Because You're Mine (29 page)

“You want to play the dutiful wife,” Logan said thickly, “and pat my shoulder while whispering platitudes in my ear. Well, I don't want comfort from you. I don't need it. All I need is
this
.” His hand caught in her bodice, his fingers delving into the hollow of her cleavage, and he pulled her hard against him. His hot mouth, surrounded by wiry bristle, scoured the tender skin of her throat.

Madeline sensed that he expected her to protest his crude fondling, but she slid her arms around his neck and relaxed against him. The gentle yielding seemed to be Logan's undoing. “Damn you,” he groaned. “Don't you have the sense to be afraid of me?”

“No,” she said, her face pressed against his hot, smooth shoulder.

Abruptly he let go of her, breathing in unsteady gulps.

“Logan,” she said softly, “you're behaving as if you're somehow to blame for your friend's death. I don't understand why.”

“You don't need to.”

“I do, when you seem bent on destroying yourself. There are many people who need you…and I happen to be one of them.”

His anger seemed to drain away, and he suddenly appeared weary and full of self-hatred. “Andrew needed me,” he muttered. “I failed him.”

Her gaze searched his ravaged face. “Is that what this is about?”

“Partly.” Logan picked up a half-empty bottle of brandy and sat on the edge of the unmade bed. There were liquor stains on the sheets and the Aubusson carpet, evidence of the last thirty-six hours of drinking. He raised the bottle to his lips, but before he could take a swallow, Madeline approached and took it from him. He made an unsteady swipe for the bottle and braced himself to keep from toppling over.

Madeline set the brandy aside and stood before him. “Tell me,” she said, aching to touch him. “Please.”

Looking like an exhausted child, he closed his eyes and hung his dark head between his shoulders. He choked out a few names…Lord Drake…the Earl of Rochester…Mrs. Florence…and then, in a halting stream of words, an incredible story emerged.

Madeline stood unmoving as she tried to understand what he was telling her. Logan said that he was the illegitimate child of Rochester and Mrs. Florence's daughter…that Andrew had been his half brother. She listened in amazement while he unburdened himself with the bitter honesty of a condemned man. It was clear that his grief and love for Andrew were mixed with devastating guilt.

“Why didn't you tell me before?” Madeline finally asked, when he had fallen silent.

“No need…you were better off not knowing. So was Andrew.”

“But you wanted to tell him, didn't you?” she murmured, daring to reach out to him, smoothing his disheveled hair. “You regret not having said anything when you had the chance.”

Logan's head dropped to her chest, and he rested his forehead against the fragrant softness of her breasts. “I'm not sure. I…Christ. It's too late now.” Sighing, he blotted his eyes against her velvet-covered bodice. “I should have done more for him.”

“You did as much as you could. You paid his debts, and you never turned him away. You even forgave him for taking Olivia from you.”

“I should have thanked him for that,” he said hoarsely. “Olivia was a deceitful bitch.”

Madeline winced inwardly, reflecting that her own behavior hadn't been much better than Olivia's. “Will you go to Rochester?” she asked, and she felt him stiffen.

“I wouldn't trust myself to keep from killing him. More than anyone, Rochester is responsible for Andrew's death. For making his life such hell that Andrew's only escape was inside a bottle.” A harsh laugh escaped him. “The cockneys have a word for a drunkard. They call him a ‘bloat.’ The same thing they call a drowned body. Poor Andrew—it suits him either way, doesn't it?”

Ignoring the macabre observation, Madeline continued to caress his dark head. “Come to my bed, and sleep,” she said after a moment. “Let the servants clean this room and air it out.”

Logan didn't respond for a long moment. Madeline knew that he was contemplating whether or not to go back to his brandy. “You don't want me in your bed,” he muttered. “I'm drunk, and God knows I need a bath.”

Madeline smiled faintly. “You're welcome there in any condition.” Her fingertips trailed down his bare, hard arm until she took his lax hand. “Come,” she whispered. “Please.”

She thought Logan would refuse. To her surprise, he stood and followed her from the room. The small victory eased some of her worry, but she was far from relieved. She was just beginning to understand the burden Logan had been carrying. No wonder he was suffering over Lord Drake's death. How utterly betrayed he must have felt, to have learned that the wealthy boy he had grown up with had actually been his brother. Neither of them had ever had a real home or a loving family…neither of them had ever known happiness.

Her hand slipped to her stomach, as if to protect the tiny life inside. Surely Logan would be able to love an innocent child. If he wouldn't accept her heart…at least she could give him that.

Logan slept heavily, occasionally twitching or murmuring in the midst of a dream. Each time he began to stir, Madeline soothed him back to sleep, guarding him through the night. In the morning, she tiptoed from the room and made certain that no one would disturb his continuing slumber. She bathed and donned a dark blue morning gown trimmed with white lace. After breakfasting alone, she spent an hour or two at her desk answering correspondence.

“Pardon, Mrs. Scott…” The voice of the butler intruded on her thoughts. He brought a calling card on a small silver tray. “A personal call from the Earl of Rochester. When I informed him that Mr. Scott is not ‘at home’ the earl asked if you would receive him, in spite of the unusual hour.”

Thrown into consternation, Madeline stared blankly at the calling card. Sharp curiosity mingled with worry. What could the earl possibly have to say to Her? Silently she thanked God that Logan was still sleeping soundly upstairs. There was no predicting how he would react if he learned that Rochester was here. “I…I'll speak to him briefly,” she said, replacing her pen in its engraved silver holder with undue care. “I'll go to the entrance hall.”

“Yes, Mrs. Scott.”

Her heart pounded heavily as she walked to the entrance hall. All through the night she had wondered what kind of man Rochester was to manipulate his own sons and lie to them for years…to deny Logan and allow him to suffer abuse at the hands of a brutish tenant farmer. Without even knowing the earl, she despised him…and yet there was a part of her that felt a trace of sympathy. After all, Andrew had been his acknowledged son, and his death must cause the earl no small amount of pain.

Her steps slowed as she saw the iron-haired elderly man standing in the hall, his tall frame slightly stooped, his face hard-angled and utterly devoid of warmth or humor. Although there was no great likeness between him and Logan, Madeline could well believe that the earl was his father. Like Logan, the earl seemed solitary, invincible, full of banked intensity. He wore the evidence of his recent grief: a gray cast to his skin and a certain deadness of the eyes.

“Lord Rochester,” Madeline said, declining to extend a hand, merely nodding cautiously.

The earl seemed vaguely amused by her lack of deference. “Mrs. Scott,” he said in a rusty voice, “it is gracious of you to receive me.”

“I'm sorry for your loss,” she murmured.

They studied each other in the following silence. “You know about me,” he said. “I can see it in your face.”

Madeline nodded. “Yes, he told me.”

One haughty brow arched inquisitively. “I suppose he painted me as a black-hearted monster?”

“He merely relayed the facts, my lord.”

“You're a cut above what I would have expected Scott to marry,” Rochester observed. “A young woman of obvious breeding. What must it have taken to persuade your family to allow such a match?”

“They were quite pleased at the prospect of having such an accomplished gentleman in the family,” Madeline lied coolly.

Rochester's sharp gaze rested on her, and he seemed to detect the falsehood, but he smiled in grudging admiration. “My son is fortunate in his choice of a wife.”

“Your son?” Madeline repeated. “I was under the impression that you had declined to acknowledge him.”

“That is something I intend to discuss with him.”

Before Madeline could question him further, they heard someone approaching, and they turned in unison. Logan's face was emotionless as he came to stand beside Madeline, his cold blue eyes fastened on the elderly man.

Logan seemed to have benefitted from the long night's sleep. His hair was still damp from a fresh washing, his face gleamed from a shave, and he was dressed in a white shirt, dark trousers, and a patterned green-and-gray vest. In spite of his well-groomed appearance, there were shadows beneath his eyes and a pallor beneath his tan.

He spoke to Rochester in a dry monotone. “I can't imagine what brings you here.”

“You're all I have left,” Rochester said simply.

A venomous smile touched Logan's mouth. “I hope to hell you're not suggesting that I serve as a second-rate replacement for Andrew?”

The elderly man flinched visibly. “I made many mistakes with Andrew—I won't deny it. Perhaps I wasn't an ideal parent—”

'
Perhaps
?” Logan repeated with a harsh laugh.

“—but I did have hopes for Andrew. Plans for him. I…”Rochester swallowed hard and finished with difficulty. “…I did love him, no matter what you may think.”

“You might have told him,” Logan muttered.

Rochester shook his head as if the conversation were becoming too painful, yet he was driven to continue. “I had high expectations for Andrew. His mother was a woman of refinement, with a delicate nature and the bluest of blood. I chose her to ensure that my son would have impeccable lineage.”

“Unlike your first one,” Logan said.

“Yes,” Rochester admitted readily. “You didn't fit in with my plans. I convinced myself that it was best if I set you aside and started afresh. I intended that my son—the legitimate one—should have the best of everything. I gave him a fortune, the best schools, entry to the highest social circles. There was no reason Andrew shouldn't have been a great success…but he failed miserably at everything he attempted. No discipline, no ambition, no talent, no interest in anything but drinking and gambling. Whereas
you
…” He cracked an ironic laugh. “I gave you nothing. Your bloodlines are those of a mongrel. Yet somehow you managed to amass a fortune and establish a place for yourself in society. You've even managed to marry the kind of woman Andrew should have had.”

Logan regarded him sardonically. “Tell me what you want, Rochester; then leave.”

“Very well. I want to end the war between us.”

“There is no war,” Logan said flatly. “Now that Andrew is gone, I don't give a damn about what happens to you. You'll have nothing to do with me, my wife, or my children. As far as I'm concerned, you don't exist.”

The earl seemed unsurprised by Logan's coldness. “That is, of course, your decision. But there is much I could do for your family if you would allow it. To begin with, I could use my influence to have you created a peer, especially in light of the property and land you have amassed. And although there are a few restrictions on what I am able to bequeath to illegitimate issue, there is still a generous patrimony I can leave you.”

“I don't want a shilling of your money. It should have been Andrew's.”

“Then don't accept it for yourself. However, you might consider your children's interests. I want to make them my heirs. Would you deny them their birthright?”

“I won't take—” Logan began, but the earl interrupted.

“I've never asked you for anything until now. All I want is for you to consider what I've said. You needn't give me an answer right away. These days it seems I have nothing to do but wait.”

“You'll wait a long time,” Logan said grimly.

Rochester smiled in bitter understanding. “Of course. I'm aware of how stubborn you are.”

Logan was silent, watching with a granite-hard face as Rochester bid them good-bye and took his leave.

Unfortunately, either Rochester or one of his associates must have confided the secret of Logan's parentage to someone, for in the space of a few days, the news was all over London. Their home was beseiged with callers and letters, all inquiring if it was true, while the Capital was also inundated.

Logan's performances, always heavily attended, became so popular that there were wild fights over tickets outside the theater. It seemed that the public was fascinated by the romantic notion of a celebrated commoner discovering that he was actually the by-blow of a wealthy aristocrat. The peerage was also shocked and enthralled with every detail of the scandalous story.

Logan had become the most talked-about figure in London, a position he neither wanted nor enjoyed. He grieved over Andrew's death, working himself to exhaustion each day, then taking solace in Madeline's arms at night. His lovemaking was different than before—gentle and prolonged, as if he wanted to lose himself, stay inside her forever. He wasn't satisfied until he had brought them both to piercing ecstasy that left them limp and satiated.

“If never expected to feel such things,” Madeline whispered to him one evening. “I didn't know I would find such pleasure in the marriage bed.”

Logan laughed quietly, smoothing his large hand over her body. “Neither did I. With my former penchant for women of experience, I never expected to be so captivated by an innocent.”

“I'm not an innocent,” Madeline said, her breath catching as he settled between her thighs. “After all we've done—”

“There's much more you have to learn, sweet,” he said, positioning himself and sliding gently inside her.

“There couldn't be,” she protested, gasping as he filled her completely.

“Then we'll continue with your next lesson,” Logan murmured with a smile, proceeding to make love to her until she was consumed in a blaze of passion.

Visiting the theater after the day's rehearsal had concluded, Madeline found Logan alone onstage, making notes as he paced through some blocking that had been arranged earlier. At first he was too absorbed to notice her standing in the wings, but soon he turned to look at her. A smile flickered in his blue eyes. “Come here,” he said, and Madeline complied gladly.