There was a wickedness to the performance Polly gave that afternoon that did little for Kincaid's peace of mind. She missed no opportunity to flaunt the curves of hip and thigh, the neat turn of her ankle, the soft roundness of her calves- womanly attributes only ever seen in public on the stage. Her asides were delivered to the audience with a pert mischief that brought gales of delighted laughter ringing to the glazed cupola. At the uproarious conclusion, when the
pretty young man was discovered to be endowed with a bosom of definitely female contours, Polly offered her bared breasts to the audience with a gesture of invitation that brought King Charles and his court to their feet on a shout of approval.
"Something more than usual has bitten her this afternoon," Killigrew murmured to Nicholas as they stood in the wings, watching the play. "Not that I have any objections, you understand. It is a supreme performance. Even the king is on his feet."
And George Villiers, thought Nick, realizing that it was for Buckingham that Polly was acting this afternoon. She was issuing an invitation that would entrap any man. If Buckingham already believed that she was well on the way to fulfilling her promises, he would now be convinced of it. He would be slavering this evening, and would meet a light coolness for his pains, even as her costume taunted him.
Nick's unease blossomed into anxiety. Did she really understand how dangerous was this game she played? he thought with a sudden savage stab of anger. At the moment she was behaving as if she played with a harmless fool instead of one of the most powerful and deadly men in the land.
"Methinks they have enjoyed the spectacle!" Laughing, Polly came off the stage, dancing up to the two men, her hair, released from the peruke that had provided part of her masculine disguise, tumbling down her back, adding spice to the wanton provocation of her costume.
"They would need to be something less than men to fail to do so," Nick snapped, looking at her as she stood, bright-eyed with excitement, her shirt still open, revealing her breasts in all their creamy, rose-tipped beauty. She was still as unselfconscious as ever about her body. The thought did nothing to appease him.
"Are you displeased?" Polly asked, puzzled at this unwarranted annoyance.
"God's grace, why should I be?" he returned. "Do up your shirt. I realize such exposure was necessary onstage, but it is hardly necessary now."
Polly gulped, drawing her shirt together. "You are become uncommon prudish, my Lord Kincaid." Her chin went up, and she met the anger in his eyes with her own.
Thomas Killigrew stepped back into the shadows. It was a most interesting exchange, and he could feel some sympathy for Kincaid. It must be galling for a man to see his mistress become the common property of every man who cared to attend the king's theatre, particularly when the mistress in question took such obvious pleasure in the sensation.
"Pray excuse me, my lord. His Grace of Buckingham awaits," Polly was saying frigidly. "I must put up my hair." With a perfectly executed bow, her plumed hat passing through the air in the elegant gesture of an accomplished gallant, she took a mocking leave of her teeth-gnashing lover.
Polly greeted the stolid figure of John Coachman before stepping into the carriage emblazoned with the Kincaid arms. She sat in the darkness, gnawing her lip, trying to find the equilibrium she knew she would need for the hours that lay ahead. Why had Nick snapped at her like that? It was unreasonable that at such a time he should become this acid-tongued stranger. He knew what lay ahead of her. For all that she seemed more relaxed in the part, she still had to overcome the deadly loathing, to rid herself of the slimy tendrils of apprehension whenever she was in Buckingham's orbit. While she laughed and flirted, promised and withheld, she was queasy with fear as she recognized the power of the man with whom she played her reckless game.
George Villiers watched her arrival from the window of the upstairs parlor at the Half Moon tavern. Just what had her performance this afternoon meant? Well, he was about to find out. The time had come for Mistress Wyat to commit herself. He walked to the door, opening it, standing ready to greet his guest as she ascended the narrow staircase.
"My lord duke." Polly greeted him with a bow similar to that she had given Kincaid a short while before-except that this salute was carefully engineered to entice, displaying her figure to best advantage. "I am not late, I trust."
"By no means." Smiling, he invited her into the parlor. "I am honored that you did not stay to change your dress."
"My haste was too great, Your Grace," she responded. "You will forgive such anxiety."
"Rarely have I been more complimented." His gaze ran over her as she stood in the empty parlor, trying to conceal her surprised dismay at the absence of other guests. "A glass of wine? I am sure you are in need of refreshment after that stellar performance this afternoon. You won all hearts, bud."
Polly accepted the compliment with an inclination of her head, the touch of a smile, and took the glass of wine he proffered. "I need not have been anxious about being late, it would seem," she observed carefully. "Your other guests have not yet arrived."
"But did I not say that this was to be a private party?" The duke looked credibly discomposed. "I do beg your pardon if I led you to expect more amusing company than that my own poor wit can provide." He gestured to the supper table. "At least I can assure you that your palate will not go ungra-tified."
Polly's thoughts whirled as she felt the trap closing. If Buckingham was going to force the issue in this private room in a tavern where all ears would have been paid to be closed, then there was nothing she would be able to do to prevent him.
He came up behind her, and she felt his breath on the back of her neck. She started violently as his hand flattened against the curve of her hip outlined by the breeches. "My lord duke-"
"Such formality, bud," he interrupted, his voice low and caressing. "I have a name."
"And I, my lord duke, have no desire for a tete-a-tete," she said, finding that fear could be transmuted to anger with little difficulty under the prod of desperation. "I do not find trickery conducive to intimacy. You invited me to a small supper party, and it was that invitation I accepted. You will excuse me. My coachman is waiting."
"Just as I thought," he said softly. "Let us have done with
games. What do you want, Mistress Wyat? I am prepared to meet your price, if you will but declare it."
"So crude, Your Grace." She lifted a disdainful eyebrow, trying to stiffen her knees as rage flamed in his narrowed, hooded eyes. "Perhaps I am not to be bought."
"Everyone has a price," he said, softly menacing. "I will find yours, make no mistake."
Polly backed to the door. The duke watched her, knowing her fear. He made no attempt to stop her, but as she reached the door, he said gently, "I do not know what game you think to play, wench, but I am a poor sportsman unless it be a sport I enjoy. I do not appear to be enjoying this one, I should warn you."
"I do not know what you mean, sir." Her hand on the latch, escape now secured, Polly's courage returned. "But I accept only those invitations that mean what they say. I do not care to be deceived." On that note of hauteur, she beat a retreat, the flash of Dutch courage carrying her as far as the interior of the coach. Once there, in the swaying darkness, hearing the reassuring pounding of Kincaid's cattle taking her home, fear swamped her anew so that she shook as if in the grip of an ague. Buckingham had declared his intent. Who was she, a puny, insignificant, Newgate-born bastard with a modicum of talent and beauty, to withstand that intent?