Nick watched her over the lip of his own goblet, guessing at her thoughts, just as he knew what Richard was thinking. Not only would she jeopardize her own position at court in such an instance, but she would also destroy all possibility of their own plan's coming to fruition.
As if echoing his thoughts, Richard spoke again. "As an actor, Polly, it will be not in your interests to imply that you have eyes only for Lord Kincaid. You will receive many other offers, which you may or may not choose to accept; but if you wish to further your ambition, then you will not wish to give the impression of one who has lost her heart and cannot be approached. There are those who might offer you marriage." His eyebrows lifted. "You would not be the first female actor to marry into the nobility."
Polly struggled to master the stab of dismay at these words. She could not imagine wishing for a protector other than the one she had. But then, it was always possible that Lord Kincaid would weary of her. Why would he not? She had said that first night, when he had put her into the truckle bed in his room and she had first propounded her plan, that once
she was established under his aegis, if he no longer wished to be her protector, then she would be able to find another one. It was the way these matters were conducted, as she had always known.
The idea of marriage was so far beyond her sights, whatever De Winter might say, that she did not trouble to dwell upon the notion. Even if the world was not to know she was a Newgate-born, tavern-bred bastard, she would always know.
She raised her head, smiling, and neither of her companions had an inkling of the effort it cost her. "It is just possible, my lord, that I may be successful enough at my profession to support myself. In which case, I would have no need of a husband and may take only those lovers who appeal to me."
"Let us drink to such an admirable goal," De Winter said easily, raising his glass, exchanging a quick glance with Nick, who merely quirked an eyebrow.
Nick drank the toast, wrestling with his own quite unjustified resentment. Without so much as a word to himself, De Winter had appropriated the task of planting in Polly's head the seeds of her future role. It was a task that Nick thought should lie at his own door, but De Winter was behaving as if Polly were common property.
In a sense she was, he admitted grimly to himself-inasmuch as she was the tool the faction would employ in their conspiracy against Buckingham, she belonged to the group. Clearly, it behooved him to keep his eye on the ultimate goal and concentrate on germinating the seeds planted by De Winter. Becoming sidetracked by emotion would serve no purpose and could, indeed, endanger the lives of them all.
Chapter 9
Iwill not be long absent, sweetheart," Nicholas said, lifting a honeyed lock from where it lay across her breast. "I must return home to discover how matters are progressing with Margaret, and to find clean raiment. It has been three days since I was last seen alive by anyone but Richard, yourself, and the good Bensons."
Polly reached up a finger to trace the line of the finedrawn mouth. "You did send the Bensons' lad with a message, so Margaret will not be afeard tor you." She smiled ruefully. "But I know it must come to an end, for all that I would it did not have to."
"I also." He bent to kiss her, tasting that sweetness that had become so wondrously familiar. "But think not of an ending, only of a beginning." Reluctantly, he pushed aside the bedcover, swinging his legs to the floor. "When I return I will take you shopping. You may harry the mercers like a plague in Egypt and set an army of sempstresses to work, for without a more alluring wardrobe, my flower, you will be ill equipped to face the world of your choosing."
Polly sat up, hugging her knees. Mercers and sempstresses conjured up a most heady image, one that she could not immediately grasp in all its magnificence. Mercers meant the buying of tafieta and velvet, damask and satin; embroidered
petticoats, lace collars and ruffs; girdles and gloves and hose. "I think you should begone, sir, in order that you may return the sooner."
Nicholas gave a shout of laughter to see such joyful calculation in those green-brown eyes. The Newgate-born, tavern-bred bastard was looking upon Elysian fields. "Petticoats of sarcenet," he enticed gleefully. "Nightgowns of wool and velvet; a gown for every kirtle-"
"Oh, begone, do!" begged Polly. "In your absence, I will make some drawings of the gowns I would wish made."
That pulled him up short. "You know what you would like?"
"But of course," she said simply. "If there is paper and quill and inkhorn, I will show you." A smile touched her lips. "It is easier to draw than to write, my lord."
"It requires less learning, perhaps," he said doubtfully, wondering how she could possibly know enough about the elegancies of a lady's dress to have a sufficiently clear picture of her wants to present to a sempstress.
"I learned much when I was under your sister's roof," she explained, grasping with little difficulty the reason for his hesitancy. "And yet more when I could steal away for an hour or so to watch the gentlewomen walking in the Strand. And also the not-so-gentlewomen." An up-from-under look glimmering with mischief accompanied this addendum. "Since I belong to the realm of the latter, it may prove to have been a not unhelpful observation. Their finery appeared unexceptionable. But then, my tastes are but uninformed."
"Somehow, I doubt that," murmured his lordship. "I suspect that there is very little of importance about which you are truly uninformed."
"Oh, my lord, but I must protest. You do me too much honor," she simpered with the most grating titter, batting her eyelashes vigorously. "I feel sure you exaggerate."
Nick tucked his shirt into the waistband of his breeches. "Probably," he agreed, giving provocation its own again. "But you must learn to accept compliments without ques-
tioning, regardless of their sincerity." He fastened his doublet, shrugged into his coat, and adjusted the ruffs at his shirt sleeves. "I am heartily sick of these garments. I do not imagine I shall ever wish to wear them again."
Polly regarded him through narrowed eyes. "I cannot imagine what possible point there could be in paying compliments that are insincere."
"Oh, on occasion a very fine point can be made," he informed her. "It is possible to make a compliment sound like an insult, my love. As you will learn."
" 'Tis not an art I have the least interest in learning." Polly thumped back on the pillows, pulling the quilt up to her nose.
"In that case," declared Nick cheerfully, "there seems little point in a shopping expedition."
"Why do you always have the last word?" Polly wailed, sitting up again.
Nick could not help laughing. "Do not think to score against me, moppet. I have had many more years of experience than you, and my wits are fine-honed."
"But I may hone mine on your steel," she suggested, making an admirably speedy recovery. "I know full well how keen and upstanding that steel can be." Her eyes, gleaming suggestively, invested a seemingly innocent statement with a wealth of innuendo.
Kincaid whistled in soft appreciation. That look, that tone, employed when she delivered some of the deliriously wicked lines penned by the most popular playwrights, would bring the house down. "I predict a great career for you, Mistress Wyat. If someone does not wring your neck first." Crossing to the bed, he lifted her chin to plant a hard kiss on her mouth. "I must dine at home with Margaret, but I will return this afternoon, and we will visit the Exchange."