Nicholas stepped onto the stage from the wings. "Come." He took her hand. "We have no more time to waste."

"Come where?" Polly protested, following willy-nilly, tripping over her feet. "I must change and-"

"No, you need not."

"But I do need." She pulled back on his hand, trying to orientate herself in the real world. For three hours she had lived in another universe, and now Nick was behaving in a

most extraordinary fashion. There was a grim purpose about him that set butterflies dancing in her stomach.

"Nick, if you are still vexed about what I said-" she began tentatively.

"I have decided to overlook it on this occasion," Nicholas interrupted, marching her toward the rear door of the theatre. "You'll not say it again."

"Oh." She skipped to keep pace with his long stride. "But, please, where are we going, and why may I not change?"

"We do not have the time," came the succinct reply. They emerged through the stage door onto Drury Lane, where Kincaid's coach stood waiting, Richard De Winter and Sir Peter Appleby beside it.

"Good even, Polly," Richard greeted cheerfully, opening the carriage door.

"Good even; and you, Sir Peter." Bewildered, Polly returned the courtesies in an automatic mumble.

"Seldom have I enjoyed such an afternoon at the theatre," Sir Peter said. "You surpassed yourself, Polly."

"Th-thank you. I am glad you enjoyed it," Polly said as she was hustled into the dark interior of the coach. The three men climbed in after her; Nick slammed the door. "What is happening?" Polly asked in some desperation. "I am all tumbled and disheveled, and my hair is fallen down." To her indignant consternation, her three companions began to laugh.

" 'Tis hardly fair, Nick, to do such a thing to a maid," chuckled Sir Peter. "Ye might have granted her time to tidy herself."

"For what?" cried Polly, receiving renewed chuckles in answer. She put her hand on the door latch. "I am getting out. I do not like people laughing at me when I do not know the cause."

"Keep still, sweetheart." Nick, laughter still bubbling in his voice, caught her against him with an arm at her waist. "You will share the jest in a moment."

Polly subsided, grumbling under her breath, until the car-

riage came to a halt. She stepped out to find herself on the broad thoroughfare of Holborn. She stood looking around her for some clue to this mysterious journey. The Fleet River flowed nearby; Hatton Garden and Leather Lane were across the street. St. Andrew's Church, showing lamplight, stood behind her.

"Come," Nick said, taking her elbow, turning her toward the church.

"Why must we go to church? 'Tis not Sunday. I am hungry, and I want my supper." Protesting vociferously, Polly found herself jostled into the church. Whatever this jest was, it was not one she wished to share, she decided furiously. The day had been one of unremitting strain from the moment she had woken, and she could feel tears of weariness and hunger pricking behind her eyes. It was so unlike Nicholas to be inconsiderate, even when he was angry. He did not seem to be vexed at the moment, however. Indeed, there was an air of elation about him, and the emerald eyes bent upon her face contained only warmth and gentle amusement.

"You should have eaten your dinner, moppet," he said, propelling her up the nave to where a cassocked clergyman stood before the altar.

"Ah, my lord, I was about to give you up," the clergyman said ponderously. Then his eye fell upon the resistant, disheveled, breeched Polly. "This is the young lady?" His eyebrows disappeared into his scalp.

"Aye," Nick agreed briskly. "Shall we proceed?"

"I will not play this game anymore!" Polly cried, finally pushed beyond bearing. She stamped one booted foot on the cold stone of the nave. "I do not know what is happening-"

"If the lady is unwilling, my lord," broke in the clergyman, "I could not in conscience perform the ceremony."

Polly's jaw dropped. She looked up at the smiling Nick, 'round at Richard and Sir Peter, who were both beaming. She shook her head in bemusement. This was some fantastical joke.

"You are not unwilling, are you?" Nick asked softly, catching her face between his hands.

"But… but you cannot possibly wed a-"

"You dare\" A hard finger pressed against her lips. "Will you marry me, Mistress Wyat?"

Polly seized his hand, pulling him urgently into the shadows of the Lady Chapel. "I was going to say a Newgate-born, tavern-bred bastard," she whispered, a little resentfully. "That is not a truth you have ever denied."

"It is a truth known only to Richard and ourselves," Nick said softly. "As far as the world knows, you are either some nobleman's by-blow or the stagestruck daughter of a respectable bourgeois. Noble bastards abound at court, and no one will turn a hair at bourgeois gentility. Now," he repeated patiently. "Will you marry me?"

"You are run mad, my lord."

"Then will you take a madman to husband?"

Polly stood, for the moment silent, in the chill shadows of the chapel. What he had said was the perfect truth. And if no one knew her antecedents, and Nick was not concerned by them, then why should she not accept the conquering hand of love? The unquestionable, undeniable love that had fallen upon them with such unbidden force when they had first come together in the ways of passion. Slowly she nodded, returning his smile. "Aye, if that is truly what you wish, love."

Nick sighed with relief, drawing her back into the dim light of the nave. "It seems we may begin, Master Parson."

It was a short ceremony in the dank, winter-night cold of the drafty church. But Polly was quite unaware of her surroundings, or of any lack of magic in such a wedding-never having expected to have one at all. Her hand remained in Nick's throughout; she said what was required at the required moments, and wondered when she would wake up. At the end, the witnesses duly signed the Parish register, the parson was paid his fee, and the four went into the night.

"John Coachman will take you home now," Nick said, opening the carriage door for her.

Polly peered up at him, studying his expression in the faint starlight. "Take me home? But what of you?"

"I have some business to transact," Nick said evenly. "I will be with you as soon as may be. You are in sore need of your supper, as you have been saying so vociferously." He smiled, gently teasing, but Polly was not to be cajoled.

"Then I will come with you. I am not so hungry that my supper cannot wait."

"No," he said. "You may not accompany me." The laughter had left his mouth and eyes, a certain grimness in its place. "Go home. I will come to you soon."

Polly shook her head. "You would wed me in one breath and banish me in another. It makes no sense, my lord."

Nick sighed. "I seem to recall that not so many minutes past you made some solemn vows. Would you break them so soon?"

"I was not aware, sir, that I promised obedience to commands I do not understand," she said tartly.

"Rule a wife and have a wife," Richard murmured in the darkness. "Have done with this, Nick. 'Tis cold as charity, and the night grows no younger."

"A timely reminder," Nick said grimly. He scooped up his wife, bundling her unceremoniously into the coach, closing the door firmly on her protests. "Drury Lane, John." The coachman whipped up his horses and bore Lady Kin-caid, cursing like any tavern-bred wench, back to her lodgings

' 'Tis no way to start a marriage," sighed Nick.

' 'Tis not a marriage you can start in good earnest till this business be done with," Richard reminded him. "Let's to it."

The three men walked to Temple Stairs and took the water to Somerset Stairs. From there they walked in silence to the Duke of Buckingham's mansion in the Strand.