Nick thought he would drown in her softness, in the fragrance of her skin. Her body's unashamed acknowledgment of the pleasure he was bringing her delighted him and aroused him more powerfully than he would ever have believed possible. He could not take his lips from her as he
branded every inch of her with his kiss, tasted of the eternal richness of her womanhood, felt her shuddering release again, and yet again.
With fumbling impatience, he divested himself of his own clothes, maintaining contact with her body even as he did so, a stroking finger, a brush of his lips, the quick dart of his ambrosia-sipping tongue, while she stood as if robbed of the power of movement or of will until he, too, was naked. Then, with a whispering sigh, she dropped to her knees, offering her own gift as she caressed him with her mouth, enclosed him in her small hand, returned the homage he had paid to her.
When the need for total union became finally invincible, he lowered her to the rug before the fireplace, smoothing a hand over the indentation of her waist, the soft curve of hip, as she lay bathed in the fire glow reflected in the emerald luster of the eyes that consumed her. Then he drew her beneath him, her thighs parting eagerly at the nudge of his knee, the tender, sensitized entrance to her body closing with joy around the throbbing monolith. He pressed deep inside her, lost in his own joy, sinking, plunging into her core, and she rose to meet him with a cry both wanton and wild under the suffusion of excitement that burst upon her, ripped through her, tearing her soul from her body, banishing all sense of self, of place, of purpose. Her hands gripped the corded muscles of his upper arms as she felt his body jarring, shuddering, heard her name on his lips; then they were caught in the wondrous flood of surcease, tumbled, drowned, to be tossed upon the shore of satiation while the tide ebbed.
Nick looked down at her as she lay clasped in his arms, the golden lashes fanned upon the damask cheeks kissed pink with his loving. Of all the wild cards he could have been dealt in the game he had intended to play, the onslaught of love was a rogue he could never have guessed. And the devil of it was that he could not help but thank the dealer-for all that it bode fair to play havoc with the game.
Chapter 11
The piercing wails rending the air as Nicholas sauntered into Thomas Killigrew's playhouse at Moorfields a week later sounded as anguished as if they were wrenched by the rack. However, experience having taught him that the vigor of Polly's protests tended to bear little relation to the severity of their cause, he made no effort to hasten his step as he strolled down a narrow passageway in the direction of the tiring room, from whence emanated the pitiable cries.
Sounds of hammering and laughing voices came from the stage to his right. A lad, clutching a piece of planking taller than himself, scurried past at an imperative bellow from the scene-setters on stage. Nicholas pushed open the door to the tiring room, where he stood, for the moment unnoticed by its three occupants, surveying the scene.
"Halt an inch more, Lizzie." Thomas Killigrew, perched on the edge of a tiring table, instructed the flushed and flustered tirewoman, who was struggling to tighten the laces of a bone corset behind a furiously complaining Polly.
"It is impossible!" Polly yelped, gripping the back of a chair until her knuckles whitened. "I cannot breathe. You would suffocate me."
"Nonsense," retorted the impervious Master Killigrew.
"A little discomfort is inevitable until you become accustomed to it."
"I will never become accustomed!" She squirmed, twisting her head over her shoulder, peering at Lizzie's busy fingers. "Oh, Nicholas!" Her eye fell on the spectator in the door. "Tell Thomas that he cannot do this. My bones are breaking!" This last emerged on a long-drawn-out wail as Lizzie finally secured the laces.
"Ah, Nicholas, you are well come, indeed." Killigrew, pushing himself away from his perch, greeted the new arrival with visible relief. "Perhaps you can better explain the realities to Polly."
Nicholas regarded the fulminating figure of his mistress. Only the linen of her smock protected her skin from the bone stays, which prevented any curve of her spine, any slump of her shoulders, and lifted her breasts to swell invitingly over the smock's low-cut bodice edged with a teasing scrap of Venetian lace.
"You must wear it," he said. "What you wear beneath your gown is more important than anything you may put atop."
"As I have been saying," interpolated Killigrew. "The corset governs your form, controls the way you move. Without it, your gowns will not sit right, and you will not be able to perform any stage movements correctly. It is particularly vital with the curtsy. Surely you would not wish to spoil the effect of what you already do so well?"
"I will not be able to do anything at all if my ribs are broken and I have no breath," she said, still mutinous, holding her narrowed waist.
Nicholas crossed the room, turned her around, assessing the fit with an expert eye informed by intimate knowledge of the shape beneath smock and corset. "It is a little tight, Killigrew," he pronounced. "It could be loosened somewhat-at least for the first time." Without waiting for agreement, he released the laces himself, not by much, but sufficiently to afford the sufferer considerable relief in contrast.
"I find it hard to believe that you have not been obliged to wear such a garment before," observed Killigrew. "If you had a governess with strict notions of deportment."
"My aunt died of tight lacing-when she was with child," Polly embellished shamelessly. "So my mother would not countenance it. Besides, my parents were of a Puritan turn of mind and did not encourage vanity."
That disposed of that, reflected Lord Kincaid, with some admiration. However, when they were private, it would perhaps be wise to advise such a consummate inventor of the truth that there were dangers inherent in gilding the lily. For the moment he contented himself with a change of subject.
"Do you still intend presenting Flora's Vagaries today sennight, Thomas?"
"If Polly will be so good as to be accommodating," replied Thomas, with a caustic edge. "I do not ask for much."
"Nay, only that I should be squashed like a preserved quince," Polly retorted.
Killigrew raised his eyes heavenward. Nicholas said ap-peasingly, "Put on the gown, sweetheart. You will then see the point in the corset."
Polly could not resist his coaxing smile or the softness of his tone. Having already realized that she was going to be compelled to yield, it seemed niggardly to continue with her waspishness. She offered him a tiny smile, part apology, part complicity, before turning readily to Lizzie, who was shaking out the folds of an embroidered petticoat. The brocaded satin gown that followed it was richer and more voluminous by far than any she had yet worn, and was encumbered by a long train.
She stood for many minutes surveying her image in the glass, not with vanity but with the air of one looking for information. The first thing she realized was that the corset, while restricting in one way, paradoxically freed her in other ways. She had no need to think of her posture, of whether her decolletage was appropriately displayed, of whether her skirts fell in a graceful sweep. The undergarment ensured all of those things. She stepped over to a low chair, feeling the