Free Venus by Jane Feather Page B

Prue’s potion had worked.”
    “But just think what a fate that would have condemned me to,” protested his lordship. “Bludgeoned to death, and my body thrown into the Thames.”
    A roguish smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Indeed, I would not have wished that. But why can I not meet Master Killigrew, and then learn to read? Or I could sell oranges. I would much prefer it to cleaning silver.”
    “Orange girls do not just sell oranges,” Nick pointed out. “Do they, De Winter?”
    Polly noticed the other occupant of the parlor for the first time. She looked askance at Kincaid. “Lord De Winter knows your history and your ambition, Polly,” he told her. “It is always useful to have friends.”
    “Indeed, it is,” Richard spoke up. “Particularly in the theatre. But Nick is right, you know. If you wish to sell oranges as a means of introduction to the stage, you will be expected to offer your customers more personal services after the performance. You will not else make a living. If you are setting your sights on loftier patrons when you become an actor, you will not want to have sullied yourself with the gentlemen from the pit.”
    “I had not thought of that,” Polly said with a sigh. “And now I am so clean and unsullied, ’twould be a pity to spoilit.” Her eyes, mischievously inviting, sought Nick’s, hoping for some responsive spark.
    “Aye, it would,” he said, disappointingly matter-of-fact, even as he wondered uneasily what lay behind that enchanting look. It was not one he’d seen before; it was neither the blatant come-hither invitation of the tavern wench nor the artlessly impish smile of Polly being herself. “I am certainly not prepared to endure a repetition of this morning’s fuss to get you clean again.” He offered the remark partly in jest, and partly in the hopes that it would cause Polly to change her expression to one a little less beguiling. It did.
    “Then I suppose I had best polish silver.” Polly pulled a comical face that drew an involuntary smile from both men. “How long will it take for me to learn my letters?”
    “That depends on how quick your wits, and how hard you are prepared to work,” Nick said. “Come, let us start.” He sat down at the table, gesturing to the stool beside his elbow chair.
    With her toe, Polly edged the stool closer to Nick’s chair so that when she sat down, his knees were very close to hers. Nonchalantly, she rested her own elbow on the arm of his chair, smiling up at him with an expression of alert eagerness.
    Nick drew in his breath sharply. Unless he much mistook the matter, young Polly was playing coquette with him, for some doubtless dubious reasons of her own. He took her arm and placed it firmly in her lap, observing coolly, “You will not learn to read from my face, Polly. The book is on the table.” He tapped the open page with a forefinger.
    She didn’t seem very adept at issuing invitations, Polly thought with a disconsolate flash. It was a novel situation for her, of course, having never before found herself in the position of wanting to invite masculine attentions; more often than not she was struggling to escape them. There seemed to be a great many things she had to learn in this new life. She turned her attention to the jumble of hieroglyphics on the opened page, her frown deepening as she struggled to followthe pointing finger, concentrating on the quiet, patient voice.
    At the close of an hour, it was very clear to both gentlemen that they had an apt pupil upon their hands. Nick glanced over the bent, honeyed head at Richard, who nodded, then sat up, the languid posture vanishing under a decisive air that Nick recognized well. “Polly, what do you know of the court?”
    Richard’s question took her quite by surprise. It also struck her as a rather stupid one. What could she possibly know of the court? She looked up from the paper where she was painfully copying the letters of the alphabet from Nick’s