by Jane Feather
Nick got off the bed, crossing to the tiring table, where ewer and basin stood. The water that he poured into the basin was tepid, but the fact that it had once been warmed bore witness to the care of Goodwife Benson. He dipped a towel in the basin, then came back to the bed, where Polly still lay, watching him. “Let me make you a little more comfortable,” he said softly, sitting down beside her. She stretched, catlike, as he drew the damp cloth down her body, freshening the sweat-slick skin, parting her thighs to cleanse her of the bright blood of innocence and the residue of passion.
It was the most sweetly tender intimacy, and Polly quite suddenly felt tears welling behind her eyes. They were not tears of sorrow or of joy, but of amazement at such an unexpected ministration so lovingly offered. She had been touched in many ways in her seventeen years, but rarely with gentleness, and never before in this cherishing manner, and the tears rolled unbidden down her cheeks.
“Do not weep, flower,” Nick said in distress, not understanding why she should produce this reaction when a bare instant before she had been all teasing, sensual mischief.
“I cannot seem to stop,” she sobbed.
Nicholas thought of the dramatic manner in which her life had been transformed in the last few hours, of the suddenness of the change, and he ceased to question. He stood up, going into the parlor, returning with a cup of wine. “Sleep is your best medicine, sweetheart. Drink this first.” She swallowed obediently, choked, and managed a misty smile.
“I am not in general a watering pot.”
“Not unless it will serve some nefarious purpose,” he agreed with a twinkle, pulling the heavy quilt up to her chin before going over to mend the fire, building it high so that it would warm them through the night.
Polly, snug and sleepy, watched him, marveling at the elegance of his movements, an elegance not at all impaired by his nakedness. Indeed, without his clothes, the power of that broad, muscled frame, wide shoulders, narrow waist, slim hips, was there to be viewed in all its inimitable glory.
“You are most beautiful, my Lord Kincaid,” she murmured as he trod over to the bed, bearing the single candle that he had left alight.
“You are too kind, madame,” he said, placing the candle on the bed table and bowing. Chuckling at the absurd contrast of the stately salutation and his bare skin, she pulled aside the quilt in invitation. Nick blew out the candle and slid in beside her, drawing the bed curtain against drafts and the fire’s illumination. Her hand moved in sleepy exploration. He smiled in the dark, catching her wrist. “You will be better served after sleep, sweetheart.”
“Oh,” Polly said on a distant note of disappointment. “Then I hope it will soon be morning.” She rolled into his embrace and was instantly deeply asleep.
Chapter 8
“I cannot help feeling that you are neglecting your duties, my dear Barbara.” George Villiers, the second Duke of Buckingham, took snuff with a delicate twist of his wrist, and arched an ironic eyebrow at his cousin, my Lady Castlemaine. “His Majesty has an air greatly disconsolate. Was he, perhaps, impervious to your usual forms of consolation last night?”
The king’s mistress shrugged plump white shoulders, the gesture lifting her breasts clear of her décolletage to reveal the nipples. “He had set his heart upon flying his new hawk this morning.” She gestured to the long, snow-encrusted windows of the Privy Gallery looking over the Pebble Court at Whitehall Palace. “It is hardly possible in such weather, and you know how he detests being thwarted.”
“Then it is surely incumbent upon us to suggest some diversion,” Buckingham mused, flicking at his satin sleeve with his lace-edged handkerchief. “There is no knowing what he may decide to do when he is allowed to brood.”
“Or whose company he may choose to favor,” said Lady Castlemaine, with a shrewd, knowing look at her cousin. “He seems uncommon pleased with Clarendon this morning. They were closeted in his Privy chamber for upwards of an hour. Methinks the lord chancellor is returning to grace.” A laugh, tinged with malice, accompanied the suggestion that she knew would arouse Buckingham to supreme irritation.
The greater part of the duke’s energies these days was expended in the discrediting of the chancellor to the king—a task hindered by the facts that Clarendon’s daughter was married to the Duke of York, His Majesty’s brother, and that Clarendon had been Charles II’s most trusted counselor throughout his exile and in the years since his restoration. But the king was coming to apostatize the old man as a bore, a dull dog who would put a bridle on His Majesty’s pleasure seeking; one who was forever demanding that he turn his mind to the business of governing, and the placation of Parliament if he was to secure further revenue from them. King Charles did not consider it his task to placate the Commons in order to be provided with the money he required to pursue his pleasures. The granting of such funds was Parliament’s duty.
“My dear cousin,” said Buckingham deliberately, “it is no more in your interests than ’tis in mine to advance the chancellor’s cause. You would be better employed in joining forces with me than in amusing yourself at my expense.” Almost indolently, he reached out a hand, catching her wrist, shaking back the fall of lace that had obscured a diamond bracelet. The stones caught the light from the chandelier. They were exceptionally fine stones in a most intricate setting, and His Grace made great play of examining them. “An expensive trinket, madame,” he drawled, pointing his meaning with an arched eyebrow. “A present from your husband, no doubt?” He dropped her wrist abruptly, and his eyes, cold and hard, met hers. “Take heed whom you make your enemy, my lady. I will govern the king, and when I do I will remember my friends and my foes.” With a neat toss of his head to throw back the heavy fall of his peruke so that it should not obscure his face, His Grace bowed deeply.
The irony in the salutation after such a declaration would not have been missed by one much less perspicacious than Lady Castlemaine. She curtsied with matching depth. “I, too, can be a powerful friend, my lord duke. Much can be contrived in the privacy of the bed curtains.”
“Exactly so.” Buckingham smiled. “Which is why I would have you remain there, Barbara.” The smile touching only his lips widened. “We understand each other, I trust?”
“Perfectly.” Lady Castlemaine fluttered her fan. She watched him walk over to where the king sat, surrounded by an anxious court, all clearly racking their brains for some solution to His Majesty’s ennui. A deep frown drew the thick royal eyebrows together; slender, beringed fingers drummed on the carved oak arm of his chair; a red-heeled, ribbon-adorned shoe tapped an impatient rhythm. The duke bowed and said something that Lady Castlemaine could not hear, but the result was a deep roar of laughter from the king, followed by admiring ripples in imitation from the surrounding circle.
Her ladyship’s fingers combed restlessly through her hair, drawing it across her shoulders. Earlier she had tried, but failed, to do what Buckingham had so signally succeeded in achieving—the return of the king’s good humor. It was a lesson she had best take to heart. His grace would soon be the most powerful man in the land, and there was no saying whether his influence could reach as far as his majesty’s bedchamber, could prove threatening to the mistress of that bedchamber. But it was not worth putting to the test. The Countess of Castlemaine, all smiles, went over to join the laughing circle around the king.
“Nicholas … Nick! Oh, wake up, do!” Polly tugged at his shoulder. “It is the most amazing thing. You must come and see!”
Nicholas for a moment did not know where he was as the importunate voice and hand penetrated his deep slumber. Then memory returned. He rolled onto his back, blinking sleepily. The bed curtains were drawn back, but the light in the chamber was dim and gray. “You are awake betimes, Polly.”
She pulled a mischievous race. I have become accustomed to early rising in your sister’s household, sir. Lying long abed encourages the devil’s work.” Her voice was an uncanny imitation of Margaret’s, and he burst into laughter.
&nbs
p; “Come back to bed. You will catch cold.”
“Nay … Come and see!” She threw the quilt off him, seizing his hand.
Groaning, Nick obeyed the summons, staggering to his feet. He was not accustomed to leaving his bed until the morning was fairly well advanced, and the sight of Polly, prancing eagerly in her bare skin, was one to encourage a long lie-in, as was the cold air on his own uncovered flesh. “Put on your smock, moppet. You will freeze to death,” he protested, reaching for his shirt.
“Oh, ’tis only cold in here because the fire had gone down,” she said impatiently. “’Tis not cold in the parlor.” Pulling him behind her, she danced into the other room, where he noted that the fire was newly kindled, last night’s supper dishes removed, and the table laid for breakfast. Goodwife Benson was clearly an efficient landlady.
“Look!” Polly gestured dramatically to the window. “We are in a snow house.”
Nicholas whistled, crossing over to what had once been a window. It was completely blanked out by snow.
“Could the snow have fallen so deeply that it reached the upper story?” demanded Polly. “Shall we open it and see?”
“If you wish to fill the chamber with snow, by all means do so,” Nick said equably. Polly looked so crestfallen as she realized the absurdity of a suggestion made in the throes of excitement that he chuckled. “One would think that you have never seen the stuff before.”
“I have always loved it,” she told him. “It covers up all the grime and the refuse, and you can pretend for a little bit that it will never come back—that the world will always be fresh and sparkling and white.” She shrugged. “’Tis fanciful, I know. The white cover becomes fouled, then it melts and the filth is still there, only even worse.” A metaphor for life, she had so often thought. There would be moments when hope was high, when the idea of radical change seemed not impossibly chimeric, then reality would intrude, made even more vicious by its destruction of dreams. But this time, the white transmuting cover would not become sullied and melt. It could not, because this time she had been given control over her destiny. The prize was there to be seized if she was capable of doing so.
Nick frowned, wondering why the radiance should have been so abruptly wiped from her face. But the bleakness vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared, and she offered him that heart-stopping smile again.
“Mayhap we will be snowbound.”
Nicholas returned the smile. “I can think of worse fates, but I had best get dressed and investigate downstairs.” He went into the bedchamber to pull on shirt and breeches. Polly followed, scrambling into her smock.
“I wish to investigate, also,” she said in reply to his raised eyebrow. “May I not?”
“I had rather you climbed back into bed and awaited my return. I do not intend to be many minutes; then we have some unfinished business to attend to. I seem to recall that you were rather anxious for the onset of morning. Or do you find the prospect of snow so all-absorbing that you will be unable to concentrate on anything else?”
Polly removed her smock and climbed back into bed. “But if you are a very long time, I shall come to find you.”
“I can safely promise you that I shall not be,” he said, rendered strangely dizzy by the sight to which he had just been treated. Polly’s back view as she had clambered up onto the high feather mattress had set up in an inventive and playful mind an utterly dazzling series of images and possibilities. Finding themselves snowbound could, indeed, prove decidedly entertaining.
“I fear you must be having most improper thoughts, my lord,” Polly said demurely, peeping at him over the quilt, which she was holding up to her nose. His own gaze lowered without volition to follow the direction of hers. “I do not think you should go and visit Goodwife Benson just yet,” she continued. “Not until you have … have, well … subsided, if you see what I mean.” The hazel eyes were alight with mischief; her tongue peeked from between her lips.
“I fear you are right,” declared his lordship, calmly pushing off his breeches. He reached for the quilt and twitched it out of her hold, flinging it back.
“But the fire had gone out!” Polly yelped as the cold air hit her now-rewarmed flesh.
“The price of impudence,” he told her cheerfully. “But you will not be complaining of the cold soon. Turn over.”
When Goodwife Benson knocked on the bedchamber door an hour later, Polly had discovered that there was a variety of novel ways of increasing the body’s temperature. Nicholas bade their landlady enter and propped himself on the pillows to smile a greeting as the round figure bustled in.
“Ye’ll be needing the fire newly rekindled in ’ere,” said the goodwife, setting a bucket of coal in the hearth. “Will ye be wantin’ my man to trim ye, m’lord?” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Right handy ’e is with a razor. Been a gentleman’s gentleman, sir.”
Nick rubbed a hand over his unshaven chin. “I’d be glad of his services, goodwife. It’s kind in him to offer.”
The woman beamed. “’Tis nothin’, m’lord. But ye’ll not be venturin’ forth today. Snow’s still falling.”
Polly sat up at this, observing hopefully, “Mayhap you will not be able to open the door.”
“Like as not.” The goodwife’s smile broadened. It was clear to Nick that she was as amused as he was by the contrast between Polly’s ingenuousness and that extraordinary sensual, tumbled beauty. “But my man and the boy’ll take a shovel to it, soon as may be.” She turned back to the fire, busying herself with coals and kindling until a cheerful blaze filled the hearth. “There now. I’ll fetch you up hot water and send my man to ye, m’lord. Will the young lady require help with ’er dressin’?”
Polly looked startled. “No … no, thank you.” The goodwife inclined her head, bobbed a little curtsy, and bus tied out. “Why should she imagine I would need help with my dressing?” Polly slid out of bed.
“Ladies generally do,” replied my lord with that enigmatic little smile. His words had the effect he had expected. She stood stock-still and stared.
“I do not think Newgate-born bastards, bred in a tavern, warrant such a title,” she said carefully.
“But a lord’s mistress might,” he suggested. “We have not discussed what background you must assume, but you should perhaps consider this now. When you are introduced to Thomas Killigrew you will not wish to present him with … with …” He felt for words before deciding that Polly’s had been both sufficiently descriptive and accurate. “A Newgate-born bastard. While actors are welcomed at court, such a history as yours is unlikely to be received with equanimity. And you know you must earn the king’s approbation if you are to join his company.”
Polly moved closer to the fire’s warmth as she considered this. She turned herself slowly, like a roast on a spit, maintaining an even warmth on her bare skin. As always, she appeared sublimely unconscious of her nakedness. Such ease with one’s body was, Nicholas reflected, a considerable asset in one who would tread the boards. He watched her cogitations in silent amusement for a moment.
“We have spent some considerable time and effort in the last month ensuring that your deportment and accomplishments are consistent with a respectable background,” he reminded her eventually. “One that will not come amiss at court.”
“I had not fully realized the complexity of this,” Polly said slowly. “I realized that Master Killigrew must decide that I have some skill, but I had not thought as far ahead as coming to His Majesty’s notice.”
“If Killigrew agrees to take you on, he will present you in one of his productions,” Nick told her. “He will invite the king to attend the theatre and will recommend you to his notice. The rest will be up to you, for you know that the members of the king’s company are servants of His Majesty; they wear the king’s livery and receive their pay from the royal purse. With the Duke of York’s company, the same applies, except that they are servants of His Grace. King Charles must decide for himself that he wishes you in his servi
ce.”
“Oh.” Polly found the idea of having to appeal in person to His Majesty, King Charles II, utterly daunting.
Nick read her mind with little difficulty. “I should not be overly anxious, sweetheart. The king is most susceptible to all aspects of female beauty, and you possess them all—lavishly.” He chuckled as she blushed. Could she possibly be unaware of it? “If you have even a minimal talent for the stage, you need have no fears.”
“I have more than minimal talent,” she declared, indicating that her modesty was not all-encompassing.
“I do not doubt it,” Kincaid agreed smoothly. “But you would be well advised to conceal the circumstances of your birth and upbringing if you wish to frequent the court.”
“But not all actors have genteel antecedents,” Polly objected. “I know they do not because the daughter of the butcher on Tower Street became an orange girl at the Duke of York’s theatre, and then found a protector and became an actor.”
“If you wish to be a mediocre actor, never emerging from the back ranks, then your origins may be as humble as you please,” Kincaid said briskly. “But I had thought you intended to star. Star actors become courtiers, or they do not star.”
“Perhaps I should be a woman of mystery,” Polly said, a gleam in her eye. “With a deep and dark past. Will that serve, d’ye think?” She twirled, showing him her back, kissed pink by the fire’s heat.
“Done to a turn,” murmured Nick, sliding to the floor. A sharp rap at the door gave him pause. He sighed, reaching for his shirt. “One minute,” he called. “I expect that this is Goodman Benson come to trim me. I will join him in the parlor. Do you dress yourself, now, and come out when you are decent.”
