Venus by Jane Feather Page A

she was halfway across the parlor. She paused with her hand on the door latch. “I suppose, in such an instance, Lady Margaret could turn me out of doors with goodcause.” Her voice was hopeful, her eyes speculative. “Then we would
have
to find an alternative arrangement.”
    “Yes. Newgate,” said Lord Kincaid amiably. “You will end your days where you began them.”
    Polly, always one to accept defeat gracefully, dropped a mock curtsy of acknowledgment, her eyes mischievous.
    “Get you gone,” Nick said. “Or perhaps you are no longer hungry?” The query ensured her instant departure.
    Chuckling, Nick bent to mend the fire. Was she ready? His amusement died as he pondered the question, staring into the flames where the fresh log blazed. She was certainly ready for an introduction to Killigrew. In the last weeks she had proved herself an apt and indefatigable pupil at anything she could be convinced was necessary to the achievement of her ambition. The rough edges had been remarkably easy to smooth, aided by her innate talent for imitation and remarkably sharp powers of observation.
    He had told De Winter that in the teaching of her he would forge some chains, and he had done so. But was she ready for those other links that would bind her to him? Was she ready to accept the logical conclusion of the easy, trusting affection that he had fostered between them in the last month? He had sworn that when he made her his mistress, she would not feel she was entering into a bargain, would come to him out of her own passion. But he had been too busy either teaching her or refereeing between Margaret and her troublesome kitchen maid to spend much time on the gentle art of awakening the power of desire in that peerless breast. Perhaps it was time to bring the masquerade to a close and turn his attention to the forging of those other, stronger chains.
    The door opened to admit Polly, bearing a platter laden with bread, cheese, and a hefty wedge of pigeon pie. She whisked herself into the parlor, glancing guiltily over her shoulder as she closed the door. “There was no one in the kitchen, so I was able to take whatever pleased me,” she confided, coming quite unselfconsciously to sit on the floor before the fire, where he still knelt. She broke into the breadwith eager fingers, laughing up at him. “There was fat mutton and watery broth for supper.” Her nose wrinkled. “I have done well, I think.”
    Nicholas regarded her platter with a degree of astonishment. Obviously she had not exaggerated her hunger. “If you really intend to consume such a quantity, you had best have something to help it down.” He got up and went over to the side table to pour wine.
    Polly accepted the glass with a smile of thanks and took a hearty bite of bread and cheese. “I have forgotten. Is it a marquis who comes after a duke?”
    “Do not talk with your mouth full, moppet,” he reproved automatically, sitting in the elbow chair beside the fire. “Aye, ’tis a duke, a marquis, an earl, a viscount, a baron.”
    Polly conscientiously swallowed her mouthful. “And you are a baron, and Lord De Winter is a viscount.”
    “Correct,” he said with a smile. “Humble members of the peerage. Can you remember who is secretary of state?”
    Polly took a sip of wine. “The Earl of Arlington.” She became aware of his hand playing in her hair and, without undue thought, shuffled backward until she was leaning against his knees. “And the Earl of Arlington and the Earl of Clarendon are at outs, and the king prefers Arlington to Clarendon … I have it right, I think.” She bit into the wedge of pigeon pie, savoring it with great concentration.
    Nick allowed his fingers to drift over the nape of her neck, beneath the luxuriant fall of honeyed hair. Her neck bent responsively beneath the caress, and he smiled in quiet satisfaction, scribbling a fingernail into the delicate groove at the base of her scalp.
    “Tell me some more about Master