Polly dressed rapidly, putting on over her kirtle the daygown that Kincaid had bought for her in the Royal Exchange. It was not an article of clothing worn by kitchen maids-kirtle, cap, and apron being considered quite sufficient-so she had only put it on when specifically instructed by Nicholas to do so. Clearly it was incumbent upon her in present circumstances to wear it. She combed her hair free of the tangles created by the night and morning's activities. Her pins, she remembered, were in the parlor, where Nick had left them last night, so she was obliged to leave her hair to hang loose over the neat lace collar of her kirtle.

The scene that she found in the parlor was one unfamiliar to her. The men she had known hitherto tended to the unkempt and bearded. Nicholas was seated before the fire, a large towel wrapped around his shoulders, his face lost behind a lather mask, while a thin, birdlike man, presumably Goodman Benson, razor in hand, was engaged in drawing a series of swaths through the lather. Polly stood watching, fascinated and amused at the thought of this delicate, ascetic-looking man belonging to the rotund and bustling Goodwife Benson.

"There you are, my lord." Benson spoke in reverential accents as he wiped his lordship's face with a dampened towel before standing back to survey his handiwork with a critical eye. "A little work with the comb, my lord, and I venture to say that ye'd be fit to attend court." Suiting action to words, he plied a comb vigorously to my lord's long, flowing locks, while Polly, nibbling on a slice of barley bread liberally buttered, continued to watch. If one's morning toilet was customarily this rigorous and extended, it was no wonder one did not appear belowstairs until the morning was far advanced.

The task was eventually completed to Benson's satisfaction. "I'd be happy to furbish your linen, my lord, seein' as how, on account of the snow, ye'11 be short of anything clean."

"Very true," said his lordship. "I'd be most grateful."

"I've a good velvet gown, if yer lordship would be so

condescending," offered Goodman Benson. It was an offer that was accepted with alacrity, and the erstwhile gentleman's gentleman hurried off, beaming, to fetch the required garment.

"I think you have just made him the happiest man in London," observed Polly, turning back to the table to hack at the pink, glistening ham. "Will you permit him to dress you, also? Fastening one's own buttons must be dreadfully tedious work."

"Don't talk with your mouth full. I have told you before; it is both ill bred and inelegant," was Kincaid's affable response to this sweetly uttered piece of provocation.

Benson returned before Polly could marshal her wits for a further attack, and his lordship was shortly arrayed in a velvet gown, which, judging by its size, was not the property of the goodman. The latter took away all my lord's garments, including his shoes, with the statement that the buckles could do with shining.

"Do you shift your linen every day?" Polly asked in genuine astonishment.

Nicholas took his seat at the breakfast table. "It is customary. Sit down, now. 'Tis most ill mannered to eat standing up." He poured ale into a pewter tankard, drinking deeply, before slicing bread and bacon for himself.

"I have never known it to be customary," declared his companion, sitting opposite him. "And 'tis not ill mannered to eat standing up if you do not have the time to sit down."

"But you do have the time," he reminded. "And will continue to have; just as you will find yourself amongst people with whom it is customary to shift their linen regularly, if not on a daily basis."

"That is a little difficult if one has only one petticoat and smock," pointed out Polly, helping herself liberally to a dish of anchovies and olives.

"That will be remedied as soon as the snow has cleared sufficiently for a shopping expedition. Until it does, we should perhaps use our enforced seclusion to continue your

studies. I must teach you a few of the French words that are in frequent use. They must come easily to your tongue."

"That sounds somewhat tedious," Polly said with a comical grimace. "I can think of many more amusing ways to while away the time. Can you not?"

"Without question," he agreed, managing to conceal the fact that he had quite failed in an attempt to react imperviously to the frankly wanton invitation in the hazel eyes. "And it you wish to abandon your ambition of an introduction to Master Killigrew, then I see no reason why we should bother with such tedious activities."

Polly lowered her eyes to her plate. She had been outma-neuvered in that mischievous little play, and it clearly behooved her to sharpen her wits if she wished to indulge in such amusements in future.

Kincaid grinned. Her thought processes were transparently easy to divine. She looked up, caught the grin, and burst into laughter. "It is odious in you to gloat so! I have not had as much practice as you have in the art of conversational exchanges."

"Oh, was that what that was?" he murmured. "I had thought it more in the nature of a ham-fisted attempt to score unnecessary points on the subject of my sartorial habits-a subject, I might add, on which you are not equipped to expatiate."

"I do not know what that means," Polly declared. "But I collect it is in the nature of a snub."

"Correct," he agreed gravely, then found himself obliged to engage in spirited defense as she hurled herself upon him with an indignation not entirely feigned. "That is not an acceptable way of expressing annoyance," he gasped, once he had managed to get sufficient grip upon her to allow him to draw breath. He held her firmly on his knee, her legs trapped between his, her wrists clipped in the small of her back, his other hand twisted in the honeyed mane tumbling over her shoulders. "One does not give physical expression to anger, you rag-mannered brat; at least, not in court circles. One uses one's tongue and one's wits to best effect."

"Well, as you have just pointed out, I am not very good at that," she retorted with an experimental wriggle that achieved nothing.

"You do not appear signally successful at this, either," laughed Nick. "Cry peace!" He tugged on her hair, bringing her face round and down to his. The fight left her rapidly as he invaded her mouth, continuing to hold her head fast until she returned the kiss with the eagerness that so delighted him, the soft body melding, pliant and welcoming, with his.

"But I am more successful at this, am I not, my lord?" she whispered, her tongue swooping in tantalizing darts against his eyelids as she moved her body on his lap to considerable effect.

"Without question," he groaned, hardening beneath her.

"And I learn very quickly, do I not?" Her tongue dipped into his ear, probing the whorls and contours with devastating thoroughness.

"Indubitably." Nick groaned again. Sliding his hands beneath her, he lifted her, pulling up her skirt and petticoat. "There, now sit down again," he whispered urgently, twitching aside his gown, turning her so that she sat astride his lap.

"Oh," Polly said, realizing what was happening when her bare thighs met his. "Is it possible like this?"

"Can you think of any reason why it should not be?" He smiled and guided her opened body onto the impaling shaft.

"No, none at all," breathed Polly, taking him within herself… And then, much later, in accents of wonder and awe, "Not a reason in the world!"

It was two days later before the self-enclosed world of the lovers was breached. There had been no snow for ten hours, and the front door was freed of obstruction. Polly tumbled outside with all the vigor and eagerness of a cabined kitten set free, exclaiming as always at the wonderland where the filth of the streets, the soil of the kennels, the ordure-ridden