Venus

by Jane Feather

  “Magnificent!” Polly breathed, taking in the rich black satin with gold arabesques, the glint of diamond, the wink of silver on his shoes, the deep burnished auburn hair falling in heavy luxuriance to his shoulders, to lie in rich contrast against the dark cloth. The emerald eyes danced, seeming even brighter against the somber black and gold of his suit. “You are a very prince.” She stepped across the room, metal to his magnet, quite forgetting Richard’s presence. Placing her palms against Nick’s chest, she stroked the silky cloth with its raised golden decorations, then stood on tiptoe to place her smiling lips against his.

  “A prince should have a princess as consort, not a milkmaid.” Just as Baron Kincaid should have his baroness. The old, unbidden apprehension nibbled again at the edges of her present contentment. Again she quelled it, and fluttered her eyelashes against his cheek in a wicked little caress that brought his nerve endings to prickly arousal.

  “That would depend upon the milkmaid.” De Winter interrupted the play, rising to his feet with a deceptive laziness. “However, you shall descend upon my arm, Polly, not that of your prince.”

  “One must not wear one’s heart upon one’s sleeve,” Polly said with an ironic smile. “But Buckingham knows where mine does not lie.”

  Richard’s eyes met Nick’s across the flower-strewn honeyed head. “Are you uneasy, Polly?” he asked quietly.

  Everyone has a price. I will find yours. Oh, ’twas nonsense to be concerned about a remark made in the anger of chagrin. It had no place in this self-enclosed world, far removed from life’s realities, from the monstrous terrors of a plague-stricken metropolis. In this world where the pursuit of pleasure and the fulfillment of desires of whatever kind were the only object, why would Buckingham concern himself with an old and private thwarting? Nick was right. The coldness would soon dissipate as other interests took over, and she would not have these two concerned about her sinister fancies.

  “Indeed not, Richard.” Polly spoke firmly. “What is there to be uneasy about? In truth, I prefer the duke’s coldness to his attentions. I do not find that familiarity has lessened the repugnance I feel for him.”

  With a smile of sweet innocence, she dropped De Winter a curtsy. “Are you sure, my lord, that you are not paying me too much attention? After all, I arrived here under your escort, and I am as often upon your arm as upon Nick’s.”

  “Jackanapes! You are going to make a very bad end,” Richard declared with feeling, taking her hand and laying it upon his arm. “Strive for a modicum of conduct, if you please.”

  Polly gave him a smile glinting with mischief before glancing over her shoulder at Nicholas, dropping one eyelid in a conspiratorial wink that brought a shout of laughter from him.

  “Be off,” he said. “We will dance the coranto later, if you can remember the steps.”

  “If you, my lord, will promise not to tread upon my toes,” she said, wriggling one bare foot pointedly; on which Parthian shot, she left him still searching for rejoinder, herself well satisfied that she had dissipated that moment of tension.

  Her entrance, as had been predicted, caused no small stir. “What a rustic simplicity, mistress!” trilled Lady Castlemaine. “But one must have the simplicity of mind to accompany such a costume.”

  “Indeed, the least sophistication and one would look perfectly ridiculous,” concurred Lady Frobisher, fanning herself vigorously.

  “You are too kind, my ladies.” Polly sank into a deep obeisance, each movement in the sequence radiating insolence. “I am most complimented that my poor performance should be so convincing.”

  Richard De Winter, shoulders shaking, left her in the vixens’ den, confident that she could hold her own. However, she was not to be left there for long. A liveried footman appeared at her shoulder, bearing the king’s summons.

  Polly, smiling around the circle of ladies, excused herself. King Charles was sitting in a carved chair at the far end of the state drawing room. “I’faith, but ’tis a deuced pretty child y’are,” he declared, radiating bonhomie. “I’ll have a kiss, God save me.” Seizing her hands, he pulled her down upon the royal lap, embracing her with hearty enthusiasm.

  Polly, emerging somewhat breathless from her sovereign’s lusty salute, forced herself to laugh and flutter as if quite overset. In truth, she was a trifle overcome, never having conceived of the moment when she would receive attentions of this intimate nature from England’s monarch. But knowing how easily bored the king could become, she recovered rapidly. Plucking a marigold from her hair, she placed it in his buttonhole with a delicate blush and a pretty smile.

  “A gift in return, sire.”

  The sally earned her another kiss, and when she made a move to rise from his knee, King Charles circled her waist with a restraining arm. “Nay, my bud, I’ll have your company a while longer. Such a sweet weight as it is.” Laughing in great good humor, he took a perfumed comfit from the bowl on the table beside him and popped it between her lips.

  For half an hour Polly sat upon his knee as he plied them both with sweetmeats, and his hands strayed just a little, and he engaged her in a risqué exchange that required all her wits. A circle of admiring courtiers surrounded them, laughing heartily at each sally, complimenting Polly on her wit, her dress, her beauty, in faithful recitation of their king. All the while, Polly was conscious of the darting venom directed at her from Barbara Palmer, Lady Castlemaine, who stood just outside the circle.

  “A consummate performer, is she not, Barbara?” George Villiers took snuff, smiling with a hint of malice at his cousin. “Think you she is enjoying her present position?”

  “How could she not be?” snapped the king’s mistress, betrayed into a display of genuine emotion.

  “You, madame, are a fool if you believe that,” Villiers said lazily. “She cannot wait to be released.”

  “She is a conniving whore!” spat Barbara. “But if she thinks to worm her way into the king’s bed, she must think again.”

  “Fear not, my dear. The king has no intention of any such thing. He has mistresses enough to plague him,” laughed Villiers. “Or so he says to me. A quick and careless tumble, maybe, but only if the jade were eager.” He paused, looking thoughtfully at the scene. “I do not believe she is.”

  Lady Castlemaine regarded him with interest. “What of your pursuit of the milkmaid, George? You were mighty hot upon it, as I recall.”

  Villiers shrugged easily. “I have yet to find the right price in the right currency.” A smile flickered on his lips, a smile that did nothing to lighten his countenance. “But the little trollop shall pay the cost of arrogance in full measure; be assured of that, Barbara. You shall yet enjoy her downfall.”

  Lady Castlemaine shivered slightly at the clear menace in the soft tones. “What has she done to you, George, that you would promise me such a thing?”

  The duke placed his palms together, hinged his thumbs beneath his chin, and reflectively tapped his forefingers against his mouth, his narrowed eyes fixed on the king and the figure upon his knee, swinging her bare feet with apparent insouciance. “With Kincaid’s connivance, the silly child thought to make game of me. For that I shall rub her exquisite little nose in the dirt,” he responded, for once revealing his true colors without adornment. “And I shall ensure that Kincaid knows every detail of his mistress’s degradation. Thus, quite simply, shall I be revenged upon them both.” Then he laughed. “Pray excuse me, cousin.” He bowed and sauntered over to the group around the king.

  “Do you join the hawking on the morrow, Mistress Wyat?” He addressed Polly, who, having just earned her release from the royal embrace, was standing beside the king’s chair, waiting for the nod that would give her permission to leave his presence.

  It was a pleasant enough question; the tone had even a hint of warmth, Polly noticed. But for the moment she had thought only for the fact that the question suited her own purposes. She glanced surreptitiously at Nicholas, who had appeared, it seemed, from nowhere. “I think no, Y
our Grace,” she said. “I am not overly fond of leaving my bed at such an early hour.”

  The duke turned to Nicholas. “And you, Kincaid. Do you leave your bed early enough to join us?”

  Without a flicker, Nick inclined his head. “I cannot imagine what could provide competing pleasure, Buckingham. I shall certainly attend. I’ve a new gerfalcon to fly.”

  The conversation turned rapidly onto matters of falconry, and Polly made her escape, well satisfied with Nick’s response to Buckingham’s goading. Of course, she had provided them with the cues, and with complete intention. She had hoped to discover without the question direct whether Nick would go ahawking in the morning, and she had also hoped to encourage him to do so, since she had every intention of surprising him with her own presence. Buckingham’s question had left him with little option but to respond as he had. The rest was up to her. A little ingenuity and careful timing were all that was required.

  Chapter 17

  Nick woke just before dawn and lay for a minute returning himself to the shape and sense of the daytime world. Polly lay sprawled on her stomach beside him, one arm flung across his chest, her legs tangled up with his. A strand of honey hair tickled his nose. He brushed it aside and ran his hand in a dreamy caress down her back, lingering on the silken curve of her bottom.

  Polly stirred in sleepy arousal beneath the touch, the gently questing finger slipping between her thighs. Her body lifted, moved in an invitation that she was too deliciously languid to articulate. She burrowed deeper into thé pillow, stretching her arms above her head as Nick rose above her, swinging himself over her prone body. Catching up the tumbled ringlets from her neck, he bent to kiss her nape, nuzzling softly, moving his mouth to her ear so that she squirmed in sensual enchantment, lifting her hips as invitation became demand.

  He slipped his hands beneath her, holding her on the shelf of his palms, gliding into her with slow sweetness. He exhaled in deep pleasure to find himself where he belonged, feasting his eyes on the narrow ivory perfection of her back, the sharp points of her shoulder blades that begged for the teasing caress of his darting tongue.

  Polly whispered and moved beneath him, lost in the magical realm where reality and dream were intertwined as the tender benediction of this loving flowed through her, anointing muscle and sinew, thinning her blood, bringing profound peace and languour to every cell in her body.

  Dawn, pink and gray, was filling the easterly casement when Nick reluctantly left his bed. This proposed hawking expedition had somehow lost its appeal beside the competing charms of the still somnolent Mistress Wyat. A smile quirked his lips as he thought of his response to Buckingham’s taunting question the previous evening. Lying in his teeth, he had been!

  He drew the curtains securely around the bed, ensuring the sleeping figure privacy, before pulling the bell rope for his man, who would be awaiting the summons. An hour later, astride Sulayman, a gerfalcon, hooded and jessed, perched on his wrist, he joined the other hunters, milling around on the driveway, awaiting the king’s arrival.

  Polly had lain in the darkened tent of the bed curtains, waiting impatiently for the manservant to cease his bustling as he tidied the chamber, laying out my lord’s clothes against his return from the hunt. At last the door clicked shut on his departure; she flew out of bed, into her own chamber. Susan was asleep on the truckle bed, but she struggled up in sleepy bemusement at the sound of the door.

  “Lor’, what time is it?” She straightened her nightcap, blinking at the naked Polly.

  “Oh, ’tis past dawn,” Polly said hurriedly, opening the armoire: “I need my riding habit.” Pulling out the skirt and doublet of tawny velvet, she tossed them onto the bed, and turned to the ewer and basin. “Damnation, I do not have the time to wash the sleep from my eyes!”

  “What’re ye up to?” demanded Susan, now on her feet, assembling smock and petticoats, stockings and boots for the clearly distracted Polly.

  “I go riding!” Polly said with an exultant laugh. “’Tis time my lord realized that I have learned more in the last week than he gives me credit for … My thanks.” She took the proffered smock, dropping it over her head. “Pass me my stockings, will ye, Sue?”

  “There, that must serve.” It was barely five minutes later when Polly tucked her hair beneath her black beaver hat, adjusted the plume so that it fell in fetching fashion over her shoulder, and drew on her leather gloves. “’Tis to be hoped I do not arrive at the stables in a muck-sweat, for I must run.”

  “Is it mischief ye brew?” asked Susan uneasily.

  Polly threw her a smile as she hastened to the door. “Of a kind; but fret not, I have the matter well in hand.”

  The door closed. Susan shook her head in bewilderment. Life never grew tedious these days, that was for sure.

  Polly hastened to the village. All was quiet at this early hour, and there were few to see and remark upon her impetuous progress as she half ran, skirt gathered over one arm, hat plume bobbing, to the stable yard at the rear of the inn. Nick’s groom would have accompanied his master, she knew, so there was only a stable lad employed by the inn to convince that it was at my lord’s instructions that Tiny was to be saddled, and Mistress Wyat assisted to mount.

  The lad was morose, sleep still in his eyes, and if he thought it strange that one he had seen riding only at the end of a leading rein should now be mounted on his lordship’s spirited mare, he did not consider it his business to question. It was easier and quicker simply to do the job; he was sore in need of the breakfast that even now cooled while he labored.

  Polly had a moment of panic as she urged Tiny out of the yard. Nothing about her position atop this dainty, sweet-stepping creature bore the least resemblance to being mounted upon the piebald. Tiny moved eagerly, sniffing the wind, reacting instantly to the slightest touch on the rein, the least pressure of her rider’s knee, even when these signals were accidental. Polly took a deep breath, forcing herself to relax. As she did so, she felt the change in Tiny, the instant response to her rider’s attitude. The mare lengthened her stride as if settling into a comfortable enjoyment of the exercise. Polly settled down to enjoy herself. There was nothing in the least alarming. How could there be when she and the animal were so much in tune, could communicate with each other so readily?

  She directed the mare into the park, knowing that she would come up with the hunt in the fields beyond the ha-ha, the deep ditch boundary that separated the park from the fields. The quarry that hawks and huntsmen sought was to be found on the flat land bordering the river. Falcons could not be flown in the woods. They must be given uninterrupted view of their prey, and an unhindered flight path.

  She heard voices, clear in the still morning air, as, greatly daring, she set Tiny to jump the ha-ha. The mare gathered herself, sailed over, landing gently on the other side, the whole movement so smoothly accomplished that Polly was barely conscious of the change in motion.

  “You beauty,” she whispered exultantly, leaning forward to pat the long, arched neck. “How could Nick have made me ride that insensate, mindless hulk? No one could learn to ride with such a mount.”

  The hunt came into view when she crested a rise and could look down to the broad stretch of the river, flanked by wide green banks and open fields. Rooks circled above a spinney off to the right, and the sun, mist-wreathed, set the dew on the grass to winking so that each blade appeared jewel-tipped. The richly dressed riders and their elegant mounts made a colorful scene on this misty morning, when the promised heat of the day was for the moment in abeyance, and the land looked new-washed in its fresh greenery.

  Tiny whinnied softly, becoming aware of her own kind and a sport in which she might take part. She increased her speed, but tentatively as if to be certain that her rider was content to have it so. When no restraining tug came on the bit, she broke into a full canter. Polly, after a second of fright because this canter was twice as fast as any the piebald had managed, fell in with the rhythm, found that she was in no dange
r of falling off, and began to relish the dashing picture she was going to present, cantering up to the hunt on her splendid mount, in her elegant habit, insouciant and utterly confident at this equestrian business.

  Thus it was that Nicholas, Lord Kincaid, looking up from securing the jesses of his newly returned gerfalcon, beheld a sight to entrance the most hardened cynic: dainty, silver-gray Tiny cantering across the meadow in the morning mist; upon her back, as firmly seated as if affixed with cement, the ravishing figure of his lordship’s mistress, all smiles and sparkling eyes, her complexion rosy with the fresh air, exercise and excitement.

  “I give you good day, sir,” she greeted him, drawing rein with the lightest touch. Tiny came to a walk, obeying the direction to turn and range herself alongside Sulayman. Polly beamed up at Nicholas, who was staring at her, stunned. “I have decided to join you after all,” she declared to the company at large. “It is such a beautiful morning, is it not? Far too beautiful for lying abed.”

  “Indeed, it is,” the Earl of Pembroke agreed, cheerfully. “Made more so by your presence, madame.” He doffed his hat graciously as he offered the compliment, before turning an experienced eye to her mount. “’Odd’s bones! But that is the prettiest filly! Beautiful lines; Arabian, I’ll lay odds.”

  “Aye,” Kincaid said, finding his voice at last.

  “Ah, my lord, I must thank you for permitting me to ride her,” Polly said swiftly, turning back to Nick with another smile, but this one contained more than a hint of placation and appeal. “I was overjoyed yesterday when you said I might.”

  Nick’s lips thinned as he recalled the conversation in the stable yard. He met her anxious regard in stony silence. There was not a damn thing he could do, not here in the middle of a hunt—a fact on which Mistress Wyat had presumably gambled.

  When it appeared that Nicholas either would not or could not respond, Polly dropped her gaze, turning back to Pembroke. “Pray, my lord, will you show me something of this falconry? I have yet to witness a flight.”