"Lord Kincaid does not accompany you this evening?" He took snuff, his eyes resting casually on that exquisite countenance. Not a flicker passed across it.
"It does not appear so, Your Grace," she returned easily. "I understand he had another engagement."
"I cannot imagine an engagement that could take precedence over escorting such beauty," Buckingham murmured. Polly merely smiled. "D'ye care to listen to the music, madame?" The duke offered her his arm. "The king's musicians are most talented."
Polly acquiescing, they made their way into the music room, where were gathered Buckingham's cronies, the king, and my Lady Castlemaine. The king greeted Polly with flattering attention; his mistress, after a speculative, all-encompassing assessment of Polly's appearance, bade her a bored good evening and addressed Buckingham, pointedly excluding Polly from her conversation.
Polly, ingenuously, wondered what she could have done to offend this powerful lady. She moved closer to the musicians, seeming to give them her full attention while keeping her ears pricked for any useful morsels that might come her way, but it was not until the arrival of Lord Clarendon that anything of interest to the spy occurred.
"What is it, Clarendon?" the king inquired testily as the chancellor bowed before him. "We would not be troubled with business this night, and judging by your somber looks, 'tis business you have on your mind."
This remark was greeted with laughter from those around the king. "Indeed, sir," drawled Buckingham, "methinks you should instruct the musicians to play a dirge. 'Twould better suit the chancellor's mien than their present merriment." This unkind sally drew further amusement at the expense of the old man.
Clarendon bowed again stiffly. "I would ask for a moment's private talk, Your Majesty."
"We are in no mood for your pessimism and strictures, Chancellor. We had thought to have made that clear," snapped His Majesty, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. "This is a private gathering we would have in this room, with those disposed to listen to pleasant music and engage in agreeable conversation."
There was nothing for the discomfited Clarendon to do but accept this humiliating dismissal. No sooner had he left than Buckingham said with a contemptuous curl of his lip, "I do not know why Your Majesty continues to tolerate such a dullard. It says much for Your Majesty's generosity that you continue to honor him. But he has outgrown his usefulness."
The king sighed. "I know it, George, I know it. But short of impeachment, what's to be done? He has the support of Parliament."
"He is your minister, sir," reminded Buckingham softly. "Not Parliament's. He holds office at your behest."
The king shrugged. "We will talk no more of it." He
gestured toward the musicians. "Let them play a galliard and we will dance."
Polly spent the entire evening in this select company, and she was under no illusions but that she was invited at Buckingham's request. He danced with her, plied her with refreshment, made every effort to ensure her comfort. She, in turn, trod the razor's edge between coquetry and commitment, so that he could never be sure exactly what she was promising. At the end of the evening, she refused his escort home, and he accepted the refusal with apparent grace.
"You would have me dance to an intricate tune, bud," he said with a wry smile, kissing her hand. "But I'll endeavor to learn the steps."
"You talk in mysteries, sir," Polly said as he handed her into her carriage. "But I must thank you for making my evening so enjoyable."
The carriage lurched forward, and she sank back against the squabs under a wash of exhaustion. Perhaps it would be simpler just to yield, play the part as it had originally been written for her. The thought made her shudder with revulsion. She closed her eyes and imagined how wonderful it would be if she were already in bed, if she did not have to go through the tiresome business of leaving this soothing, swaying darkness, of climbing the stairs, of undressing herself…
"Mistress Wyat." The coachman's insistent voice parted the mists of sleep, and she struggled up, heavy-limbed, to climb out of the carriage, heedless in her fatigue of the correct management of skirts and train. She dragged herself up the stairs, thinking wishfully that maybe Sue had waited up for her and would help her with her clothes. But she had not asked her to do so. Wearily she pushed open the parlor door and was shocked by a stab of dismay at the sight of Nick drowsing by the fire. She wanted to be alone tonight, alone with her exhausted body and overstretched mind, alone to find oblivion for the both, out of which would come the strength necessary for the morrow.
Nick came awake the moment she stepped into the room. "Y'are late, sweetheart." Smiling, he stood up, stretched, and came toward her.
"I had thought you intended staying at home this night." She stepped away from him as he would have reached for her, and headed for the door to the bedchamber.
"I have had warmer welcomes," Nick mused, following.
"Your pardon, but I am awearied beyond thought," she said shortly, reaching to loosen her hair from its pins. "If I do not find my bed instantly, I will be asleep on my feet."
"Then let me aid you." He came up behind her, reaching over her shoulders for the creamy swell of her breasts, dropping a kiss on the top of her head.
She pushed his hands away with an impatient gesture that stunned them both. "I do not wish for that, Nick."
"Now, what the devil is this?" There was anger in his puzzlement, and he spun her round to face him, catching her chin, pushing her face up to meet his scrutiny.
"Oh, why will you not let me go to bed?" she cried, tears of frustration sparkling in her eyes. "I am just tired. I have been playing this wretched game all evening… I think you are right; it would be better if I surrendered to Buckingham-" Now, why had she said that? Why did words just say themselves sometimes?
"Nay," Nick said fiercely. "I'll not have that."
"Why not?" she demanded. "Until recently, you were quite prepared for it."
"That is true." Nick released her chin and ran his hands through his hair in an uncharacteristically distracted gesture. "But I made an error in assuming that I could tolerate it."
"An error in assuming that we could be of service to each other?" Dear God, she had said it. She looked at him, aghast, searching his face for denial. But it was not there. He had gone very still, the emerald eyes shaded with the truth. The angry words of contradiction that she wanted to hear more than anything, this time did not come.
She turned away from him, cold and empty. "So it does
go back to the beginning, then. I did wonder." She shrugged. " 'Tis not important, 1 daresay. But I could wish you had been honest with me." With careful concentration, she began to unthread the freesias from her sleeve lace.
Nicholas searched for words. Had he been less than honest with her? He had intended to be, certainly; had intended to use her as an unwitting tool; but so far back, it was surely no longer relevant. He had not wanted her to draw the correct conclusion, though, to remember that long-ago statement. Now he must somehow find the way to put all right, to repair the shattered trust.
"Look at me, Polly," he said quietly.
Reluctantly, she did so. "Nick, I am too weary for this tonight. 'Tis not important." But the bleak misery in those hazel eyes gave the lie to the words.