Venus (14 page)

T
he coach and four came to a halt. A strange surge, part terror, part exultation, shuddered through Polly’s slender frame. Nick, feeling it, tightened his hold for an instant before leaning forward to swing open the door. The snow swirled thickly now, caught white and effervescent in the yellow light of the lantern held up by the coachman. Nick jumped out, disdaining the footstep, and reached up to catch Polly by the waist, swinging her down beside him.

“I’il not be needing ye again this night,” he said to John Coachman. “Get you and the cattle to shelter as soon as may be.”

The coachman looked worriedly at the sky. “Has the smell of a blizzard, m’lord.”

“Aye. Well, be off without delay. You’ve not far to go.” He turned to Polly, who was squinting through the snow at her surroundings, her head and shoulders coated with white flakes. “In with you, before you become a pillar of ice.” He put an arm around her waist, urging her to a door set into a timbered, whitewashed wall. The door swung open before he could knock.

“I was wonderin’ whether ye’d make it in such foul weather,” a cheery voice declared. “Fire’s bright, and there’s a good supper waitin’ abovestairs.”

Polly stepped into a small, square hall and found herself the object of scrutiny from a pair of bright black eyes set into a ruddy-complexioned, well-lined face. The scrutiny was interested but far from unfriendly. “This be the young lady, then, m’lord?”

“Mistress Polly Wyat,” Nicholas said formally. “My love, this is Goodwife Benson. She will be looking after you.”

Polly had never been looked after by anyone, except by Prue, way back at the dawn of memory, and even then not with any enthusiasm. She looked blank, searching for an appropriate response. The kindly eyes twinkled as if in understanding.

“Come along a’ me, m’dear. I’ll show ye the apartment m’lord ’as taken for ye.” The plump body turned and bustled up a narrow flight of stairs. “Two nice chambers,” she called over her shoulder. “Clean as a new pin, they be. No vermin in my ’ouse.”

They reached a minute landing, where the goodwife unlatched a solid oak door, pushing it open with a flourish. A neat, paneled parlor was revealed under sloping eaves. A fire sizzled on a stone hearth, and a linen-covered seat ran beneath the low mullioned window. The furniture was plain but highly polished, the hangings and coverings crisply clean and bright. A round table was set with platters, pewter cups, knives, and skewers; the aroma of roasting meat wafted up the stairs.

“And ’ere’s your bedchamber.” Goodwife Benson opened a door in the far wall. Here was a room dominated by a big four-poster with a carved oak tester and rose-red curtains. There was a paneled tiring table with a branched candlestick and a crystal mirror above it, the whole warmed by the cheerful blaze of yet another fire.

Polly was speechless. She was to have two rooms to herself! And such rooms! Her eyes flew to Nicholas, standing behind her, watching her with the enigmatic smile she had come to expect, even though she frequently did not know why he should have it.

“It’s to be ’oped all’s to your satisfaction, mistress,” the goodwife said when Polly remained silent.

“Oh … yes … p-please … th-thank you … indeed, it is,” stuttered Polly.

“Then I’ll see to your supper,” the woman said comfortably. “Ye’ll be sharp-set, I’ll be bound.”

“Indeed we are,” Nicholas said when it became clear that Polly had once again lapsed into muteness. Goodwife Benson bustled out, and he snapped his fingers in front of the bewitched Polly. “Wake up.”

Her eyes focused, and she saw he was laughing at her. “Am I to live here alone?” she managed to ask, still unable to grasp the idea of so much space for one person.

“I’m hoping I may be a frequent visitor,” he said quizzically, unfastening the clasp of her cloak.

“Y-yes, of course, sir,” replied Polly, hearing how absurdly polite and formal she sounded, unable to blame Nick for the ready laughter brimming in the emerald eyes. “Shall … shall you be staying tonight?”

“Well now.” He pulled pensively at his chin, “If I were issued an invitation, I just might be induced to accept it. It being such a dreadful night, you understand? Blizzard threatening …”

Her lips twitched. Peeping up at him through her lashes, she swept him a deep curtsy, sinking to her heel, one toe delicately pointed. “I do beg you will take shelter in my humble abode, my lord. I should never rest easy if I thought you were out in such a storm.”

“I shall be eternally grateful, madame.” A magnificent leg returned her salutation, and Polly, assailed by giggles, lost her balance and collapsed with an undignified thump on the floor. Nick picked her up. “What a lamentable performance,” he chided. “I thought I had taught you to execute a curtsy with more decorum.” Drawing her into his embrace, he pushed up her chin, consuming that ravishing countenance with his gaze, feeling her pliancy under his hands, seeing the image of her body in the eye of memory.

“I want you.” The naked hunger in his eyes and voice
sent laughter scuttling to the four corners of the bedchamber. Then the sound of footsteps next door, the smells of roasting mutton, Goodwife Benson’s cheery summons to table, broke into the charmed circle. “Anticipation must again whet the appetite,” he said with a rueful smile. “And you will be the better for your supper. Lovemaking on an empty belly leaves something to be desired.” He ushered her into the parlor, where a roast of mutton steamed enticingly upon the sideboard and a platter of oysters sat upon the table, ready opened, glistening pearly gray in the candlelight.

He held her chair for her, unfolded a linen napkin on her lap, poured wine into her cup, then took his place opposite. For all the ease of their past companionship it was the first time that she had sat at table in his company. There had never been any question before but that matters between them would be conducted on the terms of tutor and pupil, master and servant. Now Polly felt unaccountably nervous, as if these present attentions were awarded mistakenly and should have had some other recipient than a Newgate brat of unknown parentage. Then she remembered that she was an actor, that she could be whomsoever she pleased. She raised her glass in salutation, her eyelashes fluttering, lips curving delicately.

Nick, absorbing the full impact of this breathtaking performance, was in little doubt as to its cause. He raised his own glass. “Masterly,” he approved. “You know well how to adapt to unfamiliar circumstances. It is a talent that will stand you in good stead in the next weeks.”

Polly sucked an oyster from its craggy shell. The intensity had quite gone out of the occasion. His lordship was speaking in the easy tones he habitually employed, as if those words of passion had not been spoken with such urgency such a short time before. It ensured that she was able to devote her full attention to her supper; under the benign influence of good food, good wine, warmth, and undemanding companionship, all apprehension left her.

Nicholas noted her gradual relaxation with satisfaction. He was far from such a state himself, although his companion
could not possibly guess from his manner at the effort he was exerting to keep his ardor under bridle. It was of the utmost importance to him that the true initiation of this exquisite creature should bear no relation to the brutalities she had endured in the past. He remembered only too clearly her piteous plea that he not hurt her that first evening, when, with the resignation of the accustomed victim, she had ceased her struggles, surrendering herself to whatever new yet inevitable horror awaited her. Tonight she would experience only gentleness as he led her along the sweet paths of pleasure. There would be time enough later for the glorious rough and tumble of lust’s urgencies.

He selected a Katharine pear from the fruit bowl. It was a fruit beloved of King Charles and his queen; one, it was to be assumed, never before tasted by the girl who should, if all went according to plan, shortly find herself moving in those exalted circles. He peeled the fruit, quartered it neatly, and laid it upon her plate, remembering pragmatically that he had not yet educated her palate for that role, and must do so. The reminder, for some reason, cast a bleak shadow. It was the second time the concerns of the conspirator had intruded in such unwelcome fashion when he wished only to think of a loving seduction.

“My thanks.” She smiled with a hint of shyness as she took the offering. “Seldom have I enjoyed such a supper.”

“That was my intention,” he replied softly, rising and coming ’round the table.

She turned in her chair to look up at him as he came to stand beside her. “Is it time?”

The forthright question took him completely aback, until he realized that it was only what he should have expected. Seduction rituals would be quite unknown to this maid, whose depths of experience were on the one hand vast, and on the other pathetically spare. “Finish your pear,” he said, beginning to unpin her hair.

The heavy, honeyed mass tumbled about her shoulders, and he amused himself by running his fingers through its richness, gathering it at the nape of her neck, twisting it into
a thick knot as he bent his head to brush his lips over the fragile column thus revealed. Polly shivered deliciously and found the sensation incompatible with the stolid consumption of fruit. She laid the pear back on the platter, allowing her head to bend beneath the pressure of his mouth, the firm smoothing of his tongue in the groove of her neck.

He cupped the rounded edges of her shoulders, slid his hands forward to mold the shape of her breasts beneath her gown, rubbing gently with his thumbs until he felt the hardening as her nipples rose to press against the fine wool of her kirtle. Polly gave a startled gasp and moved her hands instinctively to cover his, whether to keep them at work or to push them aside was not clear to herself or to Nick.

“Come.” He pulled her chair out from the table, drew her to her feet, turning her to face him. “There are things I would show you.” The pure fire of passion flamed behind the bright green gaze, but his mouth was soft, his hands gentle as he cupped her face and kissed her. Her eyes remained riveted on the face so close to hers, as if only thus could she be certain of missing no nuance of feeling. The mouth against hers curved, and his fingertips brushed her eyelids closed before moving beneath the fall of hair to trace the perfect outline of her ears. Her body tautened beneath the caress, and his little fingers, in instant response, moved enticingly within the shell-like contours as his tongue ran over her lips, demanding entrance. Her lips parted for him, her tongue joining in a tentative dance with his.

Slowly he raised his head, licked the tip of her nose, a salute that brought the hazel eyes wide open in surprise. “Do not look so astonished, moppet,” he said on a husky murmur. “Before very much longer, I shall taste every morsel of your sweetness, drain the last honeyed drop from your body.”

Polly did not know what the words meant, knew only that the soft promise brought pinpricks of fire darting across the entire surface of her skin, a liquid fulness in her loins, a weakness in her belly. She shivered against him, and her
hands moved to her bodice. “Should I take off my clothes now?”

Nick took her hands, holding them away from her body. She was so ingenuously matter-of-fact. He smiled, shaking his head.

“Not this time, my flower. That is a pleasure I wish to take for myself, and in the taking would give to you.”

He appeared to be talking in riddles, Polly thought, but they were riddles whose solution seemed redolent with promise, so she made no demur as he led her into the bedchamber, closing the parlor door behind them with a definitive click. He drew her over to the fire and set the tapestry screen between its heat and the window, shielding the flame from the snow-laden drafts fingering their way through every crack between frame and glass. He moved the candlesticks from the tiring table, placing them at either end of the mantel, so that they threw their soft light onto the hearth, where Polly stood tremulous, watching these preparations, wondering what they presaged.

“Now.” He took off his coat of green broadcloth, and the close-fitting doublet of ivory satin. He came toward her with a lithe, springing step, the gleam in his eyes and the luster of his auburn head caught by the mingled golden glows of fire and candle. “Now we may begin.”

The bodice of her kirtle came unlaced. Polly found herself looking down at his deft fingers as they flew at their work, the square emerald on his left hand, the intricate gold signet ring on his right, winking in the light. He slipped the open bodice off her shoulders, stroking her upper arms as he did so before moving his hands again to her breasts, hidden now by only the fine cotton of her smock. Her breath was coming too fast to catch, and she could feel her skin misting with a light sweat that had nothing to do with the heat of the fire. He stretched the material taut over the soft hillocks so that the pink and pearl of her skin showed against the white, and the deep rose of her nipples stood out, sharply peaked. Polly felt more naked than she had ever felt, even when she had stood before him completely unclothed.

With the same deftness, he unhooked her smock. It followeda the path of her kirtle to cluster at her waist, baring her upper body for the touch of his eyes and fingers. She could feel the fire’s heat now, and the heat that was spreading from her belly, moistening the deep recess of her body, melting her joints and sinews. He held her breasts, one in each palm, as he kissed her again, but this time with greater demand, his fingers lifting her nipples as his tongue probed the velvet cavern of her mouth. Then his hands moved to grasp her waist, his head bent to take their place on her breasts. Polly whimpered with an inexpressible delight as his teeth nibbled their rosy crowns, his lips tugged, setting up a chain of sensations in her belly and between her thighs so that she moaned again and moved between the hands spanning the indentation of her waist.

His tongue dipped into her bosom’s cleft, then trailed upward, painting fire in the hollow of her throat as her head fell back, offering the soft vulnerability. Her own hands gripped his upper arms, fingers curling against the cambric of his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin, the hard ridge of muscle. She found that the material prevented the contact that she now desired, her fingers, hasty, fumbling in their eagerness, tugged at the buttons of his shirt until they flew apart and she was able to push it aside, her breasts now pressing against his bare chest.