Venus (12 page)

“I trust she has not made another escape?” Nick queried with a dry smile when Margaret did not immediately answer his original question.

Margaret said frigidly, “As far as I am aware, brother, the girl is in the kitchen. The chapman is here.”

“Make sure she is in the house when I return.” Nick walked to the door. “I shall be dining with friends, but will be back by midafternoon.” He contemplated telling his sister-in-law that she would soon be rid of the thorn in her side, then decided against it. He had no idea how soon he would find suitable lodgings for Polly, and there was no point stirring things up prematurely.

The scene in the kitchen at this point was one unlikely to please the lady of the house, there being for once little evidence of sober industry. Big Rob, the peddler, was paying his quarterly visit, and the contents of his pack—lace and pins and thread, combs and gaudy trinkets—were spread upon the table while the household crowded about like swarming bees, Polly as eager as the rest. The chapman’s visits were always a high point in any household. Even the Dog tavern had been enlivened by them.

Big Rob was a mountain of a man, as his name implied. Bright eyes like raisins in a currant bun gleamed as he flirted with the chattering Susan, who bridled and blushed but showed no disinclination for the play, not even for the smacking kiss he gave her as he went on his way.

“Shame on you, Sue,” Bridget scolded half-seriously. “You go on like that and ye’ll end with a swollen belly.”

Susan giggled and her plump face pinkened. “’Tis only a
bit o’ fun. There’s little enough of it around ’ere. I’ll be careful, never ye fear. I’m no brazen hussy of Covent Garden breeding. No man’s goin’ to ’ave ’is way with me, less’n ’e can offer me a ring.”

Bridget clucked her approval, and Polly buried her head in the pantry, reflecting that these two probably would not draw any distinction between an actor in search of a noble protector and the Covent Garden prostitutes so scathingly described by Sue. It was not a comfortable thought.

But then she thought of those moments in Lord Kincaid’s parlor last evening, before his visitors had arrived. If she closed her eyes, she could feel again the press of his lips, gentle yet so very much more than friendly, upon hers. What had it meant? What did it mean when he looked at her in that certain way? When his eyes took on that deep glow that seemed to penetrate to her very essence? And what did it mean when she felt this strange, hot confusion when he touched her with those caressing strokes of his finger, or looked at her as if he was seeing something of which she was unaware. Then, at other times, he was just briskly instructive, short with her when she moaned and complained about having to stay in this house, demanding, though always patient, in the tasks he would have her master. The contradictions must mean something. He had promised to teach her what she would need to know to impress Master Killigrew and to take her place in her chosen world. He was certainly fulfilling that promise. Surely he must want something in exchange? Indeed, he had said at the beginning that they might be of service to each other. But in what way? He had made it painfully clear that he was not interested in her offers of the only thing she could imagine she had to offer. He could have had her maidenhead at any time he chose outside this house. It was a conundrum.

Lady Margaret sailed into the kitchen at this point, effectively dampening the general exuberance left by Big Rob’s visit. An hour’s idleness had been granted but must now be paid for.

Polly, sent after dinner to polish the brass on the door knocker, and to scrub and hone the front step, shivered in the winter air, deciding that the lady of the house had assigned her this unfriendly task with some deliberation. It was not a day for outdoor work. The sky was leaden, threatening snow, and the wind flogged around the street corner, its rawness penetrating her cloak. The stone of the step was hard and icy beneath her knees. The holystone she was using to scour the step slipped from her numb fingers, and she cursed crossly.

“What in the devil’s name do you do out here?” Nick’s voice came from behind her, sharp with exasperation. He was astride a raking, long-tailed chestnut gelding.

“Nothing that pleases me,” Polly snapped, all memory of kisses and softness vanished under an annoyance and misery now focused on the one who, at this moment, seemed entirely responsible for her present wretched occupation. “Or did you imagine that such a task was by my own choice?” Still kneeling, she twisted to glare up at him, resplendent and warm in his camelot cloak with its gold buttons, and his plumed beaver hat. She rubbed her bare hands together and blew on them, noting his gold-embroidered gloves.

Nick sighed. “In with you; you are like to catch your death of cold.”

“But my task is not completed,” she pointed out with an acid tongue. “The knocker is yet tarnished.”

“Then it must remain so, I fear.” Nick ignored her tone. “Go inside straightway! Wait for me in my parlor. I shall be in as soon as I have taken Sulayman to the stables. Then I have some news for you that may not come amiss.”

He rode off to the stables situated in the lane behind the house, leaving Polly staring after him. He had sounded vexed, but she knew it was not with her for all that he had ordered her inside in the tone he used for kitchen maids. But that look had been lurking in his eyes again, the one he had had last night, just before he kissed her.

Polly shivered under a frigid blast of wind, suddenly deciding
that she could not care in the least about Nicholas, Lord Kincaid, and his conundrums. She had had as much as she could endure of the Lady Margaret’s household, and so she would tell him. And this time, he
would
listen! Picking up the bucket of cold, scummy water, the brush and holystone, she marched into the house, kicking the door shut behind her.

“You cannot have completed the task in such a short time.” Lady Margaret emerged from the drawing room at the violent bang of the door. “How dare you slam the door in that manner!” An angry flush stained her cheeks, and she spoke through compressed lips.

“Go to hell!” Polly muttered, stomping across the hall with her burdens.

“What
did you say?” Unable to believe her ears, the Puritan stared in slack-mouthed outrage.

Polly was cold and stiff, and at the end of her tether with confusion and vexation. “It seems to me that you would have a better chance of hindering the devil’s work if you were to go and join him,” she said, slowly and carefully.

“Why you insolent little whore!” Margaret hissed, her eyes blazing with all the fury of the violated fanatic, her body shaking as she stepped, hand upraised, toward Polly.

Without thought, Polly hurled the bucket of cold, dirty water at the Lady Margaret’s feet.

Nick stepped into the hall just as the water hit the flagstones with a squelching slap, to slurp around the Puritan’s ankles, soaking her shoes and the hem of her petticoat and gown. The tableau was for a second frozen as Lady Margaret stared down in disbelief, stunned by such an inconceivable happening, and Polly, hazel eyes still ablaze with fury, stood motionless, uncertain what to do next.

“Oh, Polly, you shrew!” Nick exclaimed, laughter lamentably quivering in his voice at this amazing spectacle.

“She was going to strike me,” Polly said fiercely.

“I wonder why,” Nick murmured, striding rapidly across
the hall as Lady Margaret returned to her senses with a scream of rage.

“Out of this house!” She took another step toward Polly and slipped in a puddle. Nick’s arm shot out just in time, yanking the enraged woman against him the instant she was about to fall in an undignified heap to the floor.

“’Tis all right, Margaret,” he said soothingly. “Why do you not go to your chamber and change your dress and shoes? Susan can clear up this mess.”

Margaret stared at him, an almost feral look in her eyes. “Never, ever have I been subjected to—”

“No,” he said, still soothing. “Of course you have not, and you shall not be again. I will deal with this, now.”

“There is nothing to deal with!” Polly’s voice shook, but it was clear and strong. “I am leaving.” She marched toward the door.

Nick caught her with his free arm, thus finding himself in the ludicrous position of having both warring parties in his hands. Laughter was threatening to overwhelm him and required every last ounce of self-control to keep submerged. “Yes, you are leaving, Polly,” he said. “But for the moment you will go into my parlor and wait for me.”

“Why? There is nothing to stay for.” Her chin went up, but the hazel eyes were overbright, sheened with tears she would not shed.

Nick spoke gently, realizing that she had as yet no reason to see the funny side of the situation. “As it happens, there is. Just go, moppet, please.” Feeling some of the rigidity leave her, he released her.

Polly regarded him for a second. Then she turned and walked into his parlor, closing the door behind her.

“She’s to be turned off without a character,” Margaret said, trembling with outrage. “This instant!”

“Go to your chamber and change your dress,” Nick said evenly. “You need concern yourself about her no longer. Shall I send Susan up to help you, or should she clean up this mess?”

The need to make a domestic decision of even that small
nature seemed to restore Margaret to some measure of herself. “I will manage, thank you, brother. Do get that … that
creature
off the premises.”

“With pleasure,” Nick murmured to her retreating back. A gleam in his eye, he turned toward the parlor and Polly.

I
n the name of grace, whatever caused that imbroglio?” He closed the door of the parlor and stood leaning against it, regarding Polly’s still figure with laughing eyes. Amusement bubbled in his voice, no longer needing to be kept hidden.

“I told her to go to the devil,” Polly mumbled, still somewhat shocked at the suddenness of her impulse. “And she raised her hand to me … so … so I threw the water.” She looked across at him uneasily. “I did not throw it
at
her, exactly. Just toward her feet.”

Nick’s shoulders were shaking, and her unease vanished under a resurgence of indignation. “It is not funny, my lord. I cannot imagine why you should find it so!”

“Oh, but it is, sweetheart. It was the most richly comic sight to which I have ever been treated! Margaret, standing ankle-deep in dirty water, with that look of unutterable disbelief on her face …” Laughter finally got the better of him, and he gave himself up to its enjoyment.

Polly stared at him as if he had taken leave of his senses. What had just happened meant that she could not spend another minute under this roof, and he did not seem to be in the least concerned. “Oh, stop it!” she cried finally. “I will not have you laughing at me!” Her foot stamped in vigorous
punctuation, and when he showed no sign of a return to sobriety, she flew across the room, her fists pummeling his chest in frustrated rage, the pure flame of anger shimmering in the green-brown depths of her eyes.

“Nay, peace, little shrew!” he exclaimed, catching her hands and pinning them behind her. “I was not laughing at you, I was laughing at what you did.” He smiled down at her flushed, wrathful expression where that lovely soft mouth quivered and confusion stood out in her eyes. “Of course, it
was
quite inexcusable, and I should not find it in the least amusing, but I cannot seem to help myself.”

“I have to leave this house,” Polly said, conscious of how close they were, so close that with her every panting gasp, her breasts seemed about to brush against his chest. Her heart was already racing with the aftermath of her indignant attack, and this proximity, the warm imprisonment of her hands in his, the deep glow flickering in his eyes, were doing nothing to help her catch her elusive breath. “I have to leave,” she repeated, her voice barely audible as she struggled to grasp some strand of reality.

Nick shifted his hold on her wrists, taking them both in one hand, then bringing his now-freed hand ’round to catch her chin. With infinite slowness, he lowered his head to kiss her mouth as he had done last evening, lingering and tender, until the sunshine spread through her again, and the blood danced in her veins.

“Aye,” he said softly. “You must leave here, my flower. But not as a consequence of that tantrum.”

“Why, then?” Her voice sounded cracked and not at all like her own. He still held her, and the imprint of his lips upon hers seemed indelible.

“You know why,” he said, his eyes a burning probe that struck deep within her, questing and finding the truth for them both.

Yes, she did know why. If, as now seemed clear, he would take her to his bed, he would not do it in this house. “But why now?” Still the puzzle remained. “Why would you wait for so long? I have been willing, but you said you did not—”

“I said I did not want a part of the exchange you had in mind,” he interrupted quietly. “I wished to wait until you felt what you feel now.” He brushed a wisp of hair off her forehead. “Do you understand me?”

The bewildering contradictions seemed to be making a pattern; the conundrum offered its solution. Polly swallowed. “I do not quite understand why such a thing should be important to you, sir.”