The waistcoat flew across the room as Susan stood, stunned into immobility by this extraordinary divesting. The high-heeled pumps, under the influence of a vicious kick, arced through the air to crash against the far wall. Polly yanked off her satin breeches and the silk shirt, dropping both to the floor and stamping on them, before pulling off her stockings.
Polly was well aware that the violence she was doing to her clothes was sacrilege. Her richly elaborate costume represented a substantial financial investment for the king's company; technically it was the king's property, and it was a property to be treated with the greatest care. If an actor was required to lie upon the stage boards, sheeting was placed over the bare floor to protect the garments, and mock battles were always undertaken with the greatest caution. However, such considerations carried no weight under a flood tide of temper designed to wash from her the bitter taste of anger and disgust.
"God's good grace!" Nick stood in the doorway, staring at the sight of Polly, stripped to her skin, poised in a rich, vibrant sea of satin and embroidery. Heedless of this ejaculation, she kicked at the discarded breeches.
"Pick those clothes up!" Nicholas closed the door smartly behind him, trying to sort out this astonishing scene.
"I hate 'em!" Polly spat, catching the breeches on a toe, lifting her foot clear of the floor. "I'll not wear 'ern again!" An agile high kick sent the garment soaring through the air.
"That is a matter you may discuss with Killigrew," Nicholas declared. "Pick them up at once! No, not you!" He spun round on Susan, who, with a frightened whimper, had run to the corner of the room, bending to gather up the fallen coat. "Leave it where it is and go downstairs."
The girl dropped the coat to the floor, scurrying from the room like a scared hedgehog.
Nicholas had no idea what could have caused this amazing tantrum, but decided that explanations would have to wait. For the moment, he would deal with the fact itself. "Pick up the clothes, Polly," he repeated quietly, walking over to the sideboard, pouring himself a glass of wine.
"No," said Polly, with another disdainful kick.
Nick turned to face her as she stood, sublimely indifferent to her nakedness, hands planted on hips, head thrown back, defiance and something else lurking in the topaz depths of her eyes. It was the something else that interested him, but he could not get at it until he had dealt with the defiance. "Pick them up, Polly."
It was at this moment that Richard De Winter stepped through the street door to come face-to-face with the panicked Sue at the foot of the stairs. "Good even, Susan," he greeted pleasantly, moving to set one foot on the stairs. "Lord Kincaid is above?"
"Yes… yes, please, m'lord," stammered Susan, the image of the stark naked Polly filling her internal vision. "But I don't think as 'ow 'es receivin'," she gasped, stepping on the bottom stair, barring his progress with her stubby body.
Richard surveyed this courageous stance with a quirked
eyebrow. "If that is so, he may tell me himself, may he not?" he observed equably.
Susan's jaw dropped as she struggled to find some unarguable reason to prevent his lordship's progress. But he was not to be prevented. Taking the girl by the shoulders, he calmly moved her out of his way, saying good-humoredly, "Be off, wench. I'll not intrude where I'm not welcomed, so ye need have no fears." Then he ascended the stairs. At the top, he knocked hard on the parlor door.
Within, impasse still held. Polly started at the knock, but other than that, made no move. Nicholas continued to look at her over the lip of his wineglass. "Who is it?" he called.
"Richard."
"Your pardon, but I crave a moment's indulgence, Richard," Kincaid answered, not taking his eyes off Polly. "Now," he said softly. "Whether you pick up those clothes and put on your nightgown before I bid Richard entrance is a matter for your choice. But pick them up, you will. Make no mistake."
Pride and common sense warred, every engagement played out visibly on the mobile countenance. Nicholas was obliged to school his features with the utmost severity as he watched the battle. The least indication of his inner amusement, and he would lose.
Common sense won. With a muttered "Lord of hell!" Polly bent to scoop up the abused garments, stalking to the bedchamber, her arms full. "You have missed a stocking," Nick pointed out affably. "In the far corner."
Polly flung a Billingsgate oath at him, grabbed up the stocking, and stormed into the bedchamber, the door shivering on its hinges under the ferocity of its closing.
"Pray come in, Richard." Nick went to open the parlor door. "My apologies for the discourtesy in keeping you without."
"Not at all, dear fellow." Richard raised an eyebrow. "Trouble?"
"It would appear so." Nick frowned. "Wine?"
"Thank you. I thought Polly was to be with Buckingham."
"She was. But something has occurred to put her in the devil of a temper."
"If it is anger rather than distress, my friend, it will be the more easily mended," observed Richard, sipping his wine.
"I have the feeling the two are intertwined," Nick said gravely. "But she was in no mood for any kind of reasonable converse. It was necessary to get her attention first."
Richard smiled, spreading the wide tails of his coat as he sat down. "I see. And now you have it…?"
"We may endeavor to dig for the cause," Nick said briskly. He strode to the bedchamber door, calling with clipped authority, "Polly, come out here. I wish to talk to you."
She came out immediately, respectably clad in her nightgown, her hair braided demurely over one shoulder; it was very clear from both expression and posture that the tantrum was over. Indeed, she appeared subdued, if anything.
"Now, what lay behind that unseemly display?" Nick demanded, keeping his tone unconciliatory. "I would not be in your shoes if Killigrew finds that those garments have suffered from such treatment."
Two spots of color pricked on Polly's cheekbones. "Will you tell him?"
She looked very young and vulnerable suddenly, as if defeated by events. Nicholas dropped the pose. "What has happened, sweetheart?" Taking her in his arms, he stroked her back, holding her tightly against him.
"I am so angry with myself!" Polly exclaimed, her voice muffled against his shoulder. "I have ruined everything, and I do not know how to tell you how stupid I have been." Pushing herself away from him, she began to pace the room, rubbing her hands together in angry frustration as she poured out the tale of the evening's events to a silent and attentive audience.
"I ran away," she finished on a note of despair. "I could not carry the play through. Buckingham knew I was afraid.
He knew then I had never had any intention of willingly yielding him what he wanted. So now the plan is destroyed. I am sorry." She looked at the two men, twisting her hands into impossible knots. "I thought I was a better actor than I am, and now we must all pay the price of my conceit."
"There is no need for self-reproach, Polly." De Winter stood up, crossing to the sideboard to refill his glass. "You could not expect to best Buckingham in such a situation."
"But I was overconfident," Polly murmured, glancing at Nick, who still had said nothing. "I deliberately made the invitation irresistible." She bit her lip. "That was why you were so vexed this afternoon, wasn't it?"
"I suppose so," Nick said. "I became afeard suddenly that perhaps you did not fully realize what you were doing."
"And you were right," she said miserably.
"Your performance this afternoon could certainly have been construed as most definite invitation if one felt it were directed at oneself," Richard agreed with a smile. "But you have committed only the faults of youth and inexperience, child. There is nothing to be gained in bewailing."