Venus

Chapter 10

Thomas Killigrew received Lord Kincaid's message while he was at his breakfast, some three days after the shop- ping expedition at the Royal Exchange. It was a message not unlike many the manager of the king's company had received in the past: A nobleman had under his protection a girl desirous of gracing the stage. Would Master Killigrew do him the kindness of seeing the aspirant and judging for himself whether she could be so employed? Lord Kincaid himself ventured to suggest that once Killigrew laid eyes upon her, he would be captivated. This message offered a choice of meeting place-either at the young lady's lodgings, or at the playhouse, where Lord Kincaid would bring Mistress Wyat at a time convenient for Master Killigrew.

Master Killigrew drank deep of his ale. He was on friendly terms with Kincaid, who had a lively wit and, while he eschewed the ultimate extravagancies of the court, could never be labeled a dull dog. The king held him in esteem, although he was by no means one of the favorites-did not put himself out to be so, Killigrew reflected. Not one for the groveling and simpering that marked the truly obsequious courtier. He took pleasure in the play, also; was fast friends with John Dryden, and was presumably well aware of what qualities were indispensable in a female actor. They were not

qualities possessed by all mistresses, although they were the qualities that made a woman a superlative mistress, Tom thought on a sardonic chuckle. Those qualities had led their owners into many a noble bedchamber; in more than a few instances, to the altar and a countess's coronet.

He pondered his response before deciding that he would see the girl on her own ground first. The stage could terrify a novice initially. If he saw any promise in her, then he would try her out on the boards. A message to the effect that Master Killigrew would do himself the honor of waiting upon Lord Kincaid and his protegee at three in that afternoon was dispatched to the address at Drury Lane.

Nicholas had not told Polly that he had at last taken the long-awaited step. It seemed to him that the less time she had for nervous anticipation, the calmer she would be when the moment came. For reasons based, as he was reluctantly obliged to accept, upon a mixture of pride and love, he would have her appear at her very best. The white damask kirtle and scarlet velvet gown had been delivered with a speed that said much for the skill and application of the sempstress and her apprentices. It was no great work, that afternoon, to persuade Polly into her new finery, although she offered halfhearted protest that, since there was no one to see and admire, it seemed rather a waste.

"And am I no one?" queried Nick, leaning his shoulders against the mantel, watching her preening antics with both amusement and satisfaction.

"Do not be foolish," Polly chided, frowning into the crystal mirror on the tiring table. "Is the collar pinned aright? It is not easy to do for oneself."

"I shall have to hire a maid for you," Nick commented, standing back to give proper attention to the matter of the collar. "If I just move this pin… like so… There, perfect."

"You are a more than accomplished maid, my lord," Polly said easily, assuming that he had spoken in jest. She adjusted the lace frills at the wrists of her smock and smoothed down the fluted pleats of the damask kirtle revealed by the velvet

gown, which hung open at the front, the two halves caught up at the sides.

"I will not always be here to assist at your toilet," he pointed out. "I am certain the goodwife will offer what help she may, but she has other duties. Nay, you have need of a tiring woman."

Polly looked at him, aghast. "I could not possibly! I would not know what to say or how to go on or-"

"Nonsense," he interrupted. "Of course you will. It is simply another part that you will learn to play."

"I learn to play those parts that please me," Polly said. "And it does not please me to play the mistress of servants." She spoke with firm purpose. "I do not mean to be disobliging, Nicholas, and I am sure you intend only to be kind, but it would not suit me at all."

Nick drew his snuffbox out of the deep pocket of his coat and flicked it open with a deft thumbnail. He took a pinch, thoughtful and deliberate. This was obviously one of those issues on which Polly was like to prove intractable; nothing would be gained by pushing the point to animosity.

"Why do you not try the shoes?" he suggested affably.

Polly had noticed that when Nick dropped a potentially contentious subject as abruptly as he had just done this one, it usually meant that he had decided to choose different ground on some other occasion. The subject was certainly not closed. It was a tactic that left the opposition in an uneasy position, since one could not continue to press a point when no argument was offered, yet dropping the issue, under even such passive compulsion, smacked uncomfortably of concession. But there was nothing to be done. She turned her attention to the high-heeled shoes.

"They require practice," Nicholas comforted as she teetered precariously around the room. "In ten minutes I guarantee that you will be quite at ease."

Polly muttered doubtfully, but found to her surprise that Nick was right. Practice did make, if not perfect, then a fair approximation of that happy state.

She was demonstrating a very creditable turn in the parlor,

managing to control the volume of her skirts as they swung around her, when the knocker sounded from below. Nick glanced surreptitiously at the watch at his waist. Thomas Killigrew was punctual to the minute. Goodman Benson's voice came from the hall, adjuring the visitor to mind the turn at the corner of the stairs.

"Is it a visitor?" Without thinking, Polly moved into the light from the window. The knowledge that the shaft of afternoon sun would catch the golden tints hidden in the honeyed curls clustering on her shoulders was a subliminal one, yet she possessed it nevertheless.

Kincaid smiled to himself. She was standing very erect, the elegance of her attire set off by the natural grace of her posture. The exciting prospect of an audience other than himself had deepened the glow of her complexion, made, if such a thing were possible, the forest pools of her eyes even more lustrous. Her lips were slightly parted over those even white teeth, and she radiated her own special inner energy that defied all resistance.

It was this latter quality that Killigrew noticed the minute he walked into the parlor. No damsel with die-away airs here, but a young woman with her eyes set upon a prize; every inch of her absorbing her surroundings; intent on ensuring that no opportunity evaded her watchfulness, on ensuring that her responses were those to make the most of every eventuality. It was only after he had assimilated this that the full impact of that extraordinary beauty struck him.

He looked at Lord Kincaid, who had been watching the visitor's reactions with a tiny smile beneath arched eyebrows. "It would be too much to hope that she might have some aptitude, also," Thomas murmured. "God is too sparing of his gifts-and those he has already bestowed…!" He raised his hands in a gesture of one rendered speechless.

Polly had been listening to this exchange in some puzzlement. Now she cast an imperative glance at Nick, and one foot tapped with unconscious impatience.

"Your pardon, Polly." He bowed slightly. "Pray permit me to introduce Master Thomas Killigrew. Thomas, Mistress

Polly Wyat." Then he stood back and prepared to enjoy the play.

Polly was thrown off balance for no more than a second. Then she was sinking into a curtsy, murmuring how delighted she was to make Master Killigrew's acquaintance. Her salutation was answered in kind; then the manager of the Theatre Royal said, "Make your curtsy again, but this time you are making it to one whom you would have as lover if your husband can be successfully deceived."

Polly thought for a minute. This was not how she had imagined her first meeting with this man. Somehow she had thought there would be ceremony, that it would all take place in the hushed glory of the theatre, which she had never yet entered, investing the meeting with all the magic of fantasy. But if this was the way it was to be, then she must adapt.

She imagined herself in a crowded drawing room, her husband standing to one side, Nick, as the prospective lover, bowing before her. Master Killigrew was clearly the audience, so she must ensure that he had the full benefit of her decolletage, the curve of hip when she pointed one delicate toe, and allowed her rear to sink onto her bent back leg. It was a very slow descent, her eyes lowered modestly as she dipped. But once in position, she raised her eyes and looked directly at Lord Kincaid. It was no more than the merest whisper of a glance, since to hold his gaze would bespeak an effrontery that would draw unwelcome notice from those around her. She had no fan, but it was not difficult to mime the unfurling as she fixed melting yet mischievous, inviting eyes upon the chosen one, while she held the position of subjection just long enough to underscore the invitation, and to allow both men full appreciation of her bare shoulders, artlessly tumbled curls, the rise and fall of her semiexposed bosom. Then she was swimming upward, turning her eyes discreetly to one side as if to deny that the exchange had taken place, gliding sideways as if she were moving on to another guest.

"Superlative!" breathed Killigrew. "You have had no experience of the stage?"

"To quote the bard, as far as Polly is concerned: All the world's a stage," laughed Nick. "She rarely loses an opportunity to perform."

Polly colored, imagining a note of reproof beneath the laughter. He had made it clear often enough that it was one of her habits which tended to displease him. "I have not served you such a trick for this age, my lord," she said with frigid dignity. "It is ungallant to refer to matters that I had thought were past."

"You misunderstand, moppet. I was but paying you a compliment on this occasion."

The flush of annoyance faded, the stiffness left her shoulders. "I beg your pardon, sir. I did not mean to jump to conclusions."

Killigrew listened, fascinated. She had the prettiest voice, light and musical, and was giving rein to her emotions quite without artifice, as if there were no one but herself and Kincaid in the chamber. A lack of selfconsciousness was a great gift for an actor as long as it could be channeled. If she was impatient of counsel and direction, however, it would not matter how beautiful her face and form, how natural her talent-and meek and submissive she most definitely was not.

Where had Kincaid found her? he wondered. There was a naivete about her, a curious innocence that belied her position as a kept woman. She was very young, of course, and her speech and manners were not those of one who had been bred in Covent Garden or its equivalent. But the name was unknown to him, so presumably she was not the scion of some impoverished noble family, either. A merchant's daughter, maybe, willing to exchange her virtue for social and financial advancement. Impoverished nobility, genteel tradesmen's daughters, Covent Garden whores, had all found their way to the stage in the last few years, all in search of material or social advancement. Both were available for such a beauty as this one along the path she had chosen, and

indeed, it would be a crying shame to leave such a paragon to the mediocre destiny of a merchant's wife.

"Do you care to accompany me to the playhouse, Mistress Wyat?" Killigrew said now. "I'd like you to read something for me, if you would be so kind."

Polly was about to say that she would be more than willing so long as the words were not too difficult when she caught Nick's eye, reminding her that she must give no indication of her true background. "I am at your service, sir," she said instead, the carefully formal response concealing both the quickening of excitement at the prospect of entering a playhouse at long last, and an apprehensive sinking at the knowledge that the moment had come to put to the test all that she believed she possessed. What if she was wrong, if she had no aptitude, if Master Killigrew rejected her? It was a prospect that afforded a most dreadful void of hopelessness- the void that she had fought so long and so hard to escape. "I will fetch my cloak." She went into the other chamber.

Nicholas picked up his own cloak from the chair in the parlor, slinging it around his shoulders. "You do not object if I accompany you, Thomas?"

"If you think she will not be distracted by your presence," spoke the manager of the king's company, no longer concerned with formal courtesies that were irrelevant to the making of a business decision.

"On the contrary, she will be less apprehensive," responded Kincaid, with a dry smile that encompassed his understanding both of Polly's feelings and of Killigrew's position. "The situation will be quite strange for her, and I would not have her ill at ease if I can prevent it."

Killigrew looked a little surprised. Such gentle concern was unusual in a court where the softer emotions were derided as lack of sophistication, as lack of understanding of the realities of a world where no man could be truly called friend, and only fools put their trust in another's word. The women were as hard-bitten as their menfolk, as quick to take advantage of another's disadvantage, as eager to bring about another's downfall if it would mean their own advancement,

and as unscrupulous as to the methods they used in such work. If Lord Kincaid was going to cast a protective umbrella over his protegee, it would give rise to much comment, and not a little contemptuous amusement.

Nick had little difficulty in guessing the other man's thought processes. He shared them, indeed, and his rational self found his present obsession with the well-being of a seventeen-year-old miss a matter for considerable incredulity. But since he seemed to have little control over his feelings at the moment, he was obliged to accept love's shaft and follow where it led him.

It led him now into the bedchamber, where Polly had been closeted in search of her cloak for an inordinate length of time. He found her sitting on the bed looking like a paralyzed rabbit, hands clasped tightly in her damask lap, eyes gazing sightlessly into the middle distance.

"Perhaps I cannot do it," she said without preamble as he came in, closing the door. "Perhaps I have been mistaken all these years, and I cannot act at all. What will I do then, Nicholas?"

Nicholas reviewed his options rapidly. He could imagine the pit of desolation into which she was staring as the moment of trial loomed. For so long she had seen only one way out of the vicious and complete impoverishment of the destiny she had been dealt. If this way failed, she could at this moment see only a return to that destiny. He could offer her reassurance that he would not permit that, whatever happened in the playhouse; he could be hurt and accusatory at her failure to trust him; or he could put the steel back into her spine by stinging her into a resurgence of her old confidence.

"Are you telling me you mean to cry off?" he demanded, no sympathy in his voice. "For weeks you have made my life wretched with your constant importuning that I arrange a meeting for you with Master Killigrew. You have lost no opportunity to. demonstrate this talent you insist that you have. Am I now to believe that the whole was a sham?"

Polly had stood up in the middle of this speech. The color

ebbed in her cheeks, but her eyes had focused again, her lips were set. She picked up her cloak. "You will see that it was not a sham!" With that, she brushed past him and marched into the parlor. "I am ready to accompany you, Master Killigrew." Without waiting for either of them, she continued her march out of the parlor and down the stairs.

"Mistress Wyat appears to be of a somewhat tempestuous temperament," observed Killigrew, drawing on his gloves.

"Only when provoked," Nicholas responded with a smile. "In general, she is of a most sunny disposition."

They were obliged to follow her impetuous progress along Drury Lane, since she showed no inclination to slow for either of them, and to catch her up would require a hastening of their own speed that was hardly consonant with the dignified lassitude of the courtier.

Polly waited for them when she reached the steps of the playhouse. The march in the cold air had served to clear her head, enabling her to view Nick's intervention in a new light. "That was done deliberately, was it not?" she asked when he reached her. There was a slight smile in her eyes, and when he nodded she laughed. "I beg leave to tell you, my lord, that your tactics are most underhand."

"But most effective," he countered, grinning.

"Aye." She sobered, saying, "I am most grateful… for that, and all else."

"I am amply recompensed," he said softly. That same intensity caught them again, held them in breathless acknowledgement of its force.

Master Killigrew, who had gone up the steps to unlock the great door, turned to see what was delaying them. He saw the naked emotion flickering between them, an almost palpable current. He drew in his breath sharply, then the force receded, freeing the lovers from its grip. Nick gestured courteously to the steps, and Polly came up ahead of him.

The door swung open, and Polly found herself in the king's playhouse. They had entered from Drury Lane by what she would soon call the stage entrance, and stood now in a dark passageway. "The tiring rooms are there." Kil-

ligrew pointed to the left as he pushed through a door ahead. Polly, following him, stood for the first of what would be countless times upon the stage of the Theatre Royal.

She stood and stared. A glazed cupola covered the pit that stretched below in front of the stage; there were boxes, ranged in galleries, to the side and the back of the theatre. She tried to imagine those seats filled. Why, there must be seating for at least four hundred souls. How lonely and exposed one would feel on this tiny, bare wooden platform. She shivered as cold despair threatened again.

Killigrew had gone to one side of the stage, where he picked up a sheaf of papers and began rifling through them. "This scene, I think."

"What play have you in mind?" Nick, with considerable interest, came to peer over Tom's shoulder. "Oh, Flora's Vagaries." He chuckled. "I could not have chosen better myself."

"Why do you not read Alberto?" Killigrew offered the suggestion casually, as if he had not drawn the conclusions that he had about Lord Kincaid and Mistress Polly Wyat. "You will perhaps find it less uncomfortable, Mistress Wyat, if Kincaid plays opposite you."

"I am no actor," Nick demurred.

"You have no need to be. Just read the lines. We will leave the acting to the lady." Killigrew, smiling, crossed the stage to where Polly still stood, taking in her surroundings, seemingly unaware of this exchange. "I will tell you a little about Flora," he said, and she shook herself free of her reverie. "She is a most sprightly young lady, not one to be dominated by circumstances or individuals, and most particularly not by men." He watched her as he drew the word picture of one of the stage's most engaging and daring heroines. "She is the ward of a foolish boor, a lout, who would keep both her and his daughter incarcerated to prevent their falling under the eye of love or lust."

Polly smiled, giving him a look of complete comprehension. Killigrew nodded and continued. "In this early scene, Flora's suitor, Alberto, commits the grave error of telling a

story about the lady that is not entirely to her credit. Flora overhears and treats her would-be lover to a tongue-lashing of some considerable eloquence." He handed her the pages. "Read it through for yourself first."

"May I ask how Alberto reacts to this upbraiding?" Polly nicked through the pages, praying that the words would be easily made out.

"He decides that this is a lady worthy of serious respect." It was Nicholas who answered her. "It is for you to convince the audience that a railing female is not simply a scold in need of bridling, but one who is entitled to object to mockery, and to speak her mind." He took her elbow. "Come, let us go into a corner and read it through together. I have never ventured to try myself in such a matter, and have need of a few moments reflection."

Polly felt such a surge of gratitude that threatened to overcome her already frail equilibrium. But she said only, "By all means, sir. I would welcome the opportunity to familiarize myself with the text."

"I will sit in the pit." Killigrew stepped off the stage into the auditorium, lit by the gray afternoon light filtering through the cupola. "Begin whenever you are both ready."

"Read it for yourself first," Nick instructed in an undertone. "If there is a word you cannot make out, just point to it."

Polly concentrated with frowning intensity on the scrawled pages, her anxiety that she might stumble over the text superseding the fear that she would be unable to act the part. But as she read, she could hear in her head how the lines should sound, could picture Flora-pretty, witty Flora with a sharp tongue and a firm belief that she was second to none. She looked up at Nick with a grin. "I find myself in some sympathy with this lady."

He nodded. "If you are ready, then, let us engage in this duel for Master Killigrew's benefit."

Thomas Killigrew sat forward on the bench as the two came to the front of the stage. One hand rested lightly on the lacquered knob of his cane, firmly planted upon the

floor; his other lay upon the hilt of his sword. He was quite motionless. After three lines he knew he had been offered a female actor who would make the most of the spirited love game that so entranced his audiences. With every vivacious toss of her head, every ringing accusation directed at the hapless Alberto, every provocative movement, she spun a web of excitement and titillation that could not fail to entertain even the most abysmally ill-behaved audiences-and there were plenty of those. Add to that the peerless beauty of face and form, contemplate her in the deliriously provocative breeches parts, and Mistress Polly Wyat was destined for greatness.

"I thank you both," he said at the end of the scene. "I do not think that Nicholas will ever make an actor, I fear." He sauntered across to the stage. "Mistress Wyat, on the other hand…" Pausing, he smiled up at her. She returned the smile with a somewhat vague and distracted air. It was an air with which he was familiar, and of which he approved. It denoted complete involvement in the part she had just been playing. "Do you wish to join the king's company, mistress?"

"Of all things," she replied, with a fierce intensity. "May I?"

"I see no reason why not. You will have to gain His Majesty's approval, of course, but we will not seek that just yet."

"What do you have in mind?" Nicholas, accepting with considerable relief that his brief venture into the thespian arena was over, took snuff.

Killigrew came up onto the stage. "A short spell in my Nursery at Moorfields first. There are skills and practices to be learned, and even a natural talent is the better for honing. Then I will put on The Rival Ladies here. It is one of the king's favorites and provides ample scope for an actor to show to advantage all that she may have to show." He and Nicholas exchanged a comprehensive glance at this. Polly looked between them in some bemusement.

"I do not quite understand. What is your Nursery, Master Killigrew?"

"A training school," he replied. "I put on plays for the people in a theatre at Moorfields. It is not the most appreciative audience, but one that provides valuable experience for a novice. You will learn much-not least how to win distracted and possibly hostile playgoers."

"I would rather start here," Polly said, indicating the theatre around her. "Why can I not learn here the skills and practices of which you speak?"

"Because you would do so at the expense of the experienced actors. They do not care to perform with a tyro, my dear, however talented she may be, or however much she may feel she has nothing to learn."

Polly swallowed this unpalatable statement with a grimace. Nick, though he recognized the justice in the snub, and appreciated Killigrew's need to establish mastery at the outset, felt a stab of sympathy for her discomfiture. "You will have but one chance to win the king's approval, Polly. It is surely wiser to take that chance when you are properly prepared."

"Yes. I understand. I do beg your pardon, Master Killigrew, if I seemed of an overweening conceit." Those great eyes were raised to his face, a tremulous smile hovered on her lips, and Thomas felt an overpowering remorse for his harshness.

He smiled warmly. "No, no, my dear. I did not think that. It is quite natural for you to be impatient of delay. But you must trust me, you know."

"Oh, but I do!" she averred passionately, her hands clasped to her bosom. "I will do whatever you suggest. I am so grateful-"

"That will do, Polly," Nicholas put in hastily, sensing that Killigrew was about to slide into a hypnotized trance under the full force of that melting gaze and the impassioned plea of her penitence.

Killigrew blinked, startled by this interpolation. Polly turned on Nicholas reproachfully. "I meant it! I was not

playing. I am truly regretful if I seemed vain and importunate-except that I do not think I was being."

Nick's lips twitched. "You are a most beguiling jade! You will become accustomed to her tricks, Killigrew. She is possessed of more wiles than a barrel-load of monkeys. You fall for them at your peril, I can promise you."

"I begin to see that," Thomas murmured, stroking his chin. "It clearly behooves me to be on my guard." He chuckled. "I am an old hand at this game, Mistress Wyat, so have a care before you lock swords with me."

"Why, sir, I would not be so impertinent as to hazard such a thing." Polly sank into a deep obeisance, twitching her skirts to one side, bending her head so that the slender column of her neck was presented, bared as the honeyed ringlets fell forward. It was a posture of perfect submission, yet every line of her body radiated a coquettish impudence.

Killigrew gave a shout of laughter. "Ah, Mistress Wyat, I foresee that in the stage curtsy you will excel. It is by far the most important pose for a female actor to master, and you appear greatly proficient already, even without the assistance of a corset. You have had an accomplished dancing master, I gather."

"Most accomplished," agreed Polly, rising gracefully. She cast a covert glance at Nicholas, struggling with his mirth at the idea of a dancing master in the Dog tavern. "My governess was monstrous strict in matters of deportment, sir," she continued blithely. "I shall always be grateful for her care."

Nicholas, having no idea how far Polly's inventiveness would take her if she were allowed free rein, decided that matters were drawing too close to the brink of danger for comfort. The one thing that was abundantly clear was that she was enjoying every wicked minute, and he could almost hear Killigrew's mental calculations as he tried to fit her into some recognizable social background.

"It grows late, Thomas," he said. "And we have taken up enough of your time for one day." He held out a hand. "I am most grateful."

"On the contrary." Killigrew took the proffered hand. "I should thank you."

And no one should thank Polly, Polly thought; but it was only a passing grievance; her elation ran too high for niggardly remonstrance, and if these two wished to congratulate themselves on whatever she had to offer, they had her permission. She would indulge in a little self-congratulation and the heady knowledge of success. She had leaped the void of hopelessness.

Once outside, Nicholas tucked her arm beneath his, remarking casually, "You are going to be well served, I fear, when required to execute the steps of a coranto. Your fictitious dancing master will appear to have been not so accomplished after all."

"Oh, indeed, I trust not, sir," Polly returned, her lips curved impishly as she looked up at him, her face framed in the fur hood of her cloak. "I had made sure you would be a most accomplished dancer! Do not tell me you are not. I had thought such skill necessary for all courtiers."

"So I am to teach you to dance now, is that it? I had never thought to be awarded the title 'dancing master'… or 'monstrous strict governess,' for that matter," mused Kin-caid. "It has a most undignified ring. But I daresay I will undertake that task, as I have undertaken all the rest." He gazed at her upturned face, thinking of all that he had taught her, of the wondrous flair she possessed, in one field at least, for taking those lessons and making their execution her own specialty. It was no longer unusual, when it came to love-making, for him to yield the initiative to the creative impulses of this gay and zestful elf.

Polly's gaze sparkled under the darkening sky, where the evening star glimmered, and she skipped-a joyous involuntary expression-on her high heels as the winter wind probed with icy fingers. "I am going to be an actor. I am!"

"It would seem so," Nick agreed, as calmly as if he were not in a white heat for her, as if his blood were not pounding in his ears, his loins aching, as if the touch of her fingers on his sleeve, the knowledge of the shape of her beside him, had

not set up a chain of impassioned responses that seemed as if they must find physical expression if he were not to ignite with the wanting.

The electric quality of sensual excitement scintillated, and Polly caught her breath, engulfed almost without warning. Her fingers curled around his arm, her body pressed closer to his, her face lifted, lips parted invitingly, eyes glowing, luminous with needy passion.

"God's grace!" Nick stopped abruptly in the frosty lane and stood looking down at her. "Never have I felt such a wanting. I am consumed with desire for you."

"Now," she whispered, insistent, through suddenly parched lips, moving against him, heedless of the darkening street, the ice-tipped wind, the roll of carriage wheels behind her.

Nick dragged himself back from the edge of a madness that would have had him, there and then, yield to the demand she made, to the impulses of his own body. "Make haste!" he said, curt with the effort necessary to manage both of them until they could attain privacy. " 'Tis but a few yards now." His fingers circled her wrist, his stride lengthened, and Polly tripped on her high heels as she stumbled to match his pace.

The door of the lodging was bolted against the encroaching night, and he hammered vigorously upon the knocker. Goodman Benson opened it, his face creased with anxiety. "Is summat, amiss, m'lord?"

"Not in the least, Benson," returned his lordship. "But 'tis cold as charity, and we've need of the fire." Striding past the landlord, still holding Polly tightly, he made for the stairs. "God be praised!" Sighing with relief, he kicked the parlor door shut behind them and swung Polly into his arms.

It was a kiss that seemed to devour her, an embrace that would swallow her. She strained against him, desperate to become one with him, her mouth opened beneath his, receiving eagerly the deep penetration of his tongue as the hard shaft of his arousal pressed through damask and velvet against her thigh. His gloved hands pushed beneath her cloak

to span her narrow back, holding her against him. With an urgent movement, her mouth still locked with his, she unhooked her cloak, throwing it off with a shrug of her shoulders. Her breasts were crushed against the silken brocade of his coat; with another impatient movement, she pulled the neck of her gown lower so that her bosom was bared. Her head fell back on a sigh of abandonment as he released her mouth and bent instead to capture the hard, thrusting nipples, his hands forming a support against which she leant, bent backward, her hair falling almost to the floor, her lower body still pressed to his.

A soft moan escaped her as he nibbled and nuzzled her breasts, bringing that strange tugging deep in her belly, that liquid fullness in her loins so that she moved restlessly against him. The hilt of his sword obtruded with bruising pressure, but she barely noticed it as her flesh, heated under the living flame of passion, yearned for union. Her fingers twined in the auburn head glistening against the white skin of her breast; she spoke his name in urgent plea.

He raised his head to look deep into her eyes, where golden lights flickered in the green-brown depths, gazing up at him in suspended wonder. He laid a hand on her breast, against the jolting of her heart. Then the instant of patience vanished under the spiral of need; with a fine disregard for the delicate material of gown and kirtle, he pulled them from her body, his hands, rough in their vehemence, rending the thin cotton of her smock. Then she was naked, her breath coming in little gasps as she writhed in the hands and beneath the mouth that explored and possessed her, opened her and probed her, bringing the most sweet and piercing pleasure until she was lost in sensate rapture, trembling before him, held in thrall, body and soul, to him who possessed as he worshiped her body with his own.

Nick thought he would drown in her softness, in the fragrance of her skin. Her body's unashamed acknowledgment of the pleasure he was bringing her delighted him and aroused him more powerfully than he would ever have believed possible. He could not take his lips from her as he

branded every inch of her with his kiss, tasted of the eternal richness of her womanhood, felt her shuddering release again, and yet again.

With fumbling impatience, he divested himself of his own clothes, maintaining contact with her body even as he did so, a stroking finger, a brush of his lips, the quick dart of his ambrosia-sipping tongue, while she stood as if robbed of the power of movement or of will until he, too, was naked. Then, with a whispering sigh, she dropped to her knees, offering her own gift as she caressed him with her mouth, enclosed him in her small hand, returned the homage he had paid to her.

When the need for total union became finally invincible, he lowered her to the rug before the fireplace, smoothing a hand over the indentation of her waist, the soft curve of hip, as she lay bathed in the fire glow reflected in the emerald luster of the eyes that consumed her. Then he drew her beneath him, her thighs parting eagerly at the nudge of his knee, the tender, sensitized entrance to her body closing with joy around the throbbing monolith. He pressed deep inside her, lost in his own joy, sinking, plunging into her core, and she rose to meet him with a cry both wanton and wild under the suffusion of excitement that burst upon her, ripped through her, tearing her soul from her body, banishing all sense of self, of place, of purpose. Her hands gripped the corded muscles of his upper arms as she felt his body jarring, shuddering, heard her name on his lips; then they were caught in the wondrous flood of surcease, tumbled, drowned, to be tossed upon the shore of satiation while the tide ebbed.

Nick looked down at her as she lay clasped in his arms, the golden lashes fanned upon the damask cheeks kissed pink with his loving. Of all the wild cards he could have been dealt in the game he had intended to play, the onslaught of love was a rogue he could never have guessed. And the devil of it was that he could not help but thank the dealer-for all that it bode fair to play havoc with the game.