Venus

by Jane Feather

  “But you will encourage her to find Buckingham less repugnant?” De Winter watched him over the lip of his glass. “You have all the influence of the trusted mentor—as well as of the lover. You may easily persuade her out of her dislike before asking for her help.”

  Such calculating cynicism! To use the influence of love for such a purpose. And yet, what choice did he have? At least he would not be guilty of deception. But it was hollow comfort for one who would be guilty of the blatant manipulation of a trusting innocent.

  “I will do what is necessary,” he said.

  De Winter took his leave soon after. Nick snuffed the candles in the parlor before going into the bedchamber. Polly was sleeping the restorative sleep of youth and health, her hair spread across the pillow, her hands curled open above her head, lips slightly parted, presenting a picture as guileless and ingenuous as the flower of which she so often reminded him. That she was not as guileless and ingenuous as she looked, Nick was all too well aware, but the awareness did little to rid him of the sour taste in his mouth, the acrid roiling in his gut, as he thought of what he must persuade her to do.

  He slipped into bed beside her, and she cuddled instantly into his arms, warm and pliant. “Nick?” Her mumble was sleepily questioning.

  “Who else would it be?” A teasing response that rang in his ears as hollow as a beggar’s bowl.

  Polly giggled, wriggling closer before sliding back into sleep.

  When she awoke, last night’s rain had vanished. Early morning sun was pouring through the window. A blackbird trilled in insistent joy from the gnarled gray branch of an old apple tree in the garden. It was the first intimation of the closeness of spring, and she lay, snug in the deep feather bed, under the heavy quilt, feeling Nick’s warmth and strength beside her. Contentment washed through her, bringing in its wake such a resurgence of confidence that she could barely believe her miserable panic of the preceding day. Remorse prickled as she remembered how sorely she had tried Nick’s patience.

  Propping herself on one elbow, Polly leant over Nick’s recumbent form, beginning with great deliberation to kiss him into awareness. His eyes stayed shut, but his skin rippled as her lips pressed into the hollow of his throat and she stroked him with her body, moving sinuously against him.

  Nick yielded to the glorious languour as sleep gave way to wakefulness and his body stirred beneath the sensuous caress of her skin. Indulging a wicked impulse, he kept himself as immobile as control over his voluntary reactions would allow, his eyes tight shut as if sleep still claimed him. Polly’s tongue fluttered against his nipples; still he did not move. She raised her head to look at him, puzzlement clear on her face. If this was a game, it was not one they had played before. Then, with a little smile, she twisted, burrowing headfirst under the quilt.

  It was too much. Nick groaned with pleasure, running his hands down her back beneath the quilt, his thumbs pressing into her spine, which arched and curved in catlike response. “Stop now,” he whispered huskily as the edge of bliss drew inexorably closer. Polly, indulging her own devilish impulse, ignored the request, merely increasing her attentions. Nick groaned again. He smacked her bottom imperatively. “Wicked one!” Catching her around the waist, he hauled her up. “Don’t you know what you are doing to me?”

  She emerged laughing from the warm darkness of the covers, tossing her hair back. “Of course I know. Would I do it, else? I had to find some way to waken you.” She leaned down to kiss his mouth, swinging one leg astride the narrow waist. He ran his hands over the curve of her hips, along the smooth planes of her thighs as she knelt astride him, stroked the softness of her belly, reached up to cup her breasts, holding them in the palms of his hands.

  “I want you,” she said with fierce and unashamed candor, leaning backward against his updrawn knees, offering the essence of herself to his touch. He slipped one hand beneath her to hold her buttocks, lifting her for the touch of his free hand; she exhaled on a soft whisper of pleasure. With a leisurely twist of his hips he drove upward, and Polly gasped at the pulsing fire of his penetration.

  “And now you have me,” he said, gently taunting, catching her hair to draw her head down to his. “What will you do with your possession my flower?”

  “There seems but one thing I can do,” she murmured against the corner of his mouth, answering his teasing with her own brand.

  “Then let us make the earth move,” he said, taking a firm grip of her hips, liquid fire alive in the jewels of his eyes.

  “Yes, let us,” Polly agreed, her own gaze drowning in his, her body seeming to become one with his, consumed by the same fire. The blackbird’s invitation became almost frantic as he called for his own mate on this first springlike day of the year; and withindoors the earth moved.

  It moved again that afternoon in a different way, and for more than just lovers. Polly had one moment of near-paralyzing panic, standing in the wings waiting for her cue; her ears buzzed, sweat dripped between her breasts, black spots danced before her eyes. She looked around frantically.

  “I am here.” It was Thomas, quiet, calm, at her shoulder. “’Tis all right to be afeard now. It will go as soon as you walk onto the stage.”

  “How do you know?” Her voice rasped through a throat as stiff as dried leather. Her eyes held the desperate need to believe him.

  “Because for all natural actors it does,” he responded evenly. “I am not going to move from this spot. If you become afraid, look at me.” Then the relevant words came from the stage, she gave him one last panic-stricken glance, and he pushed her forward with a ruthless hand.

  Polly did not hear the buzz that greeted her arrival onstage, was unaware of the gasps as the flambeaux so carefully placed by Killigrew illuminated her for the audience. She did not notice the extraordinary silence that fell as she began to speak; a silence that continued, rapt and spellbound, for long minutes, drawing a slow smile of satisfaction from Thomas Killigrew.

  It was a smile that broadened at the first gust of laughter when the house, recovering from its stunned amazement at the sight of Killigrew’s surprise, responded to the provocative wit, the vivacious, flirtatious manner in which she engaged in the duel of the sexes. Her own enjoyment was transparent, communicating itself to her fellow actors as well as to the playgoers. The former found themselves responding with greater effort; the latter kept their seats—not one rising, as was usual, to wander the pit and the galleries, to engage in idle conversation while keeping but half an eye on the stage.

  Nicholas sat dazed by the welter of emotions that assailed him. There was pride, certainly; satisfaction at his own part in bringing this about; a lover’s pleasure in the other’s achievement; but there was a most unexpected jealousy, also. This afternoon Polly did not belong to him. She belonged to every member of the audience; that amazing beauty, the gliding sensuality of her body, the wicked invitations of voice and eye, were offered to all. And he could hear all around him the way the offer was received, with lustful murmurs and speculative eyes.

  He had expected nothing else, yet forewarned had not been forearmed. Until the moment she had walked onto the stage, he had thought of her as his creation: snatched, bruised and violated, from a brutalizing existence; made whole under his care, the potential of beauty and personality nurtured until it could blossom into adult maturity under the knowledge of love. But that ravishing, magical creature on the stage was not his creation. She was her own, fulfilling her own promises made to herself, and reveling in that fulfillment. She was giving herself, freely and with all her heart, to every man and woman in the playhouse, and he must somehow learn to live with it because, after this day, there would be no dousing of that star.

  George Villiers sat in the upper gallery. His eyes, narrowed and hooded, never deviated from the stage, and he remained as motionless as a graven image. He had been trying to find the girl for days, using every means at his disposal, and she had been here all that time, tucked away under Killigrew’s umbrella, now presented
in this spectacular fashion without even a name to identify her. Of course, Killigrew was a showman at heart. Knowing what a gift he had in the wench, he would milk every last drop out of the advantage. It was a brilliant strategy—to introduce her in this dingy hole, amongst the unseeing and unfeeling populace of Moorfields, to a curious court, dragged from their habitual boredom by the possibility of something out of the ordinary. And there was nothing ordinary about this Flora.

  But who and what was she? He could hear her voice castigating his coachman with all the eloquence of the guttersnipe; then, almost in the same breath, greeting himself in the soft tones of the gently reared lady. She was an actor, which would perhaps explain some part of it. It would not explain why she had run from him, though. In general, the young women who graced her chosen profession tended to be in search of a passport and were only too pleased to attract the notice of the rich and wellborn. So why was this one different?

  Well, it should not be too difficult to discover. She had broken cover and therefore tacitly agreed to the chase.

  Chapter 12

  Now, before we leave for court this evening, I wish for your solemn word that you will not indulge in displays of the kind to which you treated us on Wednesday.” Nicholas adopted a severe mien as he regarded Polly, who was sitting before the mirror in the bedchamber threading a pearl-encrusted ribbon through her ringlets.

  “If you do not engage in games of dalliance with painted ladies, I will not need to indulge in displays of any kind,” she retorted. The defiant gleam in the hazel eyes sparked at him, reflected in the mirror.

  Nicholas sighed. “Games of dalliance, Polly, are accepted sport at Whitehall. Indeed, they are de rigueur, and you must learn to play them, too. The one thing you may not do is descend upon me like one of the Furies, demanding that I take you home on the instant.”

  “But it was the only way I could think to stop your.… your game with that … Oh, I cannot think of a suitable word for her,” Polly said disgustedly. “All that paint and powder. Anyway, you did not take me home,” she added, remembered resentment ringing in her voice.

  “No, of course I did not. To have obeyed such an ill-considered and importunate summons would have brought ridicule on both our heads.”

  “Well, you did not have to tell me, in that bored voice, to find another escort because you were rather pleasantly occupied!” Polly scowled at him in the mirror. “Very pleasantly occupied, my lord, with your nose in her bosom!” Her hands fluttered in a gesture of denial. Her voice took on tone and accents that were not her own. “Fie on you, my dear sir, but ’tis an outrageous flirt y’are.” The long lashes batted vigorously; her hands were clasped at her breast. “Indeed, and I can think of many a pleasant occupation, can ye not, my lord Kincaid.”

  In the next breath, before Nick could keep up with the transformation, she was speaking in a voice uncomfortably like his own, her eyes bent most sedulously upon an imaginary figure. “Sweet madame, many a pleasant occupation when such peerless charms are before me.”

  “Little shrew!” Nick exclaimed appreciatively. “Did I really sound like that?”

  “’Twas how I heard it,” she said loftily, adjusting the lace at her neckline. “And monstrous ridiculous it sounded.”

  “In that case, I cannot imagine why it should have caused you to throw such a jealous tantrum.”

  “I did not. I merely requested that we return home.”

  “Well, we will not argue about it further,” Nick said firmly. “But it is not to happen again. Is it understood? At Whitehall we go our separate ways. I will not be observing your every move, and you will not be seen to be observing mine. Because Wednesday was your first appearance at court since the king accepted you into his company, you will have been excused that indiscretion. But it will not be excused another time. Is it clear, moppet?”

  Polly nibbled her bottom lip. “I do not wish to talk about it anymore. Richard was quite horrid afterward and took me into this dreadful room full of old ladies, who were just prosing on and on, and introduced me to his aunt, and I could not get away for hours! I thought I would expire with boredom. And you have not stopped scolding ever since.”

  “I want your word that you will behave in the manner Richard and I have explained is necessary.”

  “Cool indifference.” Polly stood up, smoothing down her skirt. “You may dally with whomsoever you please, my lord. I will take my revenge in private.” Her head tilted and she smiled up at him, her expression suddenly soft, resentment and defiance vanished. “Indeed, if ’tis important for you, Nick, I will do my utmost. But it is difficult for me to conceal these things.”

  “Aye, love, I know that.” He touched her nose with a gloved fingertip. “But you have a good head on your shoulders, and all an actor’s expertise. You can dissemble in this.”

  She could, Polly thought, as they left the house for the carriage that waited at the door. But it still seemed a ridiculous convention. However, she was enjoying her new life far too much to jeopardize its continuation for an obligation that Nick considered both necessary and simple enough to perform.

  It had been four weeks since her debut at Moorfields. Thomas had put on Rival Ladies at the Theatre Royal two weeks later, and she had performed before the king, who, together with his courtiers, had come backstage at the end of the performance wreathed in smiles, brimming with compliments, and the invitation to attend at Whitehall whenever Master Killigrew had no need of her services; thus had Polly become a member of the king’s company.

  One could not attend Whitehall Palace without court dress, and the acquisition of this had taken some time, but two days ago Nick had escorted her to the palace for her first appearance in the thronged galleries and salons. And she had very nearly disgraced them both by giving rein to an indignant impulse that had no place in these circles …

  “We are arrived,” Nick said, breaking into her musings. “I will escort you into the Long Gallery; after that you must manage alone. You will not be short of admirers.”

  “Always assuming I might wish for them,” she retorted, but without the earlier snap; this time as a shared jest.

  Nick smiled and handed her down from the carriage, which had come to a halt in the Great Court. They progressed in stately fashion along the corridors of the palace. The rank odors from the chamber pots situated at strategic points behind tapestry screens and in dark corners were so much a part of the atmosphere that they were noticed by none of the habitués of the palace, be they guests, servants, or inhabitants. Dogs snapped and tumbled, snarling over a disputed bone, diving under skirts and between legs, an ever present trap for the unwary.

  Polly sidestepped a spaniel pup, lifted her skirts to avoid a patch of something she did not care to identify, and entered the Long Gallery.

  “Why, Mistress Wyat, you have come to bring starlight to those of us who live in darkness.” The greeting came instantly from a bewigged, beribboned, beringed gentleman of massive girth and raddled complexion.

  “La, Sir John, I am come merely to bask in your moon-glow.” Fan unfurled, eyes inviting, the rising star of the king’s company curtsied, laid her hand upon the proffered arm, and glided off, leaving Lord Kincaid to his own devices.

  From the far end of the gallery she was under a scrutiny of the most august nature.

  “Quite extraordinary beauty.” King Charles looked across to where Mistress Polly Wyat stood, surrounded by an admiring court. A ray of March sunlight danced playfully in the honey-hued river cascading over her shoulders, which rose in creamy perfection from the froth of lace at her bodice. “She remains under Kincaid’s protection, d’ye say, George?”

  “So I understand, sir,” returned the Duke of Buckingham, thoughtfully taking snuff. “But he does not appear overly protective.” A smile twisted the duke’s lips.

  The king glanced sideways at his interlocutor and chuckled. “Ye’ve designs there yourself, have you, George? I can’t say I blame you. I’d have a play myself if I weren’t
so encumbered by the ladies already.” He sighed, dabbing his lips with a lace-edged handkerchief. “I swear, George, that if Mrs. Stewart is not after my Lady Castlemaine’s blood, it is the other way around. ’Tis enough to destroy a man’s interest in the fair sex.”

  “Not yours, sir,” said Villiers with a bow and a salacious smile. “It would take a much greater force than that possessed by those two charmers.”

  The king laughed in great good humor. “Aye, I daresay I may count myself their match. In truth, though, they can neither of them hold a candle to Mistress Wyat.”

  “I wonder where Kincaid found her,” mused the duke, a hungry light in his eyes. “No one seems to know, and neither he nor the lady are telling.”

  “Did not Killigrew say that she was the daughter of a merchant—some respectable bourgeois?”

  The duke frowned, “There’s no taint of the Grand Seraglio about her, certainly,” he said. “She has none of the obvious tricks of one born and bred to whoredom. But it is also hard to imagine such a rare flower springing from the seed of some staid and plebian bourgeois. I cannot believe such antecedents could produce that delicacy of face and form, or that lively wit. There’s nothing of the Flemish mare about her.” He chuckled involuntarily at the absurdity of the comparison. “I would guess she’s some nobleman’s by-blow, brought up in obscure respectability, a mediocrity from which she’s anxious to depart.”

  The king shrugged. “It seems of little moment where she came from, George. She is here to grace our stage and, mayhap, your bed.” A quizzical eyebrow lifted. “Will ye unseat Kincaid, think you?”

  “If he will be so churlish as to refuse to share her, then I shall have to.” Buckingham smiled pleasantly. “But Nick is not one to keep good things to himself. He has a generous streak.”

  “And the lady …?” queried the king, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair.

  It was an indication that His Majesty was growing bored with the conversation, so Buckingham contented himself with a light laugh, a shrug that expressed the opinion that the lady’s feelings in the matter could only be of a certain nature. In truth, that was exactly what the duke did think.