more taxes. But the king wants it, although I do not know exactly why.” Her frown deepened as she concentrated on snatches of conversations that she had heard while serving in the tavern. “One of the king’s counselors is against it, though. I cannot remember his name.” Absently, she stuck the ink-stained end of the quill into her mouth, then removed it with a grimace, touching her fingertip to her tongue to see if much ink had found its way into her mouth. “The chancellor!” she declared in triumph. “He is against a war.”

  “Aye, Clarendon,” Richard said. “You know how to keep your ears open, it would seem.”

  “There was talk of the king’s mistresses, too,” Polly went on. “He seems to have a great many of them, but there are two in particular. I do not recall their names.”

  “Lady Castlemaine and Frances Stewart,” supplied Nick. “What was said of them?”

  “Oh, that the king spends too much time minding his lust and his pleasures, and the government is chargeable for his pleasures, and things were managed better under a commonwealth,” she declared fluently. “The talk was always along those lines. I do not think people are very happy with things as they are.”

  Richard smiled softly, exchanging another satisfied nod with Nick. Untutored she may be, but Mistress Wyat clearly had a lively mind, and a sense of the wider world. She could be schooled for their purposes.

  “I think perhaps you should return to the silver,” Nick said, glancing to the mantel, where the clock of black mahogany, its base set in silver, showed four o’clock. “Take the book, paper, and quill with you. You may practice when your duties are over, and I will correct what you have done tomorrow.”

  Polly gathered the book to her breast—a convulsive gesture that caused both gentlemen to experience a ludicrous flash of envy for the inanimate object. “Do you think I will learn enough in a week to be introduced to Master Killigrew?” The hazel eyes were wide and candid in their appeal, her tongue peeping anxiously from between her lips. That matchless bosom rose and fell with the urgency of her words. “Lady Margaret does not care for me in the least, and I do not think I can remain here for very long.”

  “You need not be afeard of Lady Margaret,” Nicholas said quietly. “She holds no jurisdiction over you. You are answerable only to me.”

  Polly looked as if she did not quite believe this; that lower lip trembled slightly. Then she sighed bravely and left the room, the set of her head and shoulders radiating courageous determination.

  “What a masterly performance!” breathed De Winter, rising to his feet.

  “In what way?” Nick frowned. His friend laughed.

  “My dear Nick, I’ll lay odds that she has only to appeal to you just once more in that manner, and you will do whatever she wishes!”

  Nick allowed a rueful smile to touch his lips. “The devil’s in it, Richard, but I fear you are right. Yet it will not do to present her to Killigrew until she has acquired a little more polish, and until then I must keep her under my eye. I can not imagine what she would get up to if I set her up in lodgings somewhere, unsupervised, before she is ready to start her acting career. She is not accustomed to idleness or freedom; just think what the sudden acquisition of both might lead to. She will be quite safe here, under Margaret’s Puritan supervision, while we teach her what she must know.” He shook his head in a slightly defeated fashion. “But, indeed, at times I doubt my ability to resist her blandishments. Are you not also bewitched?”

  De Winter drew on his lace-edged gloves. “She has not set out to bewitch me, Nick.” On this undeniable truth, he left his friend to his reflections.

  Polly had ample time while working her way through the mountain of silver to plot her campaign. True, she had received a few setbacks this afternoon, but Lord Kincaid must be persuaded to take her into his bed. After that he could not deny her the protection he would afford a mistress, and would remove her from this miserable place so that he could enjoy her without obstruction. One could not summon one’s mistress for an afternoon of pleasure if she was scrubbing cooking pots, she thought with a vicious rub at a chafing dish. She would have to live under some man’s protection until she had proved her worth as an actor and could command a living wage. Polly could see absolutely no reason why Nicholas, Lord Kincaid, should not be that man. Indeed, she could think of a great many reasons why he should be; the fact that the prospect sent prickly shivers of anticipation up her spine seemed to be one of the most convincing. Lord Kincaid was a most proper gentleman.

  She lay that evening on her cot in the attic, listening to the soft snores from Susan beside her, the rather heavier ones from Bridget in the corner. It was still early, and if she had been in her old life, the evening’s work would have barely begun; but Lady Margaret kept early hours, and after supper and lengthy prayers, the household had been dismissed to their beds. They would rise at four o’clock, long before dawn, Susan had told her, tumbling onto her bed with a groan of relief, so she had best take what rest she could. Tomorrow was the monthly wash day, when all the linen in the house must be scrubbed, dried, and ironed. It was a dreadful day, Susan moaned, and they must be up betimes to set the water to boiling against the start of the great wash.

  It was not a prospect that afforded Polly any pleasure. Indeed, this passion for cleanliness struck her as a great nuisance. It was not that she found her present wholesome condition at all distasteful—quite the opposite; it was wonderful not to itch—but such an early rising would rather interfere with her plan for the night. His lordship had left the house in the late afternoon, telling young Tom that he might go to his bed in the little closet off the hall, and that he would be required only to admit his master to the house on his return. Unfortunately, no word had been said as to the hour of that return. It was always possible that a man who would not be required to rise before dawn might well not seek his bed until that hour.

  There was little point in speculation. Cautiously, Polly climbed out of bed, gathering up the precious book, paper, and quill. They would give her some occupation while she waited. Certainly there was little scope for performing her learning task if she did not find light and seclusion somewhere. The tallow candle in the attic had been blown out within minutes of the servants seeking their beds, whether in the interests of economy or rest, Polly was unsure.

  She crept out of the attic, pausing on the landing. The air was filled with the snores and grunts emanating from the opposite attic, where slept the menservants. It was very dark, with no moonshine from the small round window in the eaves, and she trod carefully, once stubbing her toe on an uneven floorboard, only just managing to control her pained yelp.

  The main landing was lit faintly from t
he lantern burning in the hall below against the master’s return. Polly slipped into the bedchamber with the painted walls and its bright fire and candlelight. She closed the door softly behind her, shivering. It was a cold night, and her smock was thin. The fire invited, and she stretched on her belly before it, paper and quill in hand, the book open at the passage she was to copy. But it proved tedious work, even for one with her enthusiasm, and her eyes grew tired as the light flickered and threw great shadows on the walls.

  When Nicholas, Lord Kincaid, walked into his bedchamber as the Watch were calling the midnight hour, he found Polly asleep over her copybook, her rich honey hair flowing over the curve of arm and shoulder, her cheek delicately flushed with sleep and the lingering warmth of the fire. The fine cotton of her smock clung to the curves of her curled body, the pink and pearly tones of her skin barely masked by the garment.

  He stood looking down at her for a moment until the unbidden onrush of desire had ebbed somewhat. There was such an air of innocence about her, collapsed in sleep over her studying, that he acquitted her of deliberate intent to entrap. He knew the hours Margaret required her servants to keep, just as he knew her frugality. It seemed reasonable enough that Polly should have come into the only room where light and fire were to be found after the imposed bedtime.

  He bent over her, inhaling the scents of the hothouse—soap and rose water and clean linen. There was something immensely appealing about her bare feet, he thought distractedly. They peeped from the hem of her smock, the soles bearing scratches from last night’s journeying, the arches high and narrow; the straight, dainty little toes, their nails cut neatly now, gleaming opalescent in their dirt-free condition. God’s grace! But he must take a grip upon himself!

  “Polly!” He spoke softly, touching the curve of her shoulder, feeling her skin warm beneath the cotton, the soft roundness … “Polly!” He spoke with sharp urgency as if only thus could he keep desire at bay. She stirred, moaned a little, but her eyes remained tight shut, her breathing regular, her body utterly relaxed. Even if he managed to wake her, how was he to get her back upstairs without rousing the entire household?

  With a familiar sense of resignation, Nick got to his feet and pulled the truckle bed from beneath his own. Margaret must make of it what she would. Polly rolled into his arms as he lifted her, but he would have sworn she was still fast asleep; her eyelashes had not fluttered, her breathing had not changed, her body had simply adapted itself to a new circumstance—a circumstance which meant that her breasts were now pressed, soft and warm, against his shirtfront.

  Grimly, he bent to lay her on the truckle bed, drawing the coverlet securely over her form. Without volition, his fingers moved to pluck a strand of hair from where it had fallen over her eyes, then his lips followed his fingers, lightly brushing her cheek.

  Polly did not know why she knew that she must keep to her pretense of sleep during this feathering caress, but instinct directed the part she played, and she had learned to trust the actor’s instincts. It was difficult not to respond, though, to keep her hands from finding their way around his neck, her lips from returning the loving touch.

  Nick straightened reluctantly, moving the candlestick so that the light should not shine upon her. He undressed quietly and climbed onto the high feather bed, blowing out the last candle before drawing the bed curtains.

  Polly lay in the darkness, hardly daring to breathe as she listened for some indication that her companion now slept. But it seemed a very long time before the tossings and turnings ceased, and the bed ropes stopped creaking under his restless movements. After a judicious period, she slipped from her cot, tiptoeing to the head of the big bed, listening to his breathing. It was deep and even. With a swift movement she discarded her smock and, with the utmost caution, moved aside the bed curtain just enough to let her through. Gingerly, she lifted a corner of the quilted coverlet, inserting herself between it and the feather mattress. Never before had she lain upon a feather bed, and she was taken quite by surprise as the mattress seemed to swallow her when she sank into its depths.

  Recovering from her surprise, Polly lay motionless, holding herself away from the large male body beside her as she tried to decide what to do next. Neglectfully, her planning had not taken her any further than this moment. Perhaps she should not do anything, simply wait and see what happened when her bedfellow awoke, which he surely would when he discovered that he no longer slept alone. Besides, it was wonderfully warm and soft in this enclosing darkness. Her body seemed to be sinking, heavy as lead, into the welcoming arms of oblivion.

  Nicholas became aware of something warm and soft pressing into the small of his back. The sensation seemed to twine so inextricably with the rich sensuousness of his dream that when he moved his hand to identify the object, and found the bare, silken curve of Polly’s hip, he was not unduly surprised. Until reality exploded.

  “Lord of hell!” He yanked aside the bed curtain so that the pale light of the reluctantly risen moon could offer some illumination. The golden eyelashes swept upward. Shock leapt from the deep hazel pools as Polly stared in utter bemusement into the sleepy, furious face hanging over hers. Then she remembered where she was and why. It clearly behooved her to do something. Instinctively she reached a hand up to touch his lips, her own mouth curving in a warm smile of invitation. On this occasion, her instinct was gravely at fault.

  It was the smile he had seen in the Dog tavern—a come-hither smile full of sensuous promise. Nick jerked his head away from her touch as if he had been burned. That Polly was not the one who aroused him—at least, not to desire. “What in the devil’s name do you think you are doing?” When she had moved her arm, the cover had fallen back, leaving her breasts exposed in the moonshine, their crowns hardened under the cold air. With a violent exclamation, he flung himself from the bed, yanked the cover off her, and hauled her to her feet.

  Polly, completely bewildered, stood blinking at him, shivering as the cold fingered her bed-warmed skin. “I do not understand,” she quavered. “Why should you be so angry? I wish only to give myself to you. I am quite clean now, so you will not catch anything.”

  “God’s grace!” If he looked into those eyes, he would be lost. Was this ingenuousness feigned? It was easier to believe that it was—anger was an effective substitute for lust. “If you were to forget the tricks of a common whore, and learn a little delicacy, the offer might have some appeal,” he said, each word coldly calculated to hurt. “If I want a whore, I will find one.” He picked up her smock from the floor. “Put this on and get back upstairs. And don’t you ever come in here without an invitation again.” He turned away from her abruptly so that he did not have to watch her face dissolving with hurt and confusion, and climbed back into bed, twitching the curtain closed.

  Polly, numbed in mind and body, replaced her smock and crept out of the room, shutting the door gently behind her.

  Hearing the click of the latch, Nick allowed the violent flow of oaths to pour forth unhindered. He had told Richard that he would kindle passion in Polly before allowing himself to consummate his own desire. There would be no chains of love forged in the simple satisfaction of his need, and he was not fool enough to mistake Polly’s offer of her body for anything but the pragmatic bargain it was. Although exactly what she wanted in exchange at this point, he did not know. But when he took her, it would not be the tavern wench with the come-hither smile he intended to initiate. It would be Polly in all her beauty and innocence, with that infectious smile and mischievous wit. And she would want his love-making for its own sake, not for what it could buy her. Until that time he would manage both himself and her.

  But he ached for her, could still feel her warmth in the bed, the imprint of her body against his, could still see her standing naked in the moonglow. He lay staring into the shadows of the bed curtains. It was going to be a very long night.

  Polly claimed her cot for what seemed only minutes before a great bell clanged through the house. Her companions
in the attic came awake with groans and imprecations. Bridget lit the candle, and they dressed in its chilly light, fingers fumbling in the cold. Polly’s silence went unremarked in the general complaining mutters, and once in the kitchen, there was too much to do for conversation.

  The interminable morning wore on. The kitchen resembled a furnace, steam from the bubbling cauldrons thickening the air so that one could barely see across the room. The smell of soap and heating irons was entrapped in Polly’s nostrils. After her almost sleepless night, she seemed to have lost touch with physical reality, moving in a trance, bumping against tables and stools, once nearly dropping a heavy kettle of boiling water. After that, Bridget set her to scrubbing sheets in a tub, and there she stayed all morning, out of harm’s way, kneeling on the hard flagstones, scrubbing until her hands were crimson and wrinkled.

  After the noon dinner, there was ironing, folding, mending. Polly moved like a somnambulist. Not even in the worst days at the Dog tavern had she felt so exhausted. She fell asleep during evening prayers, only Susan’s swift nudge saving her from Lady Margaret’s wrath. That night she slept like one dead, and not even her mortification could penetrate her stupor.

  It was there the next morning, however, in hard-etched memory, and she prayed that her duties would keep her again in the kitchen, that she would not be obliged to face him, see the contempt in the emerald eyes.

  Nicholas waited for her to come for her lesson in his parlor after dinner. He had not expected her the previous day, not after such a recent confrontation. But he had had neither sight nor sound of her since that ghastly debacle, and it occurred to him, with a sudden flash of alarm, that maybe she had left. She had nowhere to go, but she had proved herself resourceful. He pulled the bell rope and paced restlessly.