"Allow me." He eased the manteau from her shoulders, laying it with great care over a chair back. "A glass of wine, perhaps?"

"Thank you." Her hand was perfectly steady as she took the glass, and she was aware of a distance between herself and this man who was going to torment her if he could. But he would not be able to, because he did not know that Nick's Polly was not in this room. Here was a street-hardened tav-

ern wench, accustomed to blows and curses, well able to hold her own in a world informed by brutality and degradation-a world in which such a place as this was utterly familiar. If he did but know it, His Grace had done her some considerable favor by this initial humiliation. It made the role much easier to carry.

"Why should you imagine, Mistress Wyat, that you are in a position to discuss terms?" the duke now said, returning to the fire, leaning one arm negligently along the mantel, regarding her with that same air of amused interest, as one who waited for the entertaining antics of a creature in a circus, obliged to perform to his piping.

Polly sipped her claret. "Indeed, Your Grace, should you choose to take from me whatever you wish without my consent, there is none to say you nay." She looked around the room. "The door is not locked, but I am sure that if I chose to run from you, there would be those to stop me." She walked over to the window, drawing aside the curtain to look down onto the bustling Piazza, where the full gamut of fleshly pleasures and perversions was for sale. "I did not have to enter this house. But you knew that I would, since you appear to have discovered my price." She turned and smiled at him over her glass. "Rape might appeal to you in some instances, my lord duke, but I'd hazard that you want more than that from me."

Buckingham pulled at his chin, regarding her now thoughtfully, quite without amusement. He had expected abject fear, pleading for her lover, and finally the desperate acceptance of the terms he would dictate. Instead, she was standing there telling him that she understood the game and was prepared to play it.

"No," he said, pushing himself away from the mantel. "Rape has limited appeal, although I might choose to fabricate it at some point in our acquaintanceship."

"Your terms, duke."

"Can you not guess, mistress? You seem remarkably perspicacious." He strolled over to the long deal table against

the far wall and tore off a chicken leg from the bird resting on a humble pewter platter. "Will you not sup?"

"I find I have no appetite." She took his vacated place at the fire. "Perhaps I should tell you my own terms." She waited for a response, but Buckingham gnawed on his chicken leg, offering neither invitation nor denial. "You may have me, Duke. In exchange, I will have, now, the order for Lord Kincaid's release from the Tower, and the dismissal of all charges, either stated or predicated, against him; the document to be written by you, signed and sealed, and given to me before we commence whatever play you have in mind."

Buckingham smiled. "The play I have in mind, bud, will be of seven nights duration, here in this chamber. I will have from you your willing-nay, eager-participation." The smile broadened, and the banked fires of lust flared for a second in the eyes resting upon her face. "Any hesitancy to comply with my wishes, the hint of a refusal to accede to my demands, will nullify the bargain. You will come at this time every evening for seven days, returning to your lodgings in the morning."

So there it was. Polly forced herself to meet his searching gaze without flinching. She must lend herself to whatever quirks this man's notoriously dark lust might produce. A whore's work-no more than that. "What guarantee do I have that you will keep your side of the bargain?"

For some strange reason such an aspersion seemed to catch him on the raw. "You have the word of a Villiers!" he snapped, losing his equilibrium for a second.

Polly raised an ironic eyebrow. "Your pardon, my lord duke, I meant no slur upon your honor. How should I, indeed?" She paused for a minute, but the duke had himself well in hand again, so she continued calmly. "I would have your word, also, that you will do me no serious hurt, and that you will not spill your seed within." She was negotiating like a whore, Polly thought distantly. A whore's terms, for one must keep intact the goods with which one had to bargain in the future.

Buckingham suddenly laughed. "By God, but y'are more

than I reckoned on! As consummate a courtesan as my Lady Castlemaine or any. Know your value and keep it! Well, the sport will be the better for it, I swear." He strode to the door, flung it wide, and bellowed for the servant. "Bring me paper, quill, and sand caster."

They were produced, the order written, the charges declared dismissed. Buckingham dropped hot wax from the candle, sealing the document with the impress of his signet ring. "This will be delivered to the governor of the Tower in seven days time, on condition that you have fulfilled your side of the agreement."

"You'll not find me wanting," Polly said.

George Villiers refilled his wineglass, selected two walnuts with some deliberation from a bowl, then leaned against the table, looking at her. He held the walnuts against each other between his hands and squeezed slowly. The shells cracked in the sudden stillness. Smiling, he turned his attention to peeling away the husks cupped in his hands before looking up at her as she stood, immobile by the fire. His eyes narrowed as he said softly, "I'd have you show me what I've bought."

No different in essence, Polly thought, than the little chamber in the Dog tavern. She began to unhook her gown.

Chapter 20

The seventh morning after the seventh night dawned, its cold gray light filling the square casement. Polly lay wide-awake, stiff and chilled, as she had done since her bedfellow had finally fallen asleep. Her wrists were bound beneath her, and Buckingham had neglected to share the quilt before he had slept, so she could do nothing about her exposure to the ice-tipped air.

There was an eerie silence. She had noticed in the last seven nights that this silence fell for no more than a couple of hours, just before profound night yielded to the dawn. It fell very suddenly, as if the wildness of the Piazza had run its course, its inhabitants stopped dead in the tracks of debauchery. The house slept in the same way, screams, giggles, footsteps, cries, all ceased as if at a signal, and it was as if Polly were the only person awake in this squalid corner of the universe.

She shivered convulsively, but nothing would persuade her to edge closer to the warmth of her companion's body- not when it was not required of her, and her revulsion could not be detected.

"Are you cold?" Buckingham spoke into the gray light, sleepily matter-of-fact.

"You neglected to untie my hands," she said, as matter-of-fact as he. "And I have no quilt."

"Careless of me," he said, his voice arid as the desert. "D'ye find no pleasure in the sensation of helplessness, bud?"

"Had I done so, my lord duke, I venture to suggest that your pleasure would have been diminished," she responded with acid-tongued truth.

Buckingham chuckled. He had no objection to her tartness so long as she entered his sport without physical reservation; and she had certainly done that. Indeed, it had been a most rewarding seven nights; he was sorry that they were over. But he would have tired of her eventually, and there was a certain sweetness in an ending that came before one was truly ready. Rolling her onto her belly, he unfastened the silk scarf that bound her wrists.

"My thanks, sir," Polly said formally, sitting up and shaking the life back into her numbed arms, chafing her wrists. "Our bargain is completed, I believe."