Venus

by Jane Feather

  “Come to me, love,” she whispered, “inside me,” desperate in her urgency for the fusion that would make them both whole again.

  Nick stripped, careless of buttons and hooks in his haste, then he gathered her against him and, as she lifted her hips, pressed deep within her. Her body closed around him, holding him within her silken toils; he exhaled slowly, smiling in soft satisfaction. “Such honeyed delight, love,” he whispered, bending to kiss her eyes. “Velvet and honey, you are.”

  “No spice?” she murmured. “Such a concoction sounds a trifle sickly.”

  “There’s salt enough upon your tongue to add savor to marchpane,” he said. “Shall I punish you for that?” Slowly, he withdrew to the edge of her body.

  “Quarter, my lord,” she begged. “Indeed, ’twas a thoughtless impertinence.” Her legs curled around his hips, pulling him toward her again.

  “To respond to compliments in such fashion is, indeed, impertinence,” he said gravely, tightening his buttocks in resistance against the pressure of her heels.

  “I crave pardon, and will accept any penance except this.” Her hips arced as her heels increased their pressure, and Nick chuckled, yielding with a show of reluctance.

  Then the laughter died from his face, and his eyes burned into hers. “As you love me, sweetheart, do not move. I would have you with me, but one wriggle and I shall be lost.”

  She smiled. “And I would have you lost. I shall be with you, never fear.” Slowly, she tightened her inner muscles around him, saw his face dissolve with joy, tried to keep at bay her own tempest the longer to enjoy his pleasure; and then was engulfed herself.

  “God’s grace, but I have missed you.” Nick opened his eyes, his heart slewing against the still rapid beat of the one below. “I have missed being angered by you, as I have missed being entranced.” He kissed the corner of her mouth, the cleft of her chin. “Tell me what you have been doing this sennight.”

  “Apart from worrying?” Polly asked, feeling her heart race again, a light sweat misting her palms. Stage fright, she told herself sternly.

  Nick frowned. “You look worn to a frazzle, love,” “’Tis nothing, now that you are back. I could not sleep, and there has been the playhouse … Oh, what is the time?” She sat up in a panic not entirely feigned. “We are to rehearse this morning.” She sprang to her feet.

  “Is there a play this afternoon?” Nick rolled off the bed, since clearly the moment for softnesses and cuddling was past.

  “Nay, but tomorrow we are to perform Master Dryden’s new play, Secret Love. ’Tis monstrous funny in parts. Melissa becomes Master Florimell.” She struck a pose, beginning to mime the combing of a full peruke. “‘Save you, Monsieur Florimell! Faith, methinks you are a very jaunty fellow.’”

  Nick laughed at the absurdity of her naked femininity and the very masculine swagger she produced. “Does Edward play opposite you?”

  “Aye, as Celadon, my lover. ’Tis very awkward, as he challenges me to fight at one point.” She twinkled mischievously.

  “And how does the fair Florimell avoid such a happenstance?” he asked, much amused, and no longer aware of the signs of strain that he had noticed a minute ago.

  She struck another pose, haughty, one make-believe handkerchief passing through the air. “‘Out upon fighting: ’tis grown so common a fashion, that a modish man condemns it.’”

  Nick roared with laughter. “I will see no more, lest it spoil me for the performance.” He stepped into Polly’s neglected bathwater. “’Tis cold, but I daresay will serve to refresh me. Had you better not dress?”

  “Aye.” Polly went to the armoire. “Will you not come to the rehearsal this morning?” She turned, offering him an apologetic smile. “’Tis just that I fear to lose sight of you again.”

  “I must visit Richard, sweetheart,” he said seriously, splashing water on the back of his neck. “There are matters that bear investigation—”

  “But not today, surely,” she broke in. “And mayhap Richard will come to dine if we send him a message to say that you are released.”

  Nick frowned, saying slowly, “I had thought to go to court this morning. I’ve a need to judge my reception.”

  Polly bit her lip, wondering whether continued pleading would arouse his suspicions. She allowed her shoulders to sag, her head to droop; her lip quivered, but she said nothing, continuing with her dressing.

  Nick’s frown deepened. He had no reason to suspect that this display of unhappiness bravely borne was less than genuine and, as usual, found her impossible to resist. “Very well. We will keep close today, except for Richard. Why do you not send to his house with an invitation to dinner?”

  “And you will come to the theatre?” She turned eagerly to face him, hands clasped, eyes huge and glowing.

  Radiant as a violet after the storm, Nick thought with customary resignation. “Aye, if you wish it. But I think it unkind in you to spoil my first view of the play by obliging me to witness the blunders and the promptings, and Master Killigrew’s irritations and castigations.”

  She danced over to the tub, bending to kiss him. “I will find a way to recompense you, I promise.”

  Nick shook his head in familiar defeat. “Send the message to Richard. But for the love of God, do not write it! A verbal invitation will do.”

  Polly stuck her tongue out. “How do you expect me to improve when I receive so little encouragement?”

  Master Killigrew greeted Nicholas with heartfelt relief. “God’s bones, but ’tis good to see you safe, man. I have been in more than half a mind to cancel tomorrow’s performance.”

  “Why so?” Nick took snuff, hiding his amusement that Killigrew’s relief at seeing him appeared to have more to do with his theatre than congratulation on Nick’s happy release from imprisonment.

  “Why, ’tis Polly! Such an edge of desperation as she has been walking. I have been afeard that she would slip at any moment, and with the first performance of a new play—” He shrugged expressively, confident that his interlocutor would fully comprehend the gravity.

  “She has been greatly anxious,” Nick said, watching the stage.

  “Aye, but ’tis more than that,” Thomas declared. “There has been something else amiss, but she’d not confide in me.” He watched the action critically, then nodded. “But all’s well now, it would seem.” He strode forward. “Polly, we all know what Master Dryden wrote the part of Florimell for you, but you must not let it go to your head! It is still necessary to perform, unless you wish to be bombarded from the

  “You are unjust!” Polly declared, swinging ’round on her mentor. “What would you have me do?”

  Nicholas smiled, listening to the lively exchange. It was as if the last week had never happened. Except that it had.

  “Well met, my friend.” Richard De Winter spoke softly from the gloom of the pit, and Nick turned, hand outstretched in welcome.

  “Ah, Richard, it does me good to see you again.” They clasped hands in a moment that said more than words could. “Did you receive Polly’s message?”

  “Aye.” Richard laughed. “Much garbled with joy, but the meaning was clear.” He turned his attention to the stage, then nodded, much as Killigrew had done. “I see that she is herself again.”

  “Did you notice aught else but uncommon anxiety about her these last days, Richard?” asked Nick.

  Tread softly, Richard reminded himself. “Uncommon anxiety is all-pervasive, Nick. D’ye have a reason for askins?”

  Nick shrugged. “Not really. I daresay Killigrew in his own uncommon anxiety saw more than there was to be seen.” Linking arms with his friend, he drew him into the shadows of the pit, where their whispers would not disturb the rehearsal. “Have you any light to shed, Richard?”

  De Winter shook his head. “Nay, but I am charged with a message—a most kindly message.” He paused, and Nick raised an eyebrow in silent question. “His Majesty bids you attend the levee on the morrow. A small matter of misunderstanding t
o be resolved.”

  “Lord of hell!” Nick raised his eyes to the cupola. “A misunderstanding had me arrested at dawn with great sound and fury! A misunderstanding kept me lodged in the Tower for a sennight!”

  “Softly, now,” Richard advised, laying a hand on his arm. “Let be, Nick. Let the hound snore, and do you smile at the king. No great harm’s done, when all’s computed.”

  Nick seemed irresolute, but slowly he relaxed, accepting the sense of his friend’s words. He looked toward the stage. Polly had suffered no lasting hurt, and neither had he. Better to leave the hound snoring, as Richard said.

  Chapter 21

  “Why such a long face, moppet?” Nick bent to kiss his favorite spot on her neck as Polly sat before her mirror the next morning. “You have been staring into the glass as if ’twas a green-haired fright that you saw. You are quite in looks, I assure you.” He laughed, moving his mouth to her ear, trying to coax her out of the dismal mood that had accompanied her waking.

  “Why must we go to trourt?” Polly demanded, reaching her hands up to close over those on her shoulders, her gaze imploring him in the mirror. “I would have further time alone with you, instead of listening to the chatter and the nonsense and—”

  “You know that I am bidden by the king’s majesty,” Nick said, mastering his irritation at this unreasonable request. “I must reestablish my position at court, Polly, and I’ll not do that by skulking behind doors as if I had aught to hide.”

  “I do not see why you should want a position at court, anyway,” she said with more than a hint of petulance. “It is all such a sham.”

  “A sham in which I have a part to play,” Nick told her brusquely. “Now, make haste. We must leave within the half hour.”

  Polly bit her lip. She could refuse to go with him, of course, and he would not really be able to object. She had not been bidden by the king’s majesty. But it would be insufferable to cower at home, imagining the malicious whisper dropped into his ear, dreading his return lest he should come with the knowledge of her dealings with Buckingham. At least if she was there, she would not live on the razor’s edge needlessly.

  They walked to the palace, the day being crisp and clean, the streets dry, and Nick in much need of exercise in his regained freedom. He left Polly in the Long Gallery, with the chattering throng, and went to the king’s private apartments, as he had been bidden, to wait upon His Majesty during the levee—the elaborate ceremony of his morning toilet.

  King Charles, submitting to the attentions of his barber, greeted Nicholas warmly, calling him through the press of favored courtiers. “Kincaid, dear fellow.” The royal hand was extended for the subject’s kiss. “Devil’s in it, but ye know what rumors can do. Particularly these days. Can’t trust anyone. Can’t think where they came from now, can ye, George?”

  “A word here, a word there, sir,” drawled the Duke of Buckingham, his heavy-lidded eyes resting with seeming casualness on Lord Kincaid’s face. “Sorry as I can be, Kincaid. ’Tis to be hoped you passed not too uncomfortable a sennight.”

  “I have been more comfortable,” returned Nick with a dry, tight smile.

  “And, the incomparable Polly?” Buckingham smiled benignly. “I trust she made you welcome.”

  The king chuckled. “Aye, incomparable, indeed. Y’are a lucky dog, Kincaid, if you can keep her.”

  “I shall do my best, sir.” Nick bowed, waited for a few moments until it became clear that His Majesty had said all he deemed necessary about the unfortunate misunderstanding, then faded into the background. He was angry, and he was puzzled. A word here, a word there. It was no convineing explanation; and what the devil had Buckingham to do with it?

  He found out soon enough.

  Polly stood amid the laughter and the chatter, a smile fixed upon her face, her eyes glazed. Lady Castlemaine knew. Nausea rose, urgent in her belly; she swallowed desperately, hearing again that spiteful little trill, feeling the malevolent eyes, stripping her bare.

  “I trust you found ducal attentions as pleasing and as rewarding as those of a baron, my dear Mistress Wyat?” had been the question, uttered with blatant crudity and in no undertone. It had brought titters from those around; Polly had managed to produce a stare of total incomprehension before turning away. But there was no refuge anywhere, and she dared not leave before Nick reappeared.

  “God’s grace, but you have the mien of a sick cat!” Richard’s fierce whisper came from behind her. “If you ignore it, there will be no sport, and they will let the matter drop. It will be put down as Barbara’s malice. Everyone knows she holds you in enmity. But if you appear guilty as accused, the story will take hold.”

  “But Nick—”

  “He has just come into the gallery. Pull yourself together.”

  Polly put up her chin, smiling a greeting as Nicholas pushed through the crowd toward them. “Was His Majesty pleased to favor you, my lord?”

  Nick gave an acid laugh, although his expression remained blandly smiling. “He was pleased to bid me welcome, and trust that I did not suffer too much discomfort as a result of this misunderstanding whose genesis he cannot even remember.”

  “Then ’tis over,” Richard said swiftly. “Nothing will be gained by angry brooding.”

  “Ah, my Lord Kincaid. Pray accept my congratulations on your happy deliverance.” Barbara Palmer’s tinsel voice shimmered in the air, and Polly felt herself again in the grip of that numbing, poisonous spider’s bite. Nick made some careless response that made light of the incident, and the countess’s laugh trilled. “How stoic you are, my lord.” Her eyes turned to the frozen Polly. “Not so your mistress, I fear. She appeared to lose faith in your eventual release. But then, a wise woman always looks to her future, does she not, Mistress Wyat? It is always necessary to make provision. One cannot place one’s trust in luck and fortune in this harsh world. And even actors must needs grow old—as must harlots.” She smiled. “’Tis wise to garner the fruit while it is on the tree, is it not? And the Duke of Buckingham’s tree is rich and heavy. I am certain you were well paid for your services. He assures me that they were worth the payment.”

  A swish of satin, a wafting of musk, and the Lady Castlemaine had gone, leaving devastation in her wake. Nick looked at Polly’s white face, then at Richard. Both told, him all that he needed to know at this point.

  “Put your hand on my arm, Polly,” he instructed in an expressionless tone. “We are going to promenade the length of the gallery.”

  “Take me home,” she whispered.

  “Not yet. There are some friends I must greet, and we shall greet them together. Should we happen to meet Buckingham, you will make your curtsy.”

  Polly looked in desperate appeal at Richard, but he merely nodded at his friend’s good sense and fell into step beside them.

  It was the longest half hour that Polly would ever spend. Somehow she managed to keep the smile on her face, even to speak when spoken to, but it was for Nicholas and Richard to maintain the urbane flow of carefree wit that marked the courtier. At the end of the gallery, George Villiers stood, Lady Castlemaine beside him.

  Nick felt Polly stiffen; her fingers on his arm quivered. He tightened the muscle of his arm beneath her hand in encouragement. She found herself curtsying to the duke, felt his eyes linger on her bosom as if in insolent reminiscence. There was a moment under that look when she felt what he would have her feel—soiled by use. Then she remembered that, whatever he might think, Buckingham had not been the victor. She was, in essence, untouched by his violations. Her eyes met his; she smiled in bland friendliness.

  “Good morrow, my lord duke. Lord Kincaid is returned to us, as you see.”

  “My congratulations to you both,” he replied, a hint of admiration lurking in his eyes. “I am most eager to see your performance this afternoon, mistress. ’Tis said John Dry den’s new play is monstrous amusing.”

  “I trust you will not be disappointed, Duke.” Another curtsy, and she turned away, her escor
ts with her.

  They left the palace, having demonstrated to all that any dealings with Buckingham that Kincaid’s mistress may or may not have had during her protector’s absence were accounted of no importance by any of the protagonists. The walk back to Drury Lane was undertaken in silence. At the door of Polly’s lodging, Nick, his face chiseled in stone, turned to Richard. “My thanks for your support. You will understand if I do not ask you within.”

  “I have no desire to be importunate, my friend, but I think you have need of me,” replied Richard easily. “If matters grow heated, clarity may be lost. I believe that I may provide the latter.”

  “Richard is right.” Polly spoke for the first time. “He has been my supporter in all this, and ’tis only right he should bear a part in the explanation.”

  “Very well.” Nick opened the door, gesturing politely that they should precede him. In the parlor, he dismissed Susan, who was setting out the platters for dinner, before saying, “Let me have the truth, Polly.”

  Polly looked helplessly at Richard. “I do not know how to begin.”

  “Then I will tell it,” Richard said. “Pour us wine, child. You may interrupt me if I do not tell it correctly.”

  Nicholas listened to the bald narrative told in De Winter’s unemotional tones. Since Richard did not know of the brothel, or any details of the seven nights, Nick did not hear of them, but what he heard brought an icy, fearsome rage to fill and enfold him. There was no overt sign of it, however. When Richard finally fell silent, turning his attention to the Rhenish in his wine cup, Nick looked at Polly. She was standing by the table, as she had been throughout, her eyes fixed upon him with a painful intensity.

  “Why did you not stop her, Richard?” Nick asked, still looking at Polly.

  “The matter was in full flood before I knew of it,” Richard answered quietly. “But, in any case, I would not have considered I had the right to stop her. To advise, yes, but not to direct.”

  “I would not have admitted anyone’s right to prevent me.” Polly spoke at last. “The matter was between myself and the duke. And it rests there.”