Because You're Mine

by Lisa Kleypas

  Breaking their shared gaze, Madeline stared into her lap until she heard his quiet, almost contemptuous laugh.

  “That's all for now,” he said.

  “Shall I return tomorrow?” she asked.

  A long silence passed, while Logan scowled at his overloaded desk. Julia, damn her, knew exactly how badly he needed secretarial assistance. For months Logan had intended to hire someone for that purpose, but he hadn't yet found the time to interview appropriate candidates.

  With Madeline's help, he could clear the work from his desk in half the time it would take to do it alone. Perhaps it wouldn't be a bad arrangement, having her work in his office an hour or two each day. Except…he realized with a jolt of surprise that sitting so close to her had made him…uncomfortable. Aroused. He frowned and shifted positions, staring at her with narrowed eyes. It was inappropriate, having such a reaction to her. She was too young and naive, and he wasn't the kind of man to go about violating virginal girls, no matter how tempting they might be.

  And Madeline was tempting, despite his efforts to ignore her. She had freshness and warmth that were unique in his experience. His hands itched to close over the nape of her neck and stroke the silken hairs that had slipped from their pins. Perturbed, he gestured impatiently to the door.

  “Yes, come back in the morning,” he muttered.

  Madeline smiled at him. “Good day, Mr. Scott.”

  Gradually the sound of her footsteps faded, while Logan sat staring at the empty doorway. The impatient, pulsing warmth in his loins faded very slowly. It had been too long since he'd had a woman, he thought. Months. He had been too busy to find a replacement for his last mistress, and no one had caught his interest…until now.

  A wry, whimsical smile curved his lips. The idea of bedding an untried girl, or at least a very inexperienced one, had never appealed to him before. However, he couldn't help wondering about Madeline Ridley … how she would feel in his arms, what she would look like naked in his bed, how it would feel to lose himself inside all that impetuous energy.…

  Perhaps he would seduce her. It was only a matter of time before someone took advantage of her in this bawdy environment…why shouldn't it be him? At least he would make certain she enjoyed it, and compensate her for it—

  “Damn,” he said aloud, alarmed at the direction his thoughts had taken, and he forced himself to concentrate on his work. Doggedly he read contracts, revised schedules, and made notes about musical selections and stage settings. While he worked, he heard the sounds of employees leaving the theater. Actors and musicians concluded their rehearsals, while carpenters and painters organized their shops in preparation for the morrow.

  Logan took pleasure in the activity around him, knowing that were it not for his efforts, the Capital wouldn't exist. It had been created from his own ambition, put together scrap by scrap, and painstakingly nurtured. Failure had been out of the question—he had never allowed himself to consider the possibility. Failure would have meant returning to the life he had been born to as the son of Paul and Mary Jennings.

  Suddenly a familiar voice broke the silence. “Working at this late hour, Jimmy? You've made your fortune—why not enjoy it?”

  Three

  Turning in his chair, Logan regarded the familiar face of Andrew, Lord Drake. Andrew was a tall, well-built young man with wicked blue eyes and dark hair worn in a long, windswept style. He was handsome, although signs of his self-indulgent lifestyle had recently begun to appear…a fleshiness of the cheeks and chin, the ruddy complexion of a perpetual drunkard, and the dark-circled eyes of a man who was frequently awake for most of the night.

  Logan and Andrew had been close companions for most of their childhood. Andrew was the only son and heir of the Earl of Rochester, and Logan had been the son of a local tenant farmer. Together the boys had roamed the estate, fishing, swimming, and hunting small game. For Logan it had been like having a younger brother. Although Andrew was the heir to a great fortune, Logan had always felt sorry for him. From what Logan had been able to observe, the earl hadn't been a much better father than Paul Jennings. Rochester was cold and rigid, far more concerned with rules and discipline than with his son's welfare.

  Remaining at his desk, Logan smiled slightly. “I never expected to see you again so soon, Andrew. Not since I told you to stop making advances to my actresses.”

  Andrew grinned. “There isn't a great deal of difference between a theater and a bordello, you know. Actresses are just like prostitutes, only more expensive.” He cast a deprecating glance around the small room, his gaze lingering on the overloaded desk. “I wonder that you haven't gone mad by now, spending so much time in that dusty corner.”

  “I enjoy working.” Logan leaned back and propped his feet on the edge of his desk, resting his hands on his flat midriff.

  “‘Enjoy’ and ‘work’ don't belong in the same sentence, Jimmy.” Andrew watched his face and smiled as he saw the flicker of reaction in Logan's eyes. “You don't like it when I call you that, do you? I assure you, I don't intend it as an insult. I admire what you've done, turning yourself from humble Jimmy Jennings into the great Logan Scott. When we were boys, I always supposed that you would marry some local dairymaid or shopgirl, and become a farmer like your father. Or perhaps you would have come to London and worked as a clerk for some piddling merchant. Instead you're one of the richest self-made men in England, with beautiful women twitching their skirts to gain your attention, and dinner invitations from the Duke of Wellington. Sometimes I feel as if I'm the only one who remembers who you really are.”

  “You're not,” Logan said. Even if he had been able to forget his own humble beginnings, there were many who never passed up a chance to remind him. No upstart, no matter how talented or wealthy, could ever break into their exclusive circles. Certainly he was fit to entertain them, but not to move among them as an equal. He would never be allowed to marry their daughters and mix his red blood with blue.

  “Why are you here, Andrew?” he asked. “Have you come to reminisce about the past, or is there something you want?”

  Seeming annoyed by Logan's bluntness, Andrew shrugged. “All right, if you insist on going to the point…I'm in a pickle.”

  “You've been gambling.”

  “Of course I have. What else is there to do with my bloody time?” Andrew exploded in frustration, his face reddening. “For the last two weeks I've spent nearly every night at the club, and I've been pigeoned out of every shilling I have. Every time I thought my luck would turn, it got worse. Now the news is all over London. I'm denied credit at every turn, and a pair of brutes from the club are following me wherever I go. I can't seem to give them the brush, and they're threatening to break my legs unless I come up with the money I owe. God help me, I actually think they'll do it.”

  “Have you gone to your father?”

  Andrew made a sound of disgust. “Bugger the old man, he won't give me a shilling above the paltry sum he calls my allowance. He could repay my debts a hundred times over!”

  “I believe that's what he's afraid of,” Logan said dryly. “How large is the debt this time? Four thousand? Five?”

  Andrew picked idly at the sleeve of his green wool coat. “Ten,” he mumbled.

  The amount was enough to stun Logan into silence. Ten thousand pounds was a fortune, enough to keep dozens of families comfortably for I a year, enough to mount several spectacular productions at the Capital. He knew why the Earl of Rochester wouldn't pay off his son's debt, no matter how great the threat to his safety. If Andrew didn't change his habits, he would run through the family fortune immediately after assuming the title.

  “I need the money,” Andrew said. For the first time there was a thread of desperation in his tone. “Everyone knows what a wealthy bastard you are. You can afford to loan me ten thousand. You know you'll get it back someday with interest.”

  “Will I?” Logan asked sardonically, rummaging through his desk. He began to write a bank draft. “This will be the
last time, Andrew. I'm not inclined to pour more down a bottomless well.”

  Andrew peered over his shoulder and made a grudging sound of thanks. “I knew you wouldn't refuse me. It must give you satisfaction to know how my father would react if he knew.”

  A rueful smile touched Logan's lips as he finished the draft. “It does, actually.” He extended the bank draft toward Andrew, then withheld it as Andrew reached out eagerly. “I'm going to offer this with a piece of advice.”

  “As you well know, I never take advice.”

  “For ten thousand pounds, you'll damn well take mine. Pay your debts, Andrew, and find some less expensive occupation. You don't have the temperament to gamble successfully—you're too easily lost in the emotion of the moment.”

  “Then you must be the best gambler in the world,” Andrew muttered. “You never have an emotion unless you can display it on stage for profit.”

  Logan laughed and leaned back in his chair again. “Tell me, how is your father?”

  “The same as ever—demanding and impossible to please. He's done everything short of committing murder to acquire some group of sketches by Rubens or Rembrandt—”

  “The Harris collection,” Logan said, his eyes brightening with interest. “Ten original Rembrandt sketches, including one for The Polish Rider.”

  Andrew lifted his hands in a gesture of mock alarm. “Don't tell me you want that collection too?…I warn you to stay clear, or there will be blood spilled.”

  Logan responded with a deceptively lazy shrug. “Far be it from me to stand in the earl's way.”

  “Strange that you and my father both share the same passion for art,” Andrew commented.

  Logan gave him a mocking smile. “There are many people who appreciate art, Andrew. Even people in the lower classes.”

  “But how many farmers' sons can afford to collect it? My father insists that you bought that Van Dyck he wanted in order to spite him.”

  “Why would I do something like that?” Logan asked smoothly.

  “I believe the earl's theory is that you're trying to impress him. He claims it comes from your having grown up in the shadow of the estate mansion. You want to prove to him how well you've done for yourself.”

  All at once Logan was fiercely annoyed, and he didn't bother to conceal it. The words struck a chord of truth that he longed to deny. He didn't know why he felt such a keen sense of rivalry with the Earl of Rochester. It had something to do with the way Rochester looked at him, at everyone, with superiority and disdain. That assessing gaze had always made Logan determined to prove that he was in no way inferior to the earl except by birth.

  “The only people I want to impress are the ones who pay to sit in my theater. Your father's opinion has never meant a damn to me. Tell him I said that.”

  “Egad, what a black mood you're in! Let's change the subject to something more appealing. Are you still keeping that lovely dark-haired wench at your London house?”

  Logan shook his head. “I asked her to leave.”

  “How could you tire of such an exquisite creature? Where is she now? I'm not too proud to accept your leavings.”

  “I wouldn't do her the disservice of sending you to her doorstep.”

  Andrew laughed. “Fine, then. There are many other pretty wenches to be had.” He sauntered to the doorway and pocketed the bank draft with a grin. “My sincere thanks, Jimmy. I knew you wouldn't turn your back on me.”

  “Stay out of trouble,” Logan said meaningfully.

  Andrew gave him a look of pure innocence. “I'll try.”

  With a rueful grin, Logan watched his childhood friend leave. In spite of Andrew's faults—and they were considerable—there was a streak of goodness in him. Andrew had never deliberately tried to harm anyone or anything in his life. Much of his rebelliousness came from a desire to gain his father's attention.

  Logan's thoughts turned to the Earl of Rochester, and his smile turned grim. It had been a pleasure to purchase the Van Dyck from under Rochester's nose last year. The old man had always prided himself on his knowledge of art, and it seemed to annoy him considerably that the son of one of his tenants was a respected patron of the Society of Artists.

  For the past several years Logan had acquired knowledge diligently, asking questions of artists and collectors, frequently traveling the Continent with virtuosi until he had developed his own sense of taste. The art gallery in his country mansion had become recognized as an important collection. Not only had he befriended most of the leading artists in London, but he was a patron of lesser-known painters who showed promise.

  “I suppose you think that owning the Van Dyck makes you a cultured man,” Rochester had said the previous year, after Logan had outbid him at the auction.

  “No, my lord,” Logan had replied, smiling at the earl's frosty annoyance. “Just a fortunate one.”

  Rochester had struggled to find a scathing reply. “You've done quite well for someone who makes a spectacle of himself to entertain the masses.”

  “It's called ‘acting,’” Logan had said gently, his smile remaining. Nothing had been able to diminish his triumph at acquiring the painting Rochester had wanted so badly.

  The old man had snorted. “Actors, singers, circus performers…they're all the same to me.”

  “Just why does my profession gall you so?” Logan had asked. “Would you prefer that I'd stayed on your land and become a farmer like my father?”

  “Farming is a far more honorable occupation than performing on stage like a trained monkey.”

  “But not nearly as profitable,” Logan had replied, going to collect his painting.

  There had been few satisfactions in his life to compare with the knowledge that he had finally become a thorn in Rochester's side. It had been a long uphill climb, using his theater earnings to make some risky investments, some of which had paid off handsomely. Logan had educated himself about financial matters just as he had about art, though it had been considerably less interesting. The pursuit of money was unquestionably vulgar, bourgeois, but there was no other choice. The kind of life he wanted required a great deal of money, and he had steeled himself to ignore the disdain of aristocrats who had inherited their fortunes rather than earned them. Let Rochester sneer and call him a parvenu…the fact was, Logan owned the Van Dyck and any other damn painting he wanted.

  Bringing his thoughts to the present, Logan rubbed the back of his neck and wandered out of the office. He headed toward the painter's shop, intending to inspect the latest work on a set of flats. The sound of voices drifted into the hallway, making him pause. One of them was unmistakably Andrew's, while the other…the feminine tone sent a ripple of sensation down his spine.

  Logan felt his fingers curling until his fists were balled at his sides. He should have known that Andrew would take notice of Madeline Ridley if she were anywhere in the vicinity. It doesn't matter, he tried to tell himself, but suddenly he felt close to exploding. Following the sound of their voices to the library, he entered without knocking.

  Andrew was leaning against a bookcase, talking affably while Madeline sorted through stacks of volumes on the library table. She looked very small in comparison to Andrew's height. Wisps of her golden-brown hair had come loose from their pins, falling against her face and throat. Standing before the worn books and dusty shelves, she seemed like a ray of light in the windowless room.

  “Mr. Scott,” Madeline said with a smile, “I decided to begin an inventory of the library collection.”

  Logan ignored her and focused a level gaze on Andrew. “I thought you were leaving.”

  “I was…but then I happened upon this charming creature.” Andrew paused before adding, “She's not an actress, by the way.” It was a pointed reminder that Logan's edict had been to stay away from the Capital Theatre's actresses—not any of the other employees.

  The desire to wrap his hands around Andrew's fleshy throat was very strong. “Let me make it clear. Don't go near anyone who works for me in a
ny capacity. Do you understand?”

  “Oh, I understand very well.” Andrew grinned at Logan. “Excuse me, I believe my presence is de trop.” As he made his exit, he murmured to Logan, “She's not in your usual style, is she?”

  Logan didn't reply, only kept his gaze on Madeline. When Andrew had gone and all sound had faded, he spoke in a soft growl. “Go home, Miss Ridley.”

  Madeline was puzzled and defensive. It seemed that once again she had unwittingly displeased him. “Mr. Scott, I didn't invite Lord Drake's attentions. He happened to see me as he passed the library, and he was Very courteous. His only intention was to assist me.”

  A bright, cold flare appeared in Scott's blue eyes. “He was trying to assist you out of your clothes and into his bed. If you're too simpleminded to realize that, let me explain further. Lord Drake devours pretty young girls like you on a regular basis. You'll get nothing from him except a session of slap and tickle, and most likely a belly swollen with his bastard. If that's your desire, pursue it by all means—but you won't do so at my theater.”

  Madeline flushed. “Why isn't it possible that he was merely being polite?”

  “Because a girl like you doesn't inspire politeness in a man.” He put a stinging emphasis on the word.

  Madeline stiffened and walked away from the library table, brushing by him as she headed to the door. “If you're saying that I've behaved in an improper manner—” She stopped with a gasp as he reached for her, his large hands seeming to burn through her sleeves. Roughly he pulled her to face him.

  “I'm saying that when a man looks at you, he can't help thinking…”

  He fell silent, staring at her for a long moment. Madeline swallowed, and his gaze flickered to the tiny movement. She wondered if he desired her, and what she should do to encourage him. Her heart skipped several beats as she realized that he was staring at her as if he intended to devour her just as he had accused Lord Drake of doing.

  Her fingers trembled with the urge to touch his face, to explore the scratchy surface where his beard had begun to grow…the bold shape of his nose, the arches of his brows…the hard, wide mouth. She wanted to coax his lips to soften and press against hers…she wanted to lose herself in his arms.