Polly pouted. "I do not care to dine alone."
"Then you must do without your dinner today," was the callous response. Kincaid was not about to be fooled by an aggrieved pout more suited to an overindulged damsel of society's upper echelons than to this hard-schooled wench,
for whom an adequate dinner must at times have been the summit of the day's ambition.
A smile nickered at the corners of her mouth as she accepted this further defeat without protest. "I think I shall go for a walk. I presume there is no one here of whom I must ask leave?" A hint of challenge lurked in her voice.
Nicholas shook his head. "You know full well that you are the mistress here. But I would have you take a care. The streets are not entirely safe."
"You forget perhaps that I am of the streets," Polly reminded. "I know well how to have a care."
Nick frowned. "You no longer look as if you are of the streets," he said. "Your present dress does not fit that part. Walking alone, you could well present an attractive prize to one on the lookout for such spoils."
"Then it is possible that they might be surprised," she countered. "I can employ the language and manners of the gutters as well as any, my lord, should the need arise."
"I cannot imagine why I thought you could not," said Kincaid, shaking his head in mock wonderment. "However, notwithstanding, I repeat: have a care."
"Yes, my Lord Kincaid," she responded meekly, folding her hands, giving him a look of anxious innocence. "I will do just as you say."
Nick paused, knowing he must go, yet utterly seduced by her mischief, and the sensual promise in the glowing eyes. But if he postponed his departure, he would not leave today, and there was a world beyond these four walls, commitments he had made and must honor. "Until this afternoon," he said, turning away from her disappointment before he yielded.
Polly heard the parlor door click on his departure, and sighed. There had been a moment when she had thought he would stay, and the idyll would have lasted one more day. But since it was not to be, she would be wise to make the best of things. It was time to test this new life that had been gifted to her. She was mistress of her own lodgings, answerable to no one, free to go wheresoever she pleased. A day
where there were no tasks to perform, no orders to obey, stretched before her; and the world outside awaited.
She dressed rapidly, putting her pantofles over her pumps to protect them from the slushy streets, wrapped herself in her thick cloak, and hurried down the stairs.
"What time will ye like to have dinner served, mistress?" Goodwife Benson came out of the kitchen as Polly reached the hall.
The question took Polly aback. It was not a matter on which she was accustomed to being consulted, and in the last three days Nicholas had naturally been the one deferred to in such subjects. "Whenever it is convenient," she said.
Goodwife Benson looked at her shrewdly. "It is for you to say when it will be convenient, m'dear."
Polly nibbled her lip. "At noon, perhaps?"
"At noon," agreed the goodwife. "I've a fine pullet for ye, well dressed though I say so myself." She turned back to the kitchen, saying over her shoulder, "Mind how you go, now. The ways are mighty treacherous after the snow."
"I will," promised Polly, in a warm glow at a caring attention hitherto unknown to her.
It did not take many minutes to convince her that walking was not a comfortable mode of progression in present conditions. Where the snow had melted, it rushed down the kennels, carrying filth with it to spill over onto the cobbles, leaving them thick with malodorous slime. Out of the sun, the snow remained in blackened and unsavory drifts, blocking the paths. There were few people on foot, and those there were were frequently bespattered by the mud and muck flung up from heedless horses' hooves and disdainful carriage wheels. But she pressed on doggedly, determined to attain her goal of the Theatre Royal. This time she had no ulterior motive except to look upon the king's playhouse and indulge in the daydreams that were now so close to fulfillment.
It was a short walk along Drury Lane. Just as she reached her destination, a coach, arms emblazoned upon its panels, swept past her to come to a dramatic halt at the theatre steps. A clod of mud flying up from the wheels landed on Polly's
arm, splattering her liberally. In a fury, she assailed the coachman, who was in the act of climbing down from his box, castigating him roundly on his careless driving. Since she chose to do this in language with which the coachman would be familiar, it was not surprising that he should enter the argument in spirited fashion.
"God's good grace! What is going on!" An elegant voice preceded its owner's head, appearing in the carriage window.
"You have a most discourteous coachman, sir," Polly said, switching her accent to one more suitable for discourse with so manifest a gentleman. "He drives his carriage in such a manner that no one is safe on the same street with him, and then has the impertinence to blame his victim!"
George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, was bereft of words for a moment as he took in the ravishing beauty before him. Never had he beheld such a diamond. Indignation glittered in a pair of magnificent eyes-like forest pools, he thought-flushed a perfect complexion with a delicate pink, stood out in every line of a matchless form. At the same time, he noticed that she was well, if modestly, dressed, and she spoke with a lady's breeding. Except that if it had been she berating his coachman, then she knew well how to assume a different accent.
"Your pardon, madame," he managed, swinging open the carriage door, springing lightly to the ground. He bowed. "I pray you will permit me to make amends. If you would direct me to your lodging, I will convey you there myself."
Polly curtsied automatically as she examined the gentleman covertly. He was most magnificent, with three curling ostrich plumes to his hat, dyed red to match his wine-red velvet coat and breeches, a full-bottomed periwig upon his head, diamonds upon his fingers and on the buckles of his shoes. She raised her eyes to his face as she swam upward, and suffered a slight shock. It was not a pleasant face, although the expression was one of studied amiability-hard eyes under heavy, drooping lids; a thin mouth, with more than a hint of cruelty to it, beneath a long, pointed nose that
reminded her of a hawk's beak. It was the face of a cynic and a dissolute, and the examination to which she was being subjected was frankly calculating. Polly quite suddenly wished she were well away from his vicinity.
"There is no need, sir," she replied. "I live but a short distance and would prefer to walk."
"Oh, but you cannot do so," he protested. "Allow me to present myself. George Villiers at your service, madame."
The name meant nothing to Polly, who had never heard the Duke of Buckingham referred to by his family name. She responded with a polite murmur and another curtsy before turning abruptly, walking off down the street.
Buckingham stood motionless, his eyes riveted on the figure until she turned the corner from Drury Lane onto Long Acre. If she lived but a short distance from here, it should not be impossible to discover her address and identity. Such rare beauty would not go unremarked in the taverns and shops. He beckoned to his footboy.
Polly, finding unaccountably that all desire to continue her walk was vanished, returned home by way of Bow Street. The enticing aroma of roasting fowl and a mug of buttered ale before the crackling luxury of her own fireside offered some measure of compensation, and she was sitting before the fire, wriggling her toes in its warmth, feeling completely in charity with the world, when she heard De Winter's voice in the hall belowstairs.
Jumping up, she went to the parlor door, appearing on the small landing as his lordship mounted the stairs. "Why, sir, are you come to visit? Nicholas is gone to his house."