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?"