Venus

by Jane Feather

  She ran, gulping the air in great drafts, enjoying the icy scalding as it pierced her lungs. Susan, who as usual had been watching for her from the parlor window, had the door open before she could knock. Polly thanked her and leaned gasping against the newel post until she could get her breath.

  “Bath’s all ready,” Sue said. “My Lord De Winter’s abovestairs, waitin’ on ye.”

  Still somewhat breathless, Polly went upstairs. Richard was standing beside the fire, waiting for her return as he had done for the last five mornings, ever since she had told him of Buckingham’s bargain. He looked at her searchingly. “’Tis done?”

  “Aye.” She nodded and came to the fire, stretching her hands to its warmth. “’Tis done, Richard. He’ll not renege?”

  “God’s grace, no!” Richard caught her chin, tipping it up. “And you, child?”

  “Am no child,” she said with a tiny smile. “But I am whole. The scars will not run deep.”

  His frowning examination continued. She returned the look with candor. After a while he nodded slowly. “It’s well. But I could wish you had stayed for advice before taking the bit between your teeth. Mayhap I could have spared you these last nights.”

  Polly shrugged. “Even had you been able to, Richard, ’twould have taken a tedious long time. This way was speedier, and Nick will be free within the day. Indeed—” An exciting, yet somehow terrifying, thought struck her”—maybe within the hour, and I must bathe. I cannot greet him with … with …” Her hands passed down her body in a gesture expressive of disgust. “And he must not find you here, Richard, at this hour. It will puzzle him mightily.” She began to push him toward the door. “Nothing must arouse his suspicions.”

  Richard resisted the inhospitable pressure of the small hands in his back. “You have Buckingham’s pledge of secrecy?”

  All the light died from the hazel eyes. She shook her head in sudden defeated weariness. “I thought not to ask for it.”

  “Then, if you will heed the-advice of a friend who knows Nick of old, you will lay the whole before him without delay,” Richard said briskly. “It is no great tragedy. He is a man of the world, Polly.”

  “I do not wish him to know,” she said fiercely. “I would not have him share my own hells with the feeling that he was responsible for them. Can you not understand that?”

  Richard sighed. “And suppose he should hear it from Buckingham, or from court whispers? Why do you imagine Buckingham will keep it a close secret? He can have no reasons for doing so.”

  “But by the same token, he can have no reason for not doing so,” Polly pointed out. “I cannot bring myself to tell him, Richard.” She shuddered slightly. “Mayhap when it has faded a little, but not now.”

  She looked wan, fragile, seven sleepless nights etched upon her face, giving that usually vibrant beauty an ethereal appearance. Three afternoons, during this dreadful week, she had performed at the Theatre Royal, and only three members of the audience knew what superhuman effort it had cost her: Thomas Killigrew knew because he alone could read the professional actor; Buckingham and Richard knew. She had come close to breaking, and was still perilously close to the edge.

  Richard decided that he would be unwise to push the issue at present. Her exhaustion, Nick would put down to worry, and maybe, for a few days, they would keep close to this house. Nick would not feel inclined to venture into society immediately, and when he was ready, Polly would perhaps be strong enough to tell him the truth of her ordeal.

  “I will leave you to your bath, then,” he said, picking up his cloak. “An hour or two of sleep would not come amiss, either.”

  Polly helped him with his cloak. “I could not have managed without your strength, Richard,” she said softly.

  He smiled. “You underestimate yourself, my dear. You would have done what you felt you had to, with or without my support.” He bent to kiss her cheek. “Nicholas is a most fortunate man.”

  Nicholas, at that moment, was standing on the parapeted walk outside his prison. He drew his cloak tight against the wind gusting from the Thames. The river ran, gray-brown, below the parapet, a major highway on which the townsfolk went about their business, sparing little attention as they passed beneath Tower bridge for those within the massive gray walls of the Tower itself. Perhaps they looked at Traitor’s Gate, where the green river slime clung to the step, and the water slopped against the portcullis. And if they did so, perhaps they spared a thought for all those who had made the melancholy river journey, to enter this great and gloomy prison through that gate, to leave it only for the scaffold on Tower Hill.

  It was a gloomy thought, but Nick could see little reason for cheer. True, he had not entered the Tower through Traitor’s Gate, but he was as securely held as any, and he still had no concrete charges to defend.

  He turned to look over the other side of the parapet, down into the great court of the Tower, where the distinctive black ravens squabbled amongst themselves, circling and strutting with the self-importance of those who had inhabited this place for longer than any human soul. Even at this early hour, the scene was lively, guards and servants hastening about their business, troops of soldiers responding with well-trained obedience to bellowed orders, heralds and liveried messengers on horseback passing back and forth through the gates. The governor appeared, striding briskly across the quadrangle. He looked up to see his prisoner, and raised a hand in salute.

  Nicholas returned the salute. The governor was a civilized man, one who enjoyed civilized and intelligent company over a fine port, and Kincaid had rarely spent a lonely evening during this sojourn in the Tower.

  “Breakfast’s ’ere, m’lord.” A guard appeared in the narrow entrance to the tower where Nick was housed.

  “I’d have more stomach for it with a deal more exercise,” Nicholas said, but he turned within. A fire burned in the round stone chamber of his jail, a thick quilt and feather mattress furnished the narrow bed, a pile of books stood upon the plank table beneath the small, barred window. There was little discomfort in his conditions, if one did not count the loss of freedom. He met no insult, not even a hint of discourtesy, from his jailers, but they were still his jailers.

  He turned desultory attention to ale and sirloin. Was Polly still abed? It was past seven, but if she had not sought her bed before midnight, then she could well be asleep, preparing herself for the morning’s work with Killigrew, and the afternoon performance. But what could she have been doing in his absence that would have kept her out of her bed into the small hours? Mayhap Richard was squiring her to court, encouraging her to maintain the casual, mercenary front that they had perfected over the months. Whatever happened, she must not be tarred with this unknown brush that painted her protector. Richard would understand that, and act accordingly.

  Nick had received no communication from the outside world, the governor apologizing for orders that prevented this. Neither had he been permitted to send any—even instructions to Margaret as to domestic financial arrangements. De Winter would see that Polly lacked for nothing, of that he was certain, but nothing could assuage the aching fear for her, the desolation of his utter helplessness, He could feel her, smell her, see her, hear her. He could remember, as if he were still living them, the times when she had angered him, exasperated him, then disarmed him; the times when she had entranced him, had transported him to the outermost limits of joy, had brought him laughter and delight such as he had never known. And he wanted to weep with a loss that his prison walls seemed to insist was final.

  “Lord Kincaid?” The ponderous tones of the governor tore him from his reverie.

  “Governor, your pardon. I find myself somewhat distracted.” He turned from the leaping flames and the dancing memories, putting his back to the fire as he greeted courteously the man who held dominion over his immediate circumstances. “Ye’ve some news of the impeachment, mayhap?”

  “On the contrary, my lord.” The governor was beaming. “A messenger has just come from Whiteha
ll with this.” A parchment was extended, the smile broadened. “I’ll be sorry to lose your company, sir, but I can rejoice for ye.”

  Kincaid read the order under Buckingham’s seal for his release, and the dismissal of all charges, stated or yet to be so. “Why?” he asked softly. “It defies comprehension.”

  The governor had no light to shed and, indeed, could not understand why his noble erstwhile prisoner should tarry in questioning. He gestured to an accompanying guard. “Your sword, Lord Kincaid. The carriage awaits you in the court.”

  “Then I’ll thank you for your courtesy and your many kindnesses, Governor.” Nick sheathed his sword, feeling himself whole again, belonging to his own world again; the two men exchanged bows. The governor accompanied Nick to the court, where he entered the same unmarked carriage that, this time, bore him beyond the walls of the Tower, into the familiar streets of freedom.

  Polly’s wrists stung under the kiss of hot water as she sank into the tub before the bedchamber fire. The sensation brought the most unwelcome thought. “Sue, can ye see any marks on my skin?” She stood up in the tub, dripping, peering down at her body. Buckingham’s sport had caused her no worse than occasional discomfort, but she had not had the foresight to worry about a telltale finger bruise, or a scratch of haste and passion—signs that a chaste and lonely seven days should not have put upon her body.

  Sue had been given no details of the nights’ events; she knew only that they had something to do with Lord Kincaid’s disappearance, and it was a secret to be kept guarded with her soul; but she was worldly enough to make a guess at the nature of Polly’s nightly experiences—experiences that sent her, each morning, into hot water, scouring every inch of skin, before she fell into an exhausted sleep for an hour or two. So the request did not cause any exclamations.

  Sue examined the slender figure carefully. “Ye’ve a little bruise on your arm, a scratch here.” She touched beneath a pointed shoulder blade. “Naught else that I can see.”

  “Apart from my wrists.” Polly sat down in the water again, examining the slightly reddened skin. “Mayhap witch hazel will help. ’Tis not too bad, but my lord must not notice.”

  “My lord!” Sue dropped the soap that she was about to hand the bather. “Is he released, then?”

  “I expect him at any moment,” Polly said with perfect confidence. Even Richard had said that a Villiers would not break his word, and somehow, she knew that she had lost her fascination for Buckingham now. He had wanted her, and he had taken what he wanted, proving to himself and to her the extent of the power that she had scorned. He had used her and could now discard her, a cast-off whore of no further interest. He would find fresh challenges, and leave Kincaid and his little actor-harlot to their own devices.

  It was a prognosis with which Polly could find no fault. She was perfectly content to leave Buckingham in possession of the field, if that was what he chose to believe. He had thought to debase her, but he had not succeeded. She knew that, and it was her own knowledge that was all-important. It mattered not a jot what the duke thought.

  But it might matter what Nicholas thought. Polly sank deeper into the tub. She could not imagine how Nick would react. Would he, as Richard said, treat it as pragmatically as he had their plan that she should spy for them from the duke’s bed? Or would he see her as debased? A plaything of that notorious debauched wencher? Used and discarded, and therefore unlovely and unlovable?

  A loud banging at the street door resounded through the house. She heard his voice, his quick tread on the stair, and all such anxieties fled for the present. He was safe, and that was all that mattered.

  She sprang from the tub, running into the parlor, to fling herself, naked and dripping, into his arms as he pushed open the door. “Nick! Oh, Nick!” she sobbed repetitively against his chest, holding him with all her strength, clasping her hands at his back, squeezing tightly. “I have missed you so!”

  For a few moments he just held her, saying nothing as he allowed the feel, the shape, the scent of her to become a part of him again; then, gently, he prized apart her hands at his back and stood away from her, holding her arms wide at her sides. “Let me look at you.”

  “But I am all wet,” she hiccuped on a half laugh, half sob.

  “Why should that prevent my looking at you?” he teased, the emerald eyes devouring her with the hot flame of need, until she thought she would dissolve into his gaze.

  “I said it would be a mistake and you would come back,” Polly whispered, realizing that she must make some comment about this return that was supposed to be a surprise.

  “Aye, so you did.” He pulled her back against him, running his hands down her back, cupping her buttocks, pressing her against him. “I do not know what the devil has been going on, but I intend to discover.”

  Polly arched backward to look up at him, although her lower body remained cemented to his. “But you might stir the waters again,” she objected on a ring of anxiety.

  “If I do not know what lay behind it, love, I’ll never be sure it will not happen again,” he pointed out, kneading the firm, rounded flesh beneath his hands. “Nay, some game is being played, and I must discover it. ’Tis possible Richard will have some inkling. Have you seen him?”

  “Yes, every day,” she said, sliding her hands beneath his coat again, feeling the warmth of his skin against her fingertips. “Must we talk of this now? I have been so afeard for you.” She pressed her lips against his chest as her fingers deftly unfastened the buttons of his shirt.

  “I have not been entirely sanguine, I’ll confess,” he said, his fingers raking through her wet hair. “Why do you bathe at this early hour, moppet? You are not accustomed to doing so.”

  “I have been unable to sleep, and I thought it might refresh me,” she extemporized, reflecting that it was not entirely an untruth. “But what of you? Have you breakfasted? Will you bathe, sleep—”

  “There is but one thing I wish to do,” he interrupted, a changed note in his voice, a purposeful smile playing over his lips. “And I shall not be able to do it, foolish jade, if you catch an ague, standing around in your wet skin on a bitter winter’s morn.”

  “My joy at the sound of your voice would not admit of such mundane considerations,” Polly returned, with a haughty sniff. “And I take it mighty ill in you, my lord, that you should find fault when … Ouch!”

  “Cease your railing, shrew!” Nick swept her up into his arms, the gem-bright eyes laughing down at her mock indignation. “I had thought, after such an absence, to woo you with soft words and tender kisses, but it seems you’d liefer have a tumbling match!” So saying, he strode with her into the bedchamber, tossing her unceremoniously onto the bed.

  Picking up the towel that Susan had left beside the bath, he set to work on Polly’s wriggling body, rubbing her dry until her skin glowed and the blood ran swift in her veins. Laughing and squirming helplessly beneath the hands that lost no opportunity to explore, tickle, probe, that tossed her and turned her as if she had no more resistance than a straw doll, Polly thought of those other hands that had rendered her as helpless as these were doing. But here she was helpless with pleasure, in thrall to the magic of one who knew and cared how to pleasure her. There was no comparison, even if the fundamental act had been the same. She let the thoughts and images slide away from her, sloughed like an outworn snake’s skin.

  “Have I missed anywhere?” Nick mused, hovering over her, towel still in hand.

  “I think you forgot my toes,” Polly responded, wriggling them invitingly. “They are all damp ’twixt and ’tween.”

  Nick grinned. He knew well how sensitive were Polly’s feet. “How remiss,” he murmured, slipping an arm beneath her knees and sweeping up her legs, circling the narrow ankles between thumb and forefinger.

  “No!” Polly squealed as his tongue licked along the sole of each foot, stroking into the high-arched instep. “Oh, you know I cannot bear it!” She thrashed wildly on the bed as the delicious torment
continued, and he took her toes into his mouth, suckling on each one, his thumb massaging her heels and soles, setting up a chain of sympathetic reaction all over her body. It was as if every nerve in her feet was connected to some other part of her. Finally exhausted, she ceased her struggles and protests, abandoning herself to the wickedly skilled arousal, the slow sensitizing of each nerve and pleasure center.

  “Monster!” she whispered, defeated by delight.

  “You asked for it, my love,” he replied in perfect truth, smiling, still holding her legs as he looked down on her flushed face and heavy eyes, the rise and fall of her breasts in response to the thudding of her heart and her swift breath. He moved his hands to the insides of her legs and slipped slowly down their length, spreading them wide as he caressed the tender satin of her inner thighs, approaching with tantalizing delicacy the throbbing cleft, while Polly lay, breathless in expectancy, poised for the touch that she knew would send her surging over the edge to which he had brought her with such demonic knowingness.

  Her eyes implored him, her tongue ran over her lips, her body became as molten wax, a formless puddle on the featherbed, centered only on that nerve-stretched apex. Hot tears of near unbearable delight scalded her cheeks. The muscles in her belly tightened, sending little flutters across the surface of her skin; and then, when there seemed nothing in the world but the tension of expectancy, he touched her.

  Her body leapt as if beneath a burning brand, and she thrummed like a string of a plucked lute. It was as if, after an eternity of denial, she had been given back what she had lost. The loving touch of bodily joy, the turbulent plane of ravishing bliss were hers again.