Killigrew and Sir William Davenant,” Polly demanded. “If Master Killigrew manages the king’s company and Sir William the Duke of York’s company, then they must be some sort of rivals?” Suddenly, without knowing why she did, unless it had something to do with the strange, prickly warmth spreading through her body, emanating from those wonderfully busy fingers on herneck, she looked over her shoulder at him, and suffered a slight shock. “Why are you smiling in that manner?”
“In what manner?” he asked softly.
Polly frowned in strange confusion. There was a glow in the emerald eyes, an intensity to his expression that set up a tingling response in her own. “It is a little hard to describe. I do not think anyone has ever smiled at me like that before.”
“Mayhap no one has seen before what I see now,” he said, moving a thumb beneath her chin to tilt her face as he brushed a pastry crumb from her lips with his forefinger and bent his head to bring his mouth to hers.
Polly had endured the assault of many a kiss over the last few years, on one occasion even from this man who was now so gently, so sweetly taking her mouth with his own, the tip of his tongue tantalizing her closed lips, the sensitive corners, so that the warmth bathed her like liquid sunshine and her toes curled in delight.
Very slowly, he raised his head, smiling down at the flushed surprised beauty of her. Then the hammering of the door knocker shattered the moment of quiet in which a wealth of meaning lay as yet unsaid but on the verge of articulation.
Nick got to his feet with an exclamation. Apart from the inopportune nature of such an interruption, it was late for passing visitors and the house had been locked up an hour since; he was coatless, wore only doublet and hose as befitted a man beside his own hearth; his sword was abovestairs. He stood listening as the knocker sounded again. Such ah imperative nighttime summons could have fell intent at a time when one could never be certain who one’s friends were, when lies and whispers abounded, conspiracies thrived, and a man could find himself in the Tower on a single word of an enemy who had the king’s ear.
“Hell and the devil, boy, what kept you?” a loud voice, unfamiliar to Polly, boomed from the hall as young Tom finally managed to draw the bolts on the door.
Nicholas smiled and relaxed, saying easily, “Charles can never be convinced that he is not on a parade ground.”
“Is your master at home, lad?” It was Richard’s voice this time. “Be good enough to tell him that he has visitors. Sir Peter Appleby, Major Conway, and myself.”
“I had better go abovestairs,” Polly said, unsure whether her dismay at the prospect had more to do with the abrupt cessation of that wonderful new activity to which Nick had just introduced her, or to abandoning her unfinished pigeon pie.
Nicholas shook his head. “Nay, I would have you stay. You may demonstrate the fruits of my labors of the last weeks.” He strode to the parlor door, flinging it wide. “Richard, Charles, Peter, you are well come indeed. Come you in and feel the fire. There’s wine here. But Tom shall fetch you ale if ye’d prefer.”
“Ale, forsooth,” boomed the major’s parade ground voice. “Lord, but I’m as dry as lenten pease.”
Three men, wrapped in thick cloaks, strode into the parlor, bringing a waft of the cold January night with them in their wind-reddened cheeks and tossed hat plumes.
Polly, unsure what Nick meant by a demonstration of the fruits of his labors, had got to her feet and now stood to one side of the fire, neat and demure in her gray kirtle with its lace collar, hands clasped in front of her.
“Why, good even, Polly,” greeted Richard, smiling.
“Good even, Lord De Winter.” She curtsied gracefully, remembering what Nick had told her of the correct depth to be accorded different social ranks. It was not a kitchen maid’s bob, but the carefully executed obeisance of
“In what manner?” he asked softly.
Polly frowned in strange confusion. There was a glow in the emerald eyes, an intensity to his expression that set up a tingling response in her own. “It is a little hard to describe. I do not think anyone has ever smiled at me like that before.”
“Mayhap no one has seen before what I see now,” he said, moving a thumb beneath her chin to tilt her face as he brushed a pastry crumb from her lips with his forefinger and bent his head to bring his mouth to hers.
Polly had endured the assault of many a kiss over the last few years, on one occasion even from this man who was now so gently, so sweetly taking her mouth with his own, the tip of his tongue tantalizing her closed lips, the sensitive corners, so that the warmth bathed her like liquid sunshine and her toes curled in delight.
Very slowly, he raised his head, smiling down at the flushed surprised beauty of her. Then the hammering of the door knocker shattered the moment of quiet in which a wealth of meaning lay as yet unsaid but on the verge of articulation.
Nick got to his feet with an exclamation. Apart from the inopportune nature of such an interruption, it was late for passing visitors and the house had been locked up an hour since; he was coatless, wore only doublet and hose as befitted a man beside his own hearth; his sword was abovestairs. He stood listening as the knocker sounded again. Such ah imperative nighttime summons could have fell intent at a time when one could never be certain who one’s friends were, when lies and whispers abounded, conspiracies thrived, and a man could find himself in the Tower on a single word of an enemy who had the king’s ear.
“Hell and the devil, boy, what kept you?” a loud voice, unfamiliar to Polly, boomed from the hall as young Tom finally managed to draw the bolts on the door.
Nicholas smiled and relaxed, saying easily, “Charles can never be convinced that he is not on a parade ground.”
“Is your master at home, lad?” It was Richard’s voice this time. “Be good enough to tell him that he has visitors. Sir Peter Appleby, Major Conway, and myself.”
“I had better go abovestairs,” Polly said, unsure whether her dismay at the prospect had more to do with the abrupt cessation of that wonderful new activity to which Nick had just introduced her, or to abandoning her unfinished pigeon pie.
Nicholas shook his head. “Nay, I would have you stay. You may demonstrate the fruits of my labors of the last weeks.” He strode to the parlor door, flinging it wide. “Richard, Charles, Peter, you are well come indeed. Come you in and feel the fire. There’s wine here. But Tom shall fetch you ale if ye’d prefer.”
“Ale, forsooth,” boomed the major’s parade ground voice. “Lord, but I’m as dry as lenten pease.”
Three men, wrapped in thick cloaks, strode into the parlor, bringing a waft of the cold January night with them in their wind-reddened cheeks and tossed hat plumes.
Polly, unsure what Nick meant by a demonstration of the fruits of his labors, had got to her feet and now stood to one side of the fire, neat and demure in her gray kirtle with its lace collar, hands clasped in front of her.
“Why, good even, Polly,” greeted Richard, smiling.
“Good even, Lord De Winter.” She curtsied gracefully, remembering what Nick had told her of the correct depth to be accorded different social ranks. It was not a kitchen maid’s bob, but the carefully executed obeisance of
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