Somewhere I'll Find You (4 page)

Somehow she hadn't expected her husband to be handsome, as splendidly dark and elegant as a foreign prince. He was a tall man with a quietly powerful presence. Beneath a black coat, an amber-and-gray-striped waistcoat, and charcoal trousers, the broad, sloping spread of his shoulders tapered to a slim waist and hips. His features were austere and perfect, his gaze devoid of emotion. He was a startling contrast to the men she usually associated with, men such as Logan and the other actors in the company, who earned their salaries with their expressive faces. This man seemed utterly inaccessible.

As if he sensed her presence, he glanced in her direction. A questioning frown touched his brow, and his head tilted slightly in concentration. Julia tried to look away, but he wouldn't let her, his gaze locked steadily on her face. Filled with sudden panic, she turned and began to walk away in controlled strides. However, it was too late. He cut across her path and reached her, forcing her to stop or risk bumping into him.

Julia's heart thumped painfully in her chest. She lifted her gaze and stared into the most extraordinary eyes she had ever seen, cool gray and ruthlessly intelligent, framed by black lashes so long that they had tangled at the outside corners.

“You look familiar to me.” Although his voice lacked the rich, winelike clarity of Logan Scott's voice, it held a pleasantly husky undertone.

“Do I?” Julia could barely force the words from her numb lips. “Perhaps you've seen me on stage.”

He continued to stare at her, while all she could
think was You're my husband…my husband
…

Damon was puzzled by the young woman who stood before him. The music and colorful profusion of the ball seemed to recede in the background as he studied her face. He knew they had never been introduced—God knew he would never forget a woman like her—but there was something disturbingly familiar about her. She was slim and cool in her pale blue gown, holding herself with a regal poise that would not admit any hint of uncertainty. Her face seemed more like an artist's creation than something belonging to a real woman, hauntingly lovely with cheekbones angled deeply over the soft curves of cheek and jaw. Most remarkable of all were her blue-green eyes…they could have belonged to a fallen angel, virginal, soft, and yet sadly familiar with the ways of the wicked world.

Perhaps you've seen me on stage
, she had said.

“Ah,” he said softly. “You must be Mrs. Wentworth.” She was far younger than he had expected of the popular actress, whose image had been spread all over England in paintings, prints, and engravings. The public was wild over her, as were the critics, lauding her attractiveness and skill. She had undeniable talent, but more than that, it was her warmth that had endeared her to audiences, making her instantly familiar and appealing.

But that creature was a world apart from the wraithlike young woman who stood before him now. It seemed that her neck was almost too slender to support the weight of the heavy blond braids that were twisted and pinned at her nape. He wasn't aware of reaching for her hand, nor of her offering it, but suddenly her gloved fingers were in his. As he raised them to his lips, he became aware that she was trembling.

Questions raced through his mind. Was she frightened of him? Why had she been standing here alone? Unconsciously he made his voice softer than usual, as if he might frighten the wary creature before him. “May I be of service, madam? I'm—”

“Yes, I know. You're the Marquess of Savage.” All at once her face had changed, a social smile coming to her lips. She withdrew her hand. “My theater manager, Mr. Scott, desired me to make your acquaintance. He seems to believe I might be able to convert you into a patron of the Capital.”

Surprised by her directness, Damon didn't return her smile as he replied. “You're welcome to try, Mrs. Wentworth. But I never waste money on frivolous pursuits.”

“Frivolous? Don't you believe that people need to escape into the world of the theater every now and then? A play can make the audience experience something they've never imagined before. Sometimes they find that their feelings and opinions have changed afterward, and they regard their lives in a new way…that's hardly frivolous, is it?”

He shrugged casually. “I have no need of an escape.”

“Don't you?” She stared at him even more intently, if that was possible. “I don't believe that, my lord.”

“Why not?” No woman had ever dared to speak so boldly to him. First she had been trembling, and now she was challenging him. If she did want money from him on behalf of the Capital, this was a novel approach to getting it.

A flush crept over her neck and up to her cheeks, as if she were struggling to suppress some powerful emotion. “I've never met a person who is comfortable with his or her past. There is always something we would like to change, or forget.”

Damon was very still, his head inclined toward hers. She seemed tense and restless, like a bird poised for flight. He had to fight the urge to reach out and take hold of her, and keep her with him. Something vibrated in the air between them…some elusive awareness that tantalized him. “And you?” he murmured. “What is it you would like to forget?”

A long silence passed. “A husband,” she whispered, her lashes veiling her blue eyes.

Julia didn't know what had driven her to say such a thing. Horrified by her recklessness, she gave him a quick curtsy and slipped away into the crowd before he had a chance to react. “Wait—” she thought she heard him say, but she ignored him and fled the ballroom.

Damon stared after her, while recognition seared across his brain. He remembered the May evening in Warwickshire, the bewitching girl dancing in the torchlight. She had been an actress with a company of strolling players, and he had stolen a kiss from her. There was no doubt it was she, and that somehow his premonition of meeting her again had finally come true. “My God,” he said under his breath.

Stunned by the stroke of good fortune, Damon stared at the place where she had stood before him. Before he could gather his wits, he became aware of Lady Ashton's approach. Her hand drifted possessively across his sleeve. “Darling.” Her smooth purr caressed his ear. “Apparently you've made a new acquaintance. She hurried away before I could reach you. You must tell me what was said between you and Mrs. Wentworth! Oh, don't frown like that—you know I'm aware of everything you do. You have no secrets from me, darling.”

“I may have one or two,” he muttered.

Pauline's dark eyes were questioning, her red lips arranged in a pout. “Did she make a play for you?”

“She asked if I would become a sponsor for the Capital this season.”

“And naturally you refused.”

“Why do you assume that?”

“Because you never part with a shilling unless it's absolutely necessary.”

“I'm generous with you,” he pointed out.

“Yes, which is absolutely necessary in order to retain my affections.”

Damon laughed. “And well worth it,” he replied, his gaze sweeping over her voluptuous figure. She was dressed in a sea-green gown molded tightly over her round breasts, pushing them high in an opulent display. Her full hips were outlined by a skirt ornamented with lavish silk flowers and jade beading.

“Tell me about Mrs. Wentworth,” Pauline coaxed, reaching up to smooth his dark hair, aware that the proprietary gesture would be noticed by everyone around them. “What was she like?”

Damon searched in vain for an appropriate word to describe the woman he had encountered. Finding none, he shrugged helplessly.

Pauline's lips gathered in a petulant frown, and she tossed her head until the emerald plume fastened in her dark curls bobbed merrily. “Well, I've no doubt she's like every other actress, willing to lift her skirts for every man she meets.”

Wryly Damon thought that Julia Wentworth's behavior was likely no different than Pauline's, except that Pauline believed her bloodlines made her superior. “She didn't appear to be promiscuous.”

“It's said all over London that she's having an affair with Logan Scott. One only has to see them act together to know for certain.” She gave a dramatic little shiver for emphasis. “The air fairly smolders! But Mr. Scott would have such an effect on any woman, I'm certain.”

Damon knew little about the world of theater, but like everyone else he was aware of Logan Scott's accomplishments. Scott championed a more natural style of acting than had ever been attempted before. His powerful yet vulnerable Hamlet was legendary, but he was equally talented at comic roles in light fare such as
The Frustrated Husband
. Although Damon was far from qualified to be a critic, he had recognized Scott's extraordinary gift of drawing the audience into the thoughts and emotions of a character.

Even more impressive was the flood of money Scott had brought to the Capital Theatre, making it a worthy rival of Drury Lane. He was an adept manager of both people and profits. A man of such talents should be courted by the cream of society—and indeed, Scott appeared to have many well-born and prominent friends. But he would never be fully accepted by them. He was a self-made man, and the peerage believed he had aspired to a position he had never been meant for. Men and women in the acting profession existed to entertain both the masses and the aristocracy, belonging nowhere but in their own half-world of art and illusions.

The image of Jessica Wentworth's beautiful face came unbidden to Damon's mind. What would become of her when she was no longer able to earn her living on the stage? An actress had few choices, except to take her chances as a wealthy man's mistress, or if she was fortunate, marry some aging widower or humbly endowed member of the peerage…but of course, Mrs. Wentworth was already married.

What would you like to forget?

A husband
.

What kind of man had she married? Who was he, and why—

“Darling, what are you thinking about?” Pauline tugged imperiously on his arm. “I'm not accustomed to seeing a man's attention drift so far away when
I'm
close by.”

Damon shook the thoughts of Jessica Went-worth from his mind and looked down at Pauline. “Then give me something else to think about,” he murmured, and smiled as she leaned up to whisper provocatively in his ear.

By the time Julia reached the marble staircase that led to the upstairs rooms, her throat had tightened and her eyes were stinging with tears. She paused at the first landing, her fingers clenched on the banister.

“Jessica.” She heard Logan Scott's unmistakable voice, and his feet on the stairs as he approached her. She waited without turning around, not wanting him to see her face. “What happened?” he asked with a touch of annoyance. “I happened to glance in your direction, and saw you running from the ballroom like a scalded cat.”

“I'm tired,” she managed to say thickly. “I can't go back in there tonight.”

“Has someone said something to upset you?” Logan took hold of her arm and forced her to face him. His breath caught as he saw her tears. “Tell me what happened.” There was a glint of fury in his gaze. “If some bastard dared to insult you, I'll knock his arse from here to—”

“No,” she murmured, pulling away from his hard grip. “No one said anything to me. I'm perfectly all right.”

Logan frowned as she brushed her fingers furtively over her wet cheeks. “Here.” A quick search in his green coat, and he produced a linen handkerchief.

Julia accepted the offering and blotted her eyes, trying to control her emotions. She wasn't certain how she felt…afraid, angry, sad…perhaps even relieved. She had finally met her husband, spoken with him, looked into his eyes. Savage seemed like a cold, self-controlled man, a man she wanted nothing to do with. And he felt the same—he didn't want her, had never written or tried to find her, and was perfectly content to ignore her existence. Although it was unreasonable, she felt betrayed by him.

“Perhaps I can help in some way,” Logan commented.

A wry smile twisted her lips. “You've never offered to help me before. Why now?”

“Because I've never seen you cry.”

“You've seen me cry hundreds of times.”

“Never for real. I want to know what happened tonight.”

“It has to do with my past,” she said. “That's all I can tell you.”

“Is it?” His blue eyes gleamed with a smile. “I've never had the time or patience for solving mysteries—but I am curious about you, Mrs. Wentworth.”

Julia blew her nose and wadded the handkerchief in her fist. In the two years since they had met, Logan had never made such a personal comment to her. His interest in her was the same as in all of the players in the company, to elicit the best stage performances he could from them. Julia had become accustomed to his friendly bullying, his bursts of impatience, the way he sometimes changed his personality to get what he wanted. But to admit that he was curious about her past…it wasn't like him.

“My secrets aren't all that interesting,” she said, picking up her skirts and ascending the stairs slowly.

“I wonder,” Logan murmured, watching until she disappeared from sight.

To Julia's relief, she saw nothing of Lord Savage the next day. The guests at the weekend party occupied themselves with various outdoor pursuits. It was a fine day; the rich blue sky was streaked with lacy white clouds. The ladies strolled about the manicured gardens, tried their hands at archery, or went driving in fine carriages to view local points of interest. The men went shooting in the woods, fished in the nearby stream, or gathered in groups to drink and talk.

Although Julia felt melancholy and restless, she did her best to carry on animated conversations with the other guests. It was easy to entertain Lady Brandon and her friends with tales of the theater. The women were fascinated by the details of a world that was so foreign to them. Any mention of Logan Scott, especially, was guaranteed to provoke a great deal of feminine interest.

“Mr. Scott plays the lover so well onstage,” one woman remarked in a sultry purr. “One can't help but wonder if he is equally amorous offstage. Can you enlighten us, Mrs. Wentworth?”