Venus

Chapter 4

Lady Margaret, who had been waiting with barely suppressed impatience for her

brother-in-law's return, found herself balked of the opportunity to vent her anger by the presence of his companion. She was obliged to smile and curtsy as she greeted Lord De Winter, pressed a glass of sack upon him, and sent word to the kitchen to lay another place at the dinner table.

"I understand from John Coachman, brother, that you gave Susan and Polly leave to visit the Exchange," she said, finally unable to contain herself, although she was careful to couch the statement in soft tones, accompanied by a smile. It was a smile that did not reach her eyes, but then, Lady Margaret's smiles rarely did. "They have not yet returned, and the kitchen is hard-pressed to manage without them." She plied her needle on her tambour frame with an air of great consideration, continuing casually, "I cannot help feeling, brother, that the granting of holidays should be in the purview of the mistress of the house. A man cannot expect to know when a servant can ill be spared."

"Possibly not," agreed Nick equably. "Pray accept my apologies if my indulgence has caused you trouble. However, the kitchen cannot be missing Polly's services too greatly, since they have not yet had the benefit of them. But they

should both be at work shortly. I gave order that they return by dinnertime." He smiled blandly. "May I fill your glass, Richard?"

"My thanks." De Winter schooled his expression with admirable effort and offered the Lady Margaret a comment on the weather. Topics of conversation considered suitable by the Puritan were hard to come by since court gossip, politics, and fashion were all tarred with the devil's brush. Religion, sacred music, and the weather were acceptable, but tended to be unabsorbing subjects.

A slight tap on the door relieved the awkward silence. Lady Margaret bade the knocker enter, and Polly, demure in apron and cap, appeared. "Dinner is served, my lady."

Richard De Winter struggled to capture his breath. Never had he beheld such a beauty. Aware of his gaze, Polly returned the look with a frank appraisal of her own, then she smiled and curtsied prettily, looking up at him in a way that one could only call provocative, through the luxuriant, curling forest of her eyelashes.

It was Lady Margaret's turn to gasp at such an immodest display. She was still trying to recover from the effects of her instant, automatic assessment of Polly's clothing. Her brother must have spent a small fortune on garments that no lady would object to having on her back. The effect of such a creature, dressed in such a fashion, on the discipline and smooth running of her household could only be catastrophic. And she had been forbidden to mend the girl's manners. She glared her outrage at her brother, who seemed not to notice anything untoward in the wench's deportment.

In fact, Nick was satisfied by De Winter's reaction and amused by Polly's response. She had learned the art of responding to such a reaction in the taproom of the Dog tavern, as he well knew, but there was nothing lewd or vulgar about her present demeanor-coquettish, certainly, but there was no harm in that. Indeed, it was an essential if she was to succeed in the life she had chosen.

Ignoring his sister's glare, he said, "After dinner, Polly, I

would like you to come to my parlor. You shall have your first lesson."

Polly's eyes glowed with pleasure, and there was none of the coquette about her this time as she curtsied again. "Thank you, my lord."

"What lesson?" demanded Margaret. "The girl cannot be spared from her duties again today." She rounded on Polly, who still stood smiling in the doorway. "Have you nothing better to do, girl, than stand idling here?"

Polly, catching Nicholas's warning glance, bit back the retort springing so easily to her lips. She knew she had a powerful enemy in the Lady Margaret, but she also knew that Lord Kincaid was an even more powerful friend. He would protect her from injustice, she was certain, having put her in this position in the first place. Although why he should have done that still escaped her. She did not think that, in general, patrons, or even protectors, kept their protegees as kitchen maids. They set them up in lodgings of their own, where they could learn things like reading and writing and cleanliness without interference.

She beat a rapid retreat from the drawing room. Of course, it was true that her adopted patron/protector had so far required from her none of the expected services of the protegee. He behaved simply as if he was accepting an obligation which he had the right to discharge as he saw fit. If he would make her his mistress, then surely matters would be conducted differently? Perhaps he required more encouragement. Mayhap, now that she was clean, he would find her more appealing.

"What lesson?" repeated Margaret, sweeping past her brother into the dining room. "I do think, Lord De Winter, that my brother is suffering some disorder of the mind. He finds an orphaned slut upon the streets, and proceeds to treat her as if she were his own kin." A little unconvincing laugh was intended to make a joke of the public criticism, but it failed lamentably.

"I have promised to teach the girl her letters," Nick said, in the same equable tone he had employed throughout. "She

has a quick mind, and I see no reason why she should not attempt to better herself if she is able."

"But what will the rest of the household think if such decided preference is accorded one of their number? It is not decent to encourage the lower orders to step beyond their station." Margaret passed a dish of stewed carp to her guest, her mouth small and pursed. "She is a brass-faced wench, overbold and with the deportment of a wanton. She stands in need of a round curbing, which it is to be hoped you will supply, since it appears that I may not."

Nicholas exchanged a look with De Winter. His old friend was well accustomed to Margaret's shrewishness, but she was overreaching herself this afternoon. "Perhaps you would save your scolding for when we are private, sister," he said sharply. "I feel sure that our guest must find it tedious."

Lady Margaret blushed fiercely. De Winter stepped into the breach with a deft compliment on the lavish and elegant table, but none of the three was sorry when the meal was over and her ladyship withdrew, leaving the gentlemen to their wine and tobacco.

"Well?" asked Nick. "What think you?"

"That you have a peck of trouble upon your hands," chuckled De Winter. "Your sister-in-law will not give the beauty houseroom for long. She will ply her shrew's tongue until you are forced to remove the girl."

"You think I am no match for Margaret?" A mobile eyebrow lifted quizzically as Nick set a taper to his long clay pipe.

"No man is match for a scold, my friend," laughed De Winter. "And to speak truth, I cannot find it in my heart to blame your sister in this instance. Never have I seen such a paragon. She is not designed for the humble role, and she most assuredly lacks a Puritan's demeanor."

Nick chuckled in his turn. "Heaven forfend. She would not suit our purposes if she possessed such a thing." His eyes narrowed, his laughter ceased. "Think you that she will serve our purpose?"

"Whether she has talent for the stage or not, Tom Kil-

ligrew will not be able to resist her." De Winter spoke thoughtfully. "She would decorate any production. And I grant you that she could well catch Buckingham's eye. In which case, she will be in his bed in no time. I do not know a woman who has yet refused what he would offer." He shrugged. "So long as she also stays close to you, I see no reason why your plan should not work. But as we said before, it is for you to make certain of her loyalty. If Buckingham buys her favors, you will have a high price to meet."

"Such cynicism!" murmured Nick with a slight smile, although he knew his friend spoke only the truth. The Duke of Buckingham, with his immense wealth and influence, could offer a wench in search of fame and fortune a great deal more than could Lord Kincaid. "There are other currencies than mere money and position." He rose in leisurely fashion. "Like love and gratitude, my friend, as we said before. Now let us see whether her wits match her beauty."

The two men went into Kincaid's private parlor. Richard reposed himself on a fine leather chair beside the fire while Nick perused his shelves for an appropriate book for a beginning reader. "Perhaps we should start with the Bible," he said with a smile. "It might reconcile Margaret." He pulled the bell rope beside the hearth, then opened the calf-bound book upon the table.

"Yes, my lord." It was Susan who answered the bell, her sparkling eyes and eager smile ample evidence of her memories of the morning.

"Send Polly to me," his lordship instructed, raising his head from the book.

Susan hesitated. "M'lady, sir, has set her to cleaning the silver," she said.

Lord Kincaid frowned. "Well, she can surely finish it at some other time."

"Yes, m'lord." Susan bobbed a curtsy, and retreated.

"A peck of trouble," mused Richard, tapping his teeth with a fingernail. "How's she to explain the uncleaned silver?"

"Are you trying to tell me, my friend, that this scheme is not going to work?"

"I fear you may have to go about it differently," was the reply.

Polly, on receiving the summons, had no scruples about abandoning her task. The amount of silver in the Kincaid household was daunting, to say the least, when one was expected to polish it. She entered Lord Kincaid's parlor impetuously and without ceremony, well aware that the Lady Margaret was about her business in the stillroom abovestairs. "If I had wished to be a kitchen maid, sir, I could have remained at the Dog tavern. At least," she added with scrupulous fairness, "I could have done so if Prue's potion had worked."

"But just think what a fate that would have condemned me to," protested his lordship. "Bludgeoned to death, and my body thrown into the Thames."

A roguish smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Indeed, I would not have wished that. But why can I not meet Master Kilhgrew, and then learn to read? Or I could sell oranges. I would much prefer it to cleaning silver."

"Orange girls do not just sell oranges," Nick pointed out. "Do they, De Winter?"

Polly noticed the other occupant of the parlor for the first time. She looked askance at Kincaid. "Lord De Winter knows your history and your ambition, Polly," he told her. "It is always useful to have friends."

"Indeed, it is," Richard spoke up. "Particularly in the theatre. But Nick is right, you know. If you wish to sell oranges as a means of introduction to the stage, you will be expected to offer your customers more personal services after the performance. You will not else make a living. If you are setting your sights on loftier patrons when you become an actor, you will not want to have sullied yourself with the gentlemen from the pit."

"I had not thought of that," Polly said with a sigh. "And now I am so clean and unsullied, 'twould be a pity to spoil

it." Her eyes, mischievously inviting, sought Nick's, hoping for some responsive spark.

"Aye, it would," he said, disappointingly matter-of-fact, even as he wondered uneasily what lay behind that enchanting look. It was not one he'd seen before; it was neither the blatant come-hither invitation of the tavern wench nor the artlessly impish smile of Polly being herself. "I am certainly not prepared to endure a repetition of this morning's fuss to get you clean again." He offered the remark partly in jest, and partly in the hopes that it would cause Polly to change her expression to one a little less beguiling. It did.

"Then I suppose I had best polish silver." Polly pulled a comical face that drew an involuntary smile from both men. "How long will it take for me to learn my letters?"

"That depends on how quick your wits, and how hard you are prepared to work," Nick said. "Come, let us start." He sat down at the table, gesturing to the stool beside his elbow chair.

With her toe, Polly edged the stool closer to Nick's chair so that when she sat down, his knees were very close to hers. Nonchalantly, she rested her own elbow on the arm of his chair, smiling up at him with an expression of alert eagerness.

Nick drew in his breath sharply. Unless he much mistook the matter, young Polly was playing coquette with him, for some doubtless dubious reasons of her own. He took her arm and placed it firmly in her lap, observing coolly, "You will not learn to read from my face, Polly. The book is on the table." He tapped the open page with a forefinger.

She didn't seem very adept at issuing invitations, Polly thought with a disconsolate flash. It was a novel situation for her, of course, having never before found herself in the position of wanting to invite masculine attentions; more often than not she was struggling to escape them. There seemed to be a great many things she had to learn in this new life. She turned her attention to the jumble of hieroglyphics on the opened page, her frown deepening as she struggled to follow

the pointing finger, concentrating on the quiet, patient voice.

At the close of an hour, it was very clear to both gentlemen that they had an apt pupil upon their hands. Nick glanced over the bent, honeyed head at Richard, who nodded, then sat up, the languid posture vanishing under a decisive air that Nick recognized well. "Polly, what do you know of the court?"

Richard's question took her quite by surprise. It also struck her as a rather stupid one. What could she possibly know of the court? She looked up from the paper where she was painfully copying the letters of the alphabet from Nick's original. "We didn't see too much of the court in Botolph Lane," she said, her dimples peeping. "For some reason, the king didn't frequent the Dog tavern."

There was a short silence. Nick bent to the fire, lighting a taper to kindle his pipe. He regarded her gravely through a fragrant, curling wisp of smoke. "That was a fine piece of impertinence, you rag-mannered brat. You're going to have to learn more than your letters if you wish to take your place in the world you have chosen. And one thing you must learn is that overt rudeness is inexcusable. You will never ever hear anyone offering the least apparent discourtesy, however much they might feel it warranted. You will hear elaborate compliments that mean nothing. You will hear insults conveyed by soft words and smiles. You will hear gossip spread and reputations destroyed by a seeming kind word, but never will you hear an impolite observation. If you transgress that rule, you might as well return to the Dog tavern, because there will be no place for you in the theatre or at court."

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 Kil-ligrew?" 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 the 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.

It was young Tom who appeared. "You want me, m'lord?"

"No. Polly, as it happens. Is she in the house?"

"She was at dinnertime, m'lord," responded the boy with a cheerful grin. "Shall I fetch 'er for ye?"

"If you would be so kind," said his lordship, dryly.

Polly heard the summons and tried desperately to think of an excuse. She had the cellar to sweep, the pots to scrub…

" 'E's waitin' for ye," Tom stated as she hesitated. "In 'is parlor."

"Oh, very well." There seemed no help for it. Polly wiped her hands on her apron and went into the hall. This time she knocked on the parlor door.

"Come in." Nick looked up from the Bible he had again opened on the table and smiled at her. There was no response as she stood in the doorway, looking at her feet. "Why did you not come for your lesson?" he asked.

She still did not look at him. "I did not think you would wish me to."

He sighed. "Why would I not, Polly?"

"Common whores do not learn to read."

"Come inside and shut the door!" He waited until she had obeyed before saying more softly, "I know I was harsh, Polly, but you caught me at some considerable disadvantage. You must understand that I cannot avail myself of what you would offer while you remain under this roof, as a member of my household. Not only would it mortally offend Lady Margaret's principles, and I will not insult her, but it would also make your position with the other servants quite untenable."

"I understand that," Polly said, raising her eyes from the floor. "It is perfectly obvious. That is why I thought that if you lay with me, then I would have to go and live somewhere else."

"Conniving baggage!" Nick expostulated with soft ferocity. "So that was what you had in mind! I knew there had to be some ulterior motive."

To his unutterable dismay, tears welled in the glowing hazel eyes, welled and fell slowly, pouring soundlessly down her cheeks as she stood and looked at him, making no attempt to wipe them away.

"Oh, no, moppet, do not weep," he exclaimed, moving from behind the table, taking her in his arms. "I did not mean to be unkind, sweetheart." The tears stopped as abruptly as if he had closed a tap on an ale barrel. Nicholas stared down at the ravishing, tear-wet countenance. Suspicion grew, became certainty. Crocodile tears, if ever he had seen them. "God's grace," he muttered. "What web have I woven for myself?"