Venus by Jane Feather Page B

that afforded Polly any pleasure. Indeed, this passion for cleanliness struck her as a great nuisance. It was not that she found her present wholesome condition at all distasteful—quite the opposite; it was wonderful not to itch—but such an early rising would rather interfere with her plan for the night. His lordship had left the house in the late afternoon, telling young Tom that he might go to his bed in the little closet off the hall, and that he would be required only to admit his master to the house on his return. Unfortunately, no word had been said as to the hour of that return. It was always possible that a man who would not be required to rise before dawn might well not seek his bed until that hour.
    There was little point in speculation. Cautiously, Polly climbed out of bed, gathering up the precious book, paper, and quill. They would give her some occupation while she waited. Certainly there was little scope for performing her learning task if she did not find light and seclusion somewhere. The tallow candle in the attic had been blown out within minutes of the servants seeking their beds, whether in the interests of economy or rest, Polly was unsure.
    She crept out of the attic, pausing on the landing. The air was filled with the snores and grunts emanating from the opposite attic, where slept the menservants. It was very dark, with no moonshine from the small round window in the eaves, and she trod carefully, once stubbing her toe on an uneven floorboard, only just managing to control her pained yelp.
    The main landing was lit faintly from the lantern burning in the hall below against the master’s return. Polly slipped into the bedchamber with the painted walls and its bright fire and candlelight. She closed the door softly behind her,shivering. It was a cold night, and her smock was thin. The fire invited, and she stretched on her belly before it, paper and quill in hand, the book open at the passage she was to copy. But it proved tedious work, even for one with her enthusiasm, and her eyes grew tired as the light flickered and threw great shadows on the walls.
    When Nicholas, Lord Kincaid, walked into his bedchamber as the Watch were calling the midnight hour, he found Polly asleep over her copybook, her rich honey hair flowing over the curve of arm and shoulder, her cheek delicately flushed with sleep and the lingering warmth of the fire. The fine cotton of her smock clung to the curves of her curled body, the pink and pearly tones of her skin barely masked by the garment.
    He stood looking down at her for a moment until the unbidden onrush of desire had ebbed somewhat. There was such an air of innocence about her, collapsed in sleep over her studying, that he acquitted her of deliberate intent to entrap. He knew the hours Margaret required her servants to keep, just as he knew her frugality. It seemed reasonable enough that Polly should have come into the only room where light and fire were to be found after the imposed bedtime.
    He bent over her, inhaling the scents of the hothouse—soap and rose water and clean linen. There was something immensely appealing about her bare feet, he thought distractedly. They peeped from the hem of her smock, the soles bearing scratches from last night’s journeying, the arches high and narrow; the straight, dainty little toes, their nails cut neatly now, gleaming opalescent in their dirt-free condition. God’s grace! But he must take a grip upon himself!
    “Polly!” He spoke softly, touching the curve of her shoulder, feeling her skin warm beneath the cotton, the soft roundness … “Polly!” He spoke with sharp urgency as if only thus could he keep desire at bay. She stirred, moaned a little, but her eyes remained tight shut, her breathing regular, her body utterly relaxed. Even if he managed to wake her,how was he to get her back upstairs without rousing the entire household?
    With a familiar sense of resignation, Nick got to his feet and pulled the truckle bed