Because You're Mine (8 page)

“I understand why you were so harsh with me before, Mr. Scott,” she said.

“Oh?” His brow arched sardonically.

“You were worried about my safety. That's why you lost your temper. I forgive you.” Before he could react, she pressed her mouth to his chin, her lips tingling from the scrape of close-shaven bristle.

His entire body stiffened. Drawing back, Madeline waited apprehensively for his reaction. His face was a blank mask.

Awkwardly Madeline bent to set the sword on the floor and straightened to look at him. “Was that…stageworthy?” she asked.

Scott wore a strange expression. It took a long time for him to reply. “Not quite,” he finally said.

“Why not?”

“Your back is to the audience. If we were in a play…you would have to turn this way.” He began to reach for her, paused, then finally caught her arms in his hands. Lightly his fingers skimmed her shoulder and slid to her throat and jaw.

“You would show your emotions through your posture and the angle of your head…” Carefully he adjusted her chin a notch downward. His voice turned hoarse. “If you were ambivalent about the kiss, you would hold your head like this. And you might put your hands on my shoulders as if you were thinking of pushing me away.”

Madeline obeyed, her hands trembling a little as she pressed her palms against the hard surface of his upper body. He was so much taller than she, his shoulders looming high above her, his chin nearly brushing the top of her head.

“If you wanted the kiss,” he continued, “you would lift your chin higher…you would stand closer…” He fell silent as her arms slid around his neck, her small hand touching his nape.

He smelled of starched linen and sweat and sandalwood soap. Madeline had never known such an appetizing scent—it filled her with the impulse to bury her face against his throat, and breathe.

A mist of sweat had broken out on his forehead. “Maddy…” he said with obvious difficulty, “you don't know what you're asking for.”

Madeline curled her fingers against his chest, gripping his shirt. “Yes, I do.” Swallowing hard, she stood on her toes, straining to reach him. His self-control seemed to snap, and suddenly his head lowered, his lips pressing against hers.

His mouth was hard and warm, demanding things she didn't know how to give. His arms closed around her, bands of solid muscle crushing her against his body. Gradually his mouth gentled, and he rubbed his lips over hers until they parted. His large hands closed around the back of her head, holding her steady for his skillful exploration. Nothing in her life had prepared her for this. All her ideas of poetry and romance burned to cinders, replaced by the solid reality of his body against hers.

She groped for his hair, the rumpled locks silken and thick beneath her fingers. The nape of his neck was as taut as a board as she clasped her palm over it. She was caught fast within his embrace, returning kiss for kiss, her heart thundering so hard that she thought she might faint. His mouth left hers, and she felt his lips slide down her throat, hungrily exploring the thin, vulnerable skin. Her legs wobbled beneath her, and she leaned against him for support.

He touched the firm curve of her breast, shaping with his hand until the soft peak tightened into a point beneath the fabric of her bodice.

“Oh…” She gasped and jerked backward, holding her own hand to her throbbing breast. Her eyes were wide in her flushed face, her lungs striving for air.

Logan dragged his sleeve over his damp forehead. His body was stiffly aroused, aching with his intense awareness of her. He wanted to reach for her again, bear her to the hard stage floor and take her right there. It was insane, impossible that he could be so obsessed with a naive girl when he'd taken his pleasure with some of the most desirable women in Europe. “Enough of this damned nonsense,” he muttered.

“Nonsense?” she repeated in pained confusion.

He prowled around her in a half-circle. “I'm thirty years old, Maddy. I've never been interested in girls your age, even when I
was
your age.”

“You…don't find me attractive?”

“Christ.” It was proof of her inexperience that she would ask such a question, when the buttons on his trousers were straining to contain his arousal. Logan stopped pacing and forced himself to look at her. “I find you attractive,” he said gruffly.

“Hell, I'd like to do things to you that—” He stopped and dragged his hand through his hair. “It's a bad idea, Maddy. You couldn't play the game as I like it to be played. And I would end up changing you. Hurting you.”

“I understand,” she said.

“No, you don't. Which is why I'm going to try like hell to avoid you. I don't need you on my conscience.”

“I don't care about your conscience. All I want is for you to kiss me again.”

The bold statement hung in the air between them. Madeline was stunned that she had actually said it. Scott stared at her in disbelief, and then he turned away with a laughing groan. “It's not going to happen. For my sake, if not yours.”

“Mr. Scott—”

“I won't require your assistance in my office any longer. And I'd prefer that you stay away from rehearsals, although my partner may object.” He paused and added curtly, “Just do your best to keep out of my sight.”

Madeline was stunned by his callousness. The glow of passion faded from her body, leaving her cold and empty. How had everything gone wrong so quickly? Her mind swam with confusion. He had rejected her…he had said he wanted her, and yet…he had told her to stay away from him. “Mr. Scott—”

“Go on,” he said, gesturing for her to leave. “I came here to have a look at the set pieces. I don't want your company.”

Had it not been for Mrs. Florence, Madeline would have sunk into melancholy. Instead, she was profoundly puzzled by the elderly woman's interpretation of the scene. “I call that progress,” Mrs. Florence declared after being told of the day's events. “You've almost got him on the hook, child. It shouldn't be long until you reel him in.”

“Perhaps I haven't explained well enough,” Madeline said, regarding her doubtfully. “Not only is Mr. Scott
not
on the hook, he's swimming as fast as possible in the opposite direction. He wants nothing to do with me.”

“Didn't you listen to him, Maddy? He told you to stay away from him because your presence is too much temptation for him to withstand. That's the best encouragement I can think of.”

“I suppose,” Madeline murmured. “It's just that he seemed so very
definite
—”

“This is no time to falter,” Mrs. Florence assured her. “He's weakening.” She picked up a book and extracted a slip of paper tucked between the pages. “This is for you, Maddy. If you are able, leave your job at the theater early tomorrow and go to this address.”

“Mrs. Bernard,” Madeline read the name aloud and looked at Mrs. Florence questioningly.

“One of my dear friends, who owns a shop on Regent Street. Mrs. Bernard isn't the best dressmaker in London, but she's far from the worst. I told her a little about you, and she assured me that she has a bolt of fabric here and there, not to mention some clothing samples, that can be made into a few attractive gowns for you. She won't charge a shilling—one of her assistants will do the work as part of her training.”

“Oh, Mrs. Florence! You're so kind. I wish I could find the words to thank you.…”

“It's thanks enough for me to have a new project,” the elderly woman declared. “Lately there are few pursuits to keep me interested. Helping you attain your goal is quite an enjoyable hobby.” She paused and regarded Madeline speculatively. “Not that it's any of my concern, child…but have you given a thought to afterward?”

“Afterward?”

“After you've succeeded in seducing Mr. Scott. I imagine you'll have a delightful time with him…but you must be prepared for the moment when he desires the affair to end.”

Madeline nodded. “My family will take me in,” she replied. “They won't be pleased by what I've done…but I'm prepared for that.”

“And seducing Mr. Scott is worth that?”

“Well…yes,” Madeline replied uncomfortably. She paused for a long moment. “I'm one of those people who was meant to have a very ordinary life. I have no special talent, no great beauty, nothing that distinguishes me from a hundred thousand other girls. But I can't go through an entire lifetime without at least one night of magic.”

“Don't expect ‘magic,’” Mrs. Florence counseled, her lined face touched with concern. “That's a difficult order for any man to fill, Maddy, even a man like Mr. Scott. To put it crudely, two bodies in a bed can be a very nice experience…but ‘magic’ happens only once in a lifetime. If at all.”

Madeline approached Mr. Scott's dressing room, carrying a stack of freshly washed and folded costumes that had been delivered from the laundry cart. In the mornings the dressing room was always empty, but to her surprise, she heard voices inside. The door was ajar, requiring only a nudge from her elbow to swing open with a quiet squeak. She saw in consternation that Mr. Scott was half-standing, half-leaning against the dressing table, absorbed in conversation with a female visitor. She was slender and elegant, with pale blond hair and attractive features. She wore a rich blue velvet walking dress with intricately pleated skirts. An apparently worldly woman, cool, confident of her place in the world…all the things Madeline was not.

Although it was hard to conceal her dismay and jealousy, Madeline managed to keep her expression blank as the pair glanced at her. “Mr. Scott,” she murmured, “I didn't expect to find you here at this time of day—”

“I came here for privacy.” His tone was flat and dismissive.

“Yes, sir.” Flushing, Madeline set the stack of clothes on the chair in the corner. “I'll return later to put these away.”

“Let the girl do her work,” the blond woman said lightly, taking no more notice of Madeline than she would a servant. “I must be off anyway, and I've no desire to interfere with the running of your theater.”

Logan smiled, pushing away from the table and touching her elbow lightly. The gesture was small, but to Madeline's growing discomfort, it seemed to contain an inference of close and intimate friendship.

“Any interference from you is entirely welcome, milady.”

The woman's ungloved hand smoothed over the linen that covered his forearm. “Then you shall have more of it.”

“I hope so.” Their gazes held for several seconds.

Madeline busied herself with the clothes, taking them to the armoire and hanging them methodically. She felt betrayed, although she had no right. After all, Mr. Scott was free to pursue anyone he desired…
But why couldn't it have been me
? she thought, seething inwardly.

Mr. Scott murmured a soft question, and the woman smiled and shook her head as she replied. “In the interest of discretion, I'll see myself out.” Staring into his eyes, she pulled on her gloves and adjusted each ringer precisely. Mr. Scott swung a fur-trimmed cloak over the lady's narrow shoulders, taking care to fasten it snugly at her throat to ward off the winter wind. The woman slipped past the door, leaving behind a delicate flowery scent that lingered in the air.

The dressing room was silent. Mr. Scott stared contemplatively at the door while Madeline finished hanging the costumes in the armoire. She closed the cabinet door a little too firmly, causing Mr. Scott to turn toward her, his dark brow arched inquiringly.

“She wears a rather strong perfume,” Madeline remarked, waving one hand about as if to dispel a noxious odor.

“I thought it rather pleasant,” Mr. Scott replied, his gaze following her intently as she moved about the room, rearranging the articles on his dressing table, straightening the chair against the wall, picking up a small coin from the floor.

Although Madeline tried to be silent, she couldn't prevent the impulsive question that sprang from her lips. “Is she your paramour?”

Mr. Scott's face was smooth and implacable. “My private life isn't open for discussion.”

“She was wearing a wedding ring.”

For some reason her disapproving expression seemed to amuse him. “It means nothing,” he informed her dryly. “She and her husband have a well-known understanding.”

Madeline puzzled briefly over his meaning. “You're saying that he wouldn't mind if his wife…and you…he wouldn't object?”

“Not as long as she's discreet.”

“How very odd.”

“Hardly. Many wives of the upper classes are allowed to have ‘friendships’ outside their marriages. It keeps them from complaining about their husbands' infidelities.”

“And it doesn't bother you, the idea of making love to another man's wife?” Madeline dared to ask.

“I prefer married women,” he replied evenly. “They're rarely demanding or possessive.”

“If that woman weren't married, would you still want to have an affair with her?”

“That's not your concern, Miss Ridley.”

Faced with his abrupt, dismissive manner, Madeline left the dressing room. “Oh, yes, it is my concern,” she said too softly for him to hear. Her determination to have him was stronger than ever. If it was humanly possible to divert his interest from the blond married woman and turn it toward herself, she would do it.

In the next few days, an illness struck four employees of the Capital, two of them actors and two from the carpenter's shop. The symptoms were high fever, coughing, and congestion, and in the case of one patient, a delirium that had lasted for two days. The duchess sent servants to inquire about the well-being of her employees.

“Illness tends to travel through the entire company before it's finished,” Julia commented to Madeline with a frown. “It's too much to hope that no one else becomes ill.”

“Your Grace,” Madeline said, her gaze falling to the duchess's obvious pregnancy, “in your condition, you must be careful—”

“Yes, of course.” Julia sighed impatiently. “But I can't stay home when there is so much to be done here.”

“Your health is more important than any play, Your Grace.”

The duchess snorted. “Don't say that in Mr. Scott's hearing. He doesn't believe in illness. For as long as I've known him, he's thought that nothing, not even scarlet fever, should interfere with the theater schedule.”