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."
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.