Because You're Mine (28 page)

Logan stared at him with a mixture of exasperation and concern. Obviously Andrew was in trouble again. The last thing Logan wanted to do tonight was wrest a confession from Andrew and solve his problems once again. However, it was an impulse he had never been—and would never be—free of, especially now that he knew about their secret kinship.

Casting a last longing glance at Madeline, Logan sighed inwardly and turned his full attention to Andrew. “I've been saving a box of exceptional cigars,” he said casually. “This seems like an occasion to enjoy them. Care to have a smoke?”

Andrew's moodiness seemed to ease. “Yes, bring them to the billiards room, and we'll visit with some of the fellows.”

Logan made his way out of the ballroom, stopping several times to converse with clusters of guests who beckoned to him. As he finally reached the door, he noticed Madeline's sister Justine and her husband, Lord Bagworth. They appeared to be having some kind of spat, edging to the corner of the room and talking tensely. Justine's eyes were narrowed with fury.

Logan exited the ballroom, suppressing a pitying grin. He suspected that Justine must lead Bagworth on a merry dance. As the spoiled beauty of the Matthews family, Justine appeared to insist on being the center of attention at all times. The Matthewses had done no service to their eldest daughter by pampering and spoiling her to the exclusion of their other two children. Having made Justine's acquaintance, Logan wondered how it was that Madeline could have been so overlooked. An ironic smile touched his lips, and he shook his head as he went to the library in search of his private stock of cigars.

Pleading for respite from the dancing, Madeline extricated herself from the crowd of gentlemen surrounding her. She caught sight of her brother-in-law, Lord Bagworth, standing near the long windows that lined the room. He didn't seem to notice her approach, his attention focused on the formal garden outside, his round face shadowed with a frown. He was a kind, pleasant-looking gentleman, though short in stature and not possessed of an imposing physique.

“Mrs. Scott,” Lord Bagworth said, smiling as he took her hand and bowed over it. “Congratulations on a splendid evening. I must say I've never seen you look more lovely.”

“Thank you, my lord. I hope you and my sister are enjoying yourselves.”

“Indeed,” Bagworth said automatically, though his expression remained troubled. He paused for a long time, his thoughtful brown eyes staring into hers. “I must admit,” he said slowly, “that to my regret, your sister and I have just had a bit of a quarrel.”

Puzzled as to why he would make such a confession, Madeline frowned. “My lord…is there anything I can do?”

“Perhaps there is.” Uneasily he cupped one of his hands over the other and twisted them together. “I'm afraid, Mrs. Scott, that Justine is somewhat distressed by your success this evening.”

“By
my
—” Madeline said in astonishment. It was inconceivable that Justine should be jealous of her. Justine had always been the most beautiful, admired, and sought-after sister. “I'm sure I don't understand why, my lord.”

He looked distinctly embarrassed. “As we both are aware, Justine is possessed of a rather mercurial nature. She seems to fear that your triumph tonight will somehow detract from her accomplishments.”

“But that could never be true,” Madeline protested.

“Nevertheless, in her unhappiness I fear she may have taken it in mind to do something…drastic.”

“Such as?”

Lord Bagworth cast a worried glance around the room. “Where is your husband, Mrs. Scott?”

Madeline's eyes widened. What could Logan have to do with this? Could it be that Justine, in a fit of envy, would actually try to throw herself at Logan, merely to assure herself of her own attractiveness? “Are you suggesting that I go in search of him?”

“I think that is an excellent idea,” Lord Bagworth replied at once.

Madeline shook her head with a disbelieving laugh. “But Justine would never try to…there's no reason for…”

“It is only a suspicion,” Lord Bagworth said quietly. “One that I trust will be quickly proven unfounded.”

“If Justine is worried that she will be eclipsed…there is no one capable of competing with her, least of all me.”

Lord Bagworth managed to smile through his worry. “From a long acquaintance with your family, Mrs. Scott, I've observed how you have always stood in the shadow of your older sisters. You deserve to be recognized as an attractive and accomplished woman in your own right.”

Madeline smiled distractedly, thinking only of Logan and where he might be. “Thank you, my lord. If you'll excuse me—”

“Yes, of course.” He bowed to her and remained at the windows, sighing deeply.

Logan went to the library and rummaged through the sideboard near his desk. He was unaware that someone had followed him until he heard a provocative voice ask, “What are you looking for, Mr. Scott? Or perhaps I should call you Logan. We're family now, after all.”

Logan straightened with the box of cigars in hand, watching sardonically as Madeline's sister Justine entered the room and closed the door. “Is there something I can help you with, Lady Bagworth?” he asked, his expression unreadable.

“I would like to have a private discussion with you.”

“I don't have time,” he said brusquely. “I have guests to attend to.”

“And their needs are more important than those of your family?”

Logan regarded her with a cool gaze, knowing exactly what kind of game Justine was attempting to play. In his life there had been no end of married women who had pursued him for various reasons. “What do you want?” he asked curtly, making no attempt at politeness.

His terse manner didn't seem to bother her. Justine smiled provocatively and came toward him with a slow, suggestive walk. “I want to know if you are making my sister happy. It's a matter of great concern to me.”

“You'll have to ask her, Lady Bagworth.”

“She wouldn't tell me the truth, I fear. To Madeline, the facade is everything.”

“Do you have reason to suspect that my wife is discontented?”

“Only the obvious fact that you're a mismatch, Mr. Scott. A man like you…and my little sister…I'm sure she has no idea how to handle you. Why, she must be absolutely terrified of you.”

“She doesn't give me that impression,” Logan replied sardonically, concealing his growing contempt. “Tell me, Lady Bagworth, what kind of woman
do
you envision as a suitable match for a man like me?”

“Someone beautiful…confident…experienced…” Justine shrugged her shoulders in a practiced manner, letting her puffed sleeves drop to her elbows, the front of her blue silk gown drooping over her breasts until the tips were nearly exposed. She leaned back against a table, pushing her cleavage together, and slanted a look from beneath her lashes.

The pose was so blatant that Logan nearly laughed. “A charming invitation,” he said, his dry tone implying the opposite. “However, I have no interest in any woman but my wife.”

Justine's eyes glinted with jealous fury. “That can't be true,” she said baldly. “You can't prefer that timid, plain mouse over me!”

Logan stared at her with a mocking smile. Of all the words that could be used to describe the rebellious girl who had enthusiastically invaded his life and changed everything, “timid” and “plain” were not among them. “I suggest that you pull up your dress, Lady Bagworth, and return to the ball.”

His flat refusal only seemed to fuel her determination. “I can make you want me,” she said, and launched herself at him.

Logan's mockery evaporated as he tried to separate himself from the woman who was suddenly tangled around him. The box fell to the floor, perfect blended cigars spilling over the carpet. Logan let out a breath of mingled amusement and disbelief. It was like performing in a bad farce. In the brief struggle, he barely heard the opening of the library door. All of a sudden he heard his wife's voice, and he felt a stab of dismay.
Bloody hell
, he thought, glancing in Madeline's direction.

“I've been looking for you, Justine,” Madeline said, staring at her sister rather than Logan. For once it was impossible to see what she was thinking, her face still and guarded.

Logan's jaw bunched tightly. With Justine's dress in disarray, the proximity of their bodies…he was well aware of how it looked. If there was anything he couldn't stand, it was being manipulated by a woman.

Shooting Justine a murderous glance, he shoved her away and turned to face Madeline. One part of his mind suggested slyly that he should have made use of the opportunity to humble Madeline once and for all. But he instantly rejected the idea. Whatever else Madeline thought of him, it was paramount that she know he had no designs on her sister. He had no desire to be unfaithful to her.

“Maddy…” he started, and for the first time in his life realized that he was at a loss for words. Sweating, furious, he thought of a dozen ways to explain the situation but couldn't seem to produce a sound.

Justine gave Madeline a defiant glance, her lips curving triumphantly. “Your husband couldn't seem to help himself,” she said. “All I wanted was to talk to him, but he—”

“I know what happened,” Madeline said calmly. “And I would appreciate it if in the future you would refrain from throwing yourself at my husband. It's a nuisance he doesn't deserve…and neither do I.”

Justine straightened her dress and pulled up her sleeves. “Tell her whatever you like,” she said to Logan, her voice turning shrill. “I'm sure you'll paint yourself as the innocent victim—she may even be naive enough to believe you.” Angrily she swept from the room, the door slamming in her wake.

Logan stared at his wife, feeling as awkward as he had in his boyhood years, when he had been caught in a bit of mischief. “Maddy, I didn't invite her—”

“I know,” she said matter-of-factly. “You would never try to seduce your wife's sister, even if you were attracted to her.”

“I'm not,” Logan muttered, raking his hands through his hair until it stood up wildly.

“Here…don't do that.” Madeline approached him and reached up to smooth the dark locks with her gloved hand. Her gentle touch soothed his aggravated temper. “Justine wouldn't have gone through with it, in any event. She just wanted some attention.”

“She nearly got more than she bargained for. I was ready to kill her.”

“I'm sorry you were put in such a situation.”

He caught at her stroking hand and held it, staring into her small face. “You have every reason to be suspicious, Maddy.”

“I'm not,” she said softly, making him shake his head in frustration.

“If our positions had been reversed, I would have believed the worst of you.”

A faint, wry smile came to her lips. “I've no doubt you would have.”

Her words seemed to inflame him. “Then how the hell can you stand there and claim you trust me, when you know I wouldn't have done as much for you?”

“Why shouldn't I trust you?” she asked calmly. “You've been nothing but honorable and generous to me.”

“Honorable?” Logan repeated, staring at her as if she had lost her wits. “I took your virginity, got you with child out of wedlock—”

“When I first started work at the Capital, you made every effort to avoid me, despite the way I threw myself at you. You made love to me only when it was clear that I was more than willing, and when I became pregnant, you married me in spite of your resentment. I deceived you, and in return you've been honest and fair—”

“That's enough.” His face was taut with annoyance.“I've been a bastard to you, and I don't intend to stop any time soon, so I'd advise you to dispense with the flattery and the doe-eyed glances, because they're not going to work. Do you understand?” He didn't realize he had seized her until he felt the tender skin of her upper arms beneath his hands, the tantalizing strip of bareness between the short sleeves of her grown and the top edge of her gloves.

“I understand,” Madeline said. Her soft mouth was close to his, and Logan longed violently to kiss the hint of a smile from her lips and plunge his hands into the velvet sheath of her bodice. All he wanted from her was physical pleasure. Not her trust. Not affection.

He reached over the back of her dress, found the outline of her buttocks, and pulled her hips hard against his. “I want you,” he muttered, staring into the valley of her cleavage, nuzzling his mouth and nose into the fragrant hollow at the base of her throat. “Come upstairs with me.”

“Now?” she asked, her breath catching as he urged his aroused loins against hers.

“Now.”

“But our guests…”

“Let them take care of themselves.”

Madeline laughed shakily. “Later,” she said. “They'll notice we're gone, and they'll talk—”

“I want them to talk.” Every rational thought had left Logan's head. He no longer cared about Andrew's problems, his guests' well-being, or social appearances. “I want them to know that I'm taking my pleasure of you upstairs while they're all down here…that you're mine.” Hungrily he crushed her mouth beneath his, drinking in her taste, driven wild by the scent and feel of her. His fingers tangled in her carefully arranged coiffure, beginning to pull the pins from the golden-brown curls, and Madeline pulled back with a gasp.

“All right,” she said unsteadily, her face pink and glowing. “I'll be more than happy to…accommodate you…but the guests will stop us before we ever reach the stairs.”

Logan smiled and stole a short, hard kiss from her. “I pity anyone who gets in my way,” he said, and pulled her toward the door.

As the
next month progressed, Madeline's condition became more obvious, making it necessary for her to limit her outings. When she went shopping or drove or walked through the park, she was always escorted by at least two servants, to whom Logan had given specific instructions. She was not to overtire herself, he had said, or venture into less than safe areas, and she was to eat regularly.

“I can't stand being treated like a child,” Madeline told Logan one morning as she sat at her dressing table. She couldn't help resenting her loss of freedom. Having once experienced what it was like to do as she pleased and go anywhere she liked, it was difficult to lead the sheltered life of the usual woman in her position. “No matter what I do, there's always someone trying to help me or take care of me…or
feed
me something.”

Rather than mock or belittle her, Logan listened with apparent seriousness. “You're not being treated like a child,” he replied, “but as someone whose well-being I value above all else.”

“I feel as if I'm in prison,” she said sullenly. “I want to go somewhere, do something…”

“Such as?”

Madeline sighed and picked up a brush, dragging it vigorously through her long, loose hair. “Since the ball, no one has come to the house. I have no friends except for Julia, and she's always busy at the theater, as you are. And even though we receive a dozen invitations every day, we never accept any of them.”

As Logan stared at her small, tense face, a frown settled on his own brow. He recognized that this was more or less what he had expected. His years of carefully maintained seclusion were coming to an end. Madeline was a young, vibrant woman who needed to be active in society, to have friends, to experience the varied amusements London offered.

“I understand,” he said, taking the brush from her and setting it aside. He sank to his haunches beside her, bringing their faces to the same level. “I've no desire to keep you like a bird in a golden cage, sweet. I'll see what I can do to enliven your days a bit.” His mouth quirked with a teasing smile. “I assume you have no complaints about the nights.”

“No,” she said, blushing and returning his smile, lifting her mouth willingly for his kiss.

True to his word, Logan began to escort Madeline to art exhibitions, auctions, suppers, and musical evenings. When they attended plays at Drury Lane or the Royal Opera House, they sat in an elegant private box. To Madeline's delight, they accepted invitations to weekend parties in the country, where she was able to meet other young matrons with whom she had much in common. She knew that Logan didn't relish such occasions, as he was constantly an object of attention, speculation, and excitement. The fact that he was willing to sacrifice his treasured privacy for her sake was both puzzling and flattering.

Madeline knew that many women envied her having Logan as a husband. He was charming, intelligent, generous, and dashing in a way that other husbands were not. She enjoyed being married to him, took pleasure in his companionship, his ready sense of humor, and of course his skilled lovemaking.

However, no matter how close or comfortable their relationship seemed, Madeline was aware that it was a far cry from the way it could be. Logan never looked at her now as he had once before, never kissed her with feverish love and longing. He maintained a small, crucial distance between them. It was clear that he did not trust her, and he intended they would never be emotionally intimate. Madeline tried to contain her own feelings for him, knowing that her love would only be thrown back in her face, no matter how much he might have wanted it.

As Julia had predicted, Madeline's appetite returned, and she gained back the weight she had lost, as well as a few more pounds. Any private anxiety she might have had about whether or not Logan approved of her altered figure was quickly allayed.

“You may as well sleep here from now on,” he said one evening after he had carried her to his bed and made love to her. Sweeping a hand over her naked hip, he added gruffly, “It's more convenient than sending for you every time I want you—or having to dash to your room when your legs cramp.”

Stirring in his arms, Madeline smiled sleepily. “I wouldn't want to bother you. I know how you like to sleep alone.”

“You don't take up that much room,” he observed, his hand drifting to her stomach. “Yet.”

Madeline turned on her side. “Soon I'll be wide enough to cover half the bed. Oh, how I wish I were taller! Women of my height don't carry children well—they look like ducks.”

Logan drew her back against his long body. “Madam,” he said, his voice warm and tickling in her ear, “I've spent every night demonstrating how desirable you are. By now I hardly think you have reason to doubt your attractiveness.”

“You've acquired a taste for women with large stomachs?” Madeline asked skeptically, and felt him smile against her neck.

“Only one in particular.” Logan pushed her to her back. “Now I suppose you'll want me to prove it. Again.”

She turned away from him with feigned reluctance. “If it's no trouble—”

“I insist,” he murmured, turning her over once more, and he covered her mouth with his.

He was an unpredictable man, sometimes indulging and teasing her, sometimes treating her with a maddening coolness. Most evenings after a theater performance, he rushed home to be with her, though when he strode through the door it was without the least appearance of haste. He was so adept at concealing his feelings that Madeline wondered if he loved her at all, or if he regarded her more as an amusing pet. There were times, however, when she had reason to hope.

Three afternoons a week Madeline sat for the portrait Logan had commissioned. The artist, Mr. Orsini, was a talented and pleasant man, without the wild temperament that she had expected of an artist.

“Your wife is one of the greatest beauties I have painted,” Orsini informed Logan, who had come to watch a sitting in progress.

“Mr. Orsini,” Madeline protested from where she was posing, “you mustn't embarrass me—”

“She has an unusual quality,” Orsini continued earnestly. “Sensuousness mingled with purity. A bewitching child-woman.”

Unused to such lavish compliments, Madeline fixed her gaze on the floor. “Yes,” she heard Logan say softly. “That's exactly what I see in her.”

When Madeline was able, she visited the Capital for an afternoon, watching rehearsals and even helping with line readings. Logan didn't seem to mind her presence. In fact, he readily admitted that he liked knowing she was within his reach. “It saves me from having to imagine what trouble you might be getting into elsewhere,” he told her dryly.

Madeline enjoyed spending time with the theater company, who were not offended by the sight of an expectant woman. Accustomed as they all were to pregnant actresses who continued performing on stage until their sixth or seventh month, the employees of the Capital treated Madeline with a relaxed attitude that made her feel accepted and comfortable.

Best of all were the evenings when she and Logan would relax together after supper. They spent hours reading and talking until Logan finally carried her to bed. It seemed that the fragile bond between them was growing stronger. Madeline began to think that she was slowly winning the battle, regaining Logan's trust…until the day that her illusions of happiness seemed to matter.

Sunday morning proceeded in the usual fashion, with a lavish breakfast and coffee, followed by Madeline's solitary attendance at church and then a few hours spent with Logan in the private family parlor. Logan pored over a play folio, making notes and corrections, while Madeline warmed herself near the tiled stove and did needlework.

Glancing at her husband's dark head, Madeline was unable to resist going to him. She dropped the bit of embroidery to the floor and stood behind his chair, her hands resting on his broad shoulders. “I despise needlework,” she said, bending over to nuzzle the warm space behind his ear.

“Then don't do it,” Logan replied, turning a page of the folio.

“I have no choice. All respectable married women do needlework.”

“Who wants you to behave respectably?” he asked absently, trying to focus on his work. “Don't read over my shoulder, sweet. I can't concentrate.”

Undeterred, she slid her arms around his chest. “You shouldn't work on Sunday. It's a sin.” She pressed two or three soft kisses where the column of his throat met his hard jaw, and felt the sudden throb of his pulse against her lips.

“I'm about to commit a worse one,” Logan replied, dropping the folio and twisting in the chair to snatch her into his arms. Madeline shrieked with laughter as he pulled her into his lap. His hands roamed intimately over her body. “What do you consider an appropriate activity for Sunday, madam?…This?…Or perhaps this… ”

Their play was interrupted by a knock at the door. Madeline struggled from Logan's lap, pulling hastily at her skirts and retreating to the pool of heat near the tiled stove. A footman entered the room and brought a note on a silver tray to Logan. Grinning at Madeline's attempt to appear composed, Logan took the note and dismissed the servant.

“Who is it from?” Madeline asked, returning to Logan as he broke the seal.

“Apparently an acquaintance I met through Lord Drake.” Frowning, Logan read aloud, “…Iam distressed to relay some news concerning our friend Lord, Drake. Knowing of your close friendship with him, I felt certain you would wish to be informed at once…” His voice faded, and his gaze continued to move rapidly across the page.

Madeline stared at him while he finished reading silently and sat like a statue. “Logan?” she asked tentatively. He didn't seem to hear her. Reaching for the half-crumpled note in his hand, she pried it away. A soft, pitying exclamation escaped her lips as she read the letter. It seemed that Andrew, Lord Drake, had attended a water-party on the Thames the previous night.

Sometime during the revelry, Lord Drake had fallen overboard, but no one had noticed until early morning. Although the private yacht had been thoroughly searched, there had been no sign of him. The Thames would be dragged, but often in such drowning cases the body wasn't discovered for days.

Gently Madeline touched her husband's stiff shoulder. “Was—is—he a strong swimmer? Perhaps he managed to reach shore—”

“No, he couldn't swim well,” Logan said, his voice hoarse. “He was probably too damned drunk to even try.”

Her hand settled on the nape of his neck. “Logan, I'm sorry—”

He jerked away from her, his breath hissing between his teeth. “Don't.” A visible tremor ran along his back. “I want to be alone.”

Every impulse in her body prompted her to stay, to comfort him, but Logan didn't want her. He was shutting her out of his grief. It was the worst hell imaginable to love someone who didn't want it. If he did have feelings for her, he fought them at every turn.'madeline stared at his dark head and couldn't stop herself from touching his hair. “Logan, what can I do?” she whispered.

“Just leave.”

Madeline's hand fell away, and she left the room without looking back.

For the rest of that day, and most of the next, Logan closed himself in his room and drank. The only time he spoke to Madeline was to tell her to notify the Capital that he wouldn't be coming to work. His understudy would take his place in the performance the following evening.

“When will you return?” Madeline asked, staring into his set face and liquor-glazed eyes. She was met with a stony silence in reply, and he shut himself away in his room once more. He didn't want her company, nor anyone else's. In spite of Madeline's pleas and the trays of food she sent upstairs, he refused to eat.

Worriedly Madeline asked Mrs. Beecham if Logan had ever behaved like this before, and the housekeeper hesitated before replying. “Only when you left him, Mrs. Scott.”

Madeline colored with guilt and remorse. “How long did it last?”

“It took one week for him to drink himself insensible, and another before he would begin to eat properly again.” Mrs. Beecham shook her head in sincere puzzlement. “
That
I could understand, as we all knew how he felt about you…but this…I wouldn't have guessed that he cared so much about Lord Drake. I don't like to speak ill of the dead, but the man was a ne'er-do-well, may he rest in peace.”

“It must be because they grew up together. For some reason Logan felt responsible for him.”

The housekeeper shrugged. “Whatever the cause, the master has taken his passing very hard.” Her sympathetic gaze touched on Madeline's strained face. “He'll put himself to rights eventually. Don't distress yourself, Mrs. Scott. It's not good for a woman in your condition to worry.”

That, of course, was easier said than done. How could she not worry when her husband seemed determined to drink himself to death? Late in the evening of the second day, Madeline gathered her nerve and went to his door, turning the heavy brass knob and discovering that it was locked. “Logan?” she asked, knocking quietly. As she had expected, there was no reply. She knocked a little harder and heard a muffled snarl from within.

“Stop scratching at the damn door and leave me in peace.” His voice was filled with ugly undertones that raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

“Unlock it, please,” Madeline said, trying to sound composed, “or I'll get a key from Mrs. Beecham.”

“Then I'll wring your neck like a Christmas goose,” he returned, sounding as if he would relish the process.

“I'm going to wait here until I see you. I'll stand here all night if necessary.” When there was no reply, she added in a moment of inspiration, “And if something happens to the baby, let it be on your conscience!”

Madeline braced herself as she heard his heavy footsteps. All of a sudden the door was unlocked, and she was snatched into the room with a violent jerk.

“There's nothing left of my conscience,” Logan said, slamming the door, closing her inside the shadowed bedroom with him. He loomed over her, huge and dark, his hair rumpled, his breath rank with liquor. He wore a pair of astonishingly wrinkled trousers; his feet were bare, and his muscular chest and shoulders, naked. Madeline couldn't help shrinking back, alarmed by his appearance. He seemed capable of almost anything. His mouth twisted with a sneer and there was a wild, desperate gleam in his bloodshot eyes.