by Lisa Kleypas
Before Logan could reply, Madeline's mother chose that moment to look up from her gold-rimmed plate and comment acerbically, “One can only hope that Mr. Scott will perform the role of dutiful husband with equal skill.”
Spoken in a lighter tone, the remark could easily have been taken as a friendly jest—but Agnes's disapproval couldn't have been more clear.
Madeline tensed as she waited for Logan's reply. To her relief, he answered evenly. “I trust you'll have no complaints on that score, Lady Matthews—and neither will my wife.”
“No, indeed,” Madeline said. Since she had been quiet for most of the day, her remark caused many at the table to look at her in surprise. She continued in a meaningful tone. “I'm certain my mother meant that she believes her high expectations of you will be entirely justified, Mr. Scott.”
“I know what she meant,” Logan assured her, his blue eyes touched with a flicker of amusement, the first she had seen from him that day.
The meal concluded with a course of cheese, wine, and fruit, and then the men enjoyed glasses of port and thick cigars while the ladies withdrew for tea and conversation. The Duchess of Leeds took the opportunity to speak to Madeline privately, as they occupied chairs slightly removed from the others. It was the first time they had seen each other since Madeline had left the Capital.
“Congratulations, Maddy,” Julia said. “I hope you'll both find a great deal of happiness in your marriage.”
Madeline responded with a wan smile. “Considering how it began, I don't see how that will be possible.”
Julia clucked in sympathy. “Yours isn't the first marriage to begin under less-than-perfect circumstances—nor will it be the last. I believe that having a wife and child will benefit Logan in ways he doesn't begin to suspect.”
“He'll never forgive me for what I did,” Madeline said. “And I don't blame him.”
“Nonsense. I'm certain you must realize that Logan still loves you, Maddy. It's only that he's afraid to trust you again. I hope you'll be patient with him. I don't expect it will be easy. He's stubborn enough to try a saint, you know.” Her manner became brisk and encouraging as she continued. “I don't know if Logan has told you yet, but he has asked me to help you plan a ball, to be held no later than a month from now.”
“But why?”
“To show you off to all of London, of course.”
Madeline was dismayed, the blood draining from her face. “But everyone will be looking at me and whispering—”
“It doesn't matter what they say,” Julia assured her. “Believe me, I've been the subject of gossip and rumors for years, and now that you are married to a man as well-known as Logan, so will you. You'll become accustomed to it after a while.”
Mrs. Florence approached them and seated herself, declining Julia's offer of assistance. She looked queenly in a dark-blue gown trimmed in tiers of lace, with ropes of heavy pearls twined around her throat and wrists. They exchanged a few pleasant remarks about the service, as well as the splendor of Logan's estate.
“Actors are notoriously helpless when it comes to financial matters,” Mrs. Florence remarked, glancing at their luxurious surroundings with an inexplicable flash of pride. “It seems your husband is an exception to that rule, Maddy. You're a very fortunate woman.”
“I'm fortunate for many reasons,” Madeline replied with a forced smile that didn't deceive her two companions.
“Yes, you are,” Mrs. Florence said softly, the lines at the corners of her eyes deepening in affectionate amusement. “And this will all become easier in time, child. I promise you that.”
Madeline took a deep breath and relaxed a little. Strange, that the two were able to give her the comfort that her own mother and sister hadn't even attempted to offer. Impulsively her hand sought Mrs. Florence's. “Thank you for coming to my wedding, ma'am. Your presence has made the day easier for me.”
“I must say, I wouldn't have missed your wedding to Mr. Scott for all the world. You've opened many doors for me, child, ones I'm certain you can't even begin to guess.” Mrs. Florence seemed pleased by the younger women's puzzled expressions.
“What doors?” Julia asked, and laughed as she shook an admonishing finger at her friend. “You look like a cat who found the cream-pot. I must know why.”
“Perhaps someday,” came the placid reply. Mrs. Florence would say no more after that; she only drank a cup of tea and continued to glance around the room with obvious satisfaction.
Madeline wasn't conscious of when the guests departed, only that they seemed to drift away until there was no one left but servants efficiently whisking away all traces of the wedding…and Logan, who was disturbingly matter-of-fact about her presence in his home. Leisurely he sat at the dining table and finished a cigar, stretching out his legs. Madeline occupied a chair nearby, still dressed in her wedding attire, a pale pink gown adorned at the throat and waist with roses of a deeper shade.
Were it not for her strained nerves, she would have enjoyed sitting there with the earthy scent of his cigar drifting to her. The house was blessedly quiet now, and the ordeal of making small talk was over. However, there was another ordeal yet to come, and when or if it would happen was completely up to Logan.
His gaze moved over her with detached interest, in the same way he might regard a painting or sculpture. Madeline felt certain that Julia's assurance that he still loved her was completely untrue. No man could look at a woman he loved as if she were merely a belonging that he could pick up or set aside at will. She thought up a hundred different conversational openings and discarded each one. How odd, that the silences between them had once been so comfortable, when now they were so stiff and strained.
“A room has been prepared for you,” Logan finally said, flicking the tip of the cigar into a molded bronze dish. “Have one of the servants show you upstairs.”
“Then we won't be sharing—”
“No. We'll occupy separate rooms. As you know, I tend to come and go at unconventional hours. I won't disturb your rest if we sleep in different beds.”
And I won't disturb your privacy, Madeline thought, but held her tongue. “That is very considerate,” she murmured, standing up. Logan stood as well, every inch the courteous host.
“Naturally I reserve the right to visit you from time to time,” he remarked.
Madeline nodded with hard-won composure. “What about tonight?” she asked, her voice shaking a little.
His blue eyes held no expression as they gleamed through a thin haze of smoke. “Come to my room when you're ready for bed.”
Madeline swallowed hard. “Very well.”
Logan occupied his chair again as soon as she reached the threshold. Madeline felt his gaze on her even after she was out of sight, as if the heat of it had left a brand on the middle of her back.
The extra bedroom in Logan's private suite had been enlarged, one wall having been removed to double its size. Gleaming white and gold brocade covered the walls, while oil paintings framed in gold had been hung in artful groupings. There was a scene of children at play, and several others of women and children in domestic settings.
Taking pleasure in the feminine decor, Madeline wandered about the room, noting every change, including the gold clock on the fireplace mantel, the intricate lace on the cream silk counterpane, and the sewing workbox in the corner, inlaid with mother of pearl.
Although she hadn't yet rung for a maid, one appeared to help her change out of her wedding gown. Madeline sat before the dressing table in her high-necked nightgown, lost in her thoughts as the servant brushed her long golden-brown locks.
The maid said something, and Madeline looked up with a flustered smile. “What?” she asked. “I'm afraid I wasn't paying attention.”
“I asked if there was anything else you needed, Mrs. Scott.”
“Mrs. Scott,” Madeline repeated with a faltering smile. “You're the first one who's called me that.”
The housemaid returned her smile and bobbed a curts
y before leaving the room.
Madeline stared at her own ashen complexion and automatically pinched and patted her cheeks to bring color to them. Surely there was no reason to be afraid of Logan. He wouldn't harm her, if for no other reason than her carrying his child. On the other hand, he could make things very unpleasant for her. He was her husband now, and she was completely at his mercy. No one would intervene on her behalf, whether he chose to be cruel or kind.
Madeline stood and checked the long row of buttons that fastened the front of her white linen robe. Lifting her chin resolutely, she left her room.
Logan's room was only a few doors away, filled with the flickering light from the fireplace. He was half-reclining on the bed, leaning against the headboard with his hands clasped behind his dark head. He was naked beneath the sheet, every angle of his aroused body clearly defined. The fireglow made his face gleam like freshly cast metal. Approaching the bed, Madeline stopped a few yards away as she heard the deep rumble of his voice.
“Take off your robe.”
She looked at him in confusion.
“Go on,” he murmured, his eyes glittering like those of a stalking beast.
Understanding what he wanted, Madeline tried to comply, but her fingers were stiff. Logan waited with unnatural patience, silent and watchful. Madeline fumbled with the long row of tiny buttons, freeing them from the silk loops. When the task was completed, she drew her arms from the long sleeves and let the robe drop to the floor. She was dressed only in her thin gown. Her skin seemed to burn as she realized that the light from the fire shone through the garment, illuminating every detail of her body.
“The rest,” Logan said inexorably.
She stared at his taut face and reached for the fastenings at the back of her neck. The sense of being a possession, an object on display, was overwhelming. If Logan meant to humiliate her, he was succeeding. Grasping handfuls of the delicate fabric, she began to lift it over her head and hesitated. She couldn't.
“Now,” came her husband's suddenly thick voice.
Holding her breath, Madeline obeyed in a decisive motion, lifting off the nightgown and casting it to the floor! The cold air seemed to penetrate every inch of her skin, raising goosebumps on her naked flesh and shrinking her nipples into hard points. Dry-mouthed, she stood before him with her hands clenched at her sides, while he stared at her.
“I…I'm cold,” she whispered desperately, longing for something, anything, that she could use to cover herself.
“So I see,” Logan replied, his gaze lingering at her breasts. Unfolding his hands from behind his head, he turned back the sheet and gestured for her to come to him.
Madeline couldn't keep from covering herself as she walked toward him, one arm clasped across her breasts, the other hand protecting the shadowed place between her thighs.
The gesture seemed to amuse Logan, his breath deepening audibly as she reached the bed.
“There's no need for modesty, my sweet. You'll have no secrets left before the night is through.”
Her teeth chattered as she crawled onto the mattress and lay on the smooth, slick linen. Every muscle in her body was tightly bunched. Logan's huge, warm hand slid over her hip, his touch making her flinch. Contrary to her fears, he was very gentle, almost impersonal, as he pulled her against him. He traced the lines of her body with the expertise of a sculptor, his fingertips light and gentle.
But there was a detached quality in the way he touched her, and Madeline realized that the impassioned lover she remembered from before had been replaced by a calculating stranger. He made love to her in a purely physical sense, with his emotions locked firmly away. If only she could be similarly unaffected…but she couldn't hold back a whimper of pleasure as his mouth found the aching tip of her breast, while at the same time his hand slid between her thighs. His fingers delved through a thatch of silken curls, parted the tender lips and skimmed through gathering moisture.
Madeline writhed beneath his caress, arching her breast up to the persistent tugging of his mouth while the sensations climbed higher and higher. Words trembled on the edge of her lips, and it took all her power to keep them from spilling out…I love you…love you…but he didn't want her love.
Just as the piercing ecstasy began to sweep over her, Logan pulled away. Filled with an intolerable ache, Madeline gasped out a protest and reached for him, only to find herself being pushed back to the mattress. She saw the outline of his head and shoulders above her, and for a moment she feared that he intended to leave her like this, shamed and trembling with need. “Please—” she began, her voice not sounding like her own.
“Hush.” He touched her lips with fingers that carried her own intimate scent.
Madeline bit her lip and lay still, her lungs rising and falling rapidly. She jerked as she felt Logan's warm mouth just below her breasts, drifting to her stomach Unsteadily she touched his head, her fingers curling in his rich dark locks. Logan pushed her hand away and continued his path across her body, investigating with lips, teeth, and tongue…finding the sensitive hollow of her navel…the rise of her hip…the tender crease of her inner thigh.
“No,” she gasped as he reached that sensitive area, and she twisted away with a shudder. She had never imagined that he would do such a thing. “No—”
But Logan caught her and pinned her in place, his grip tight on her wrists. “Don't ever say that word to me again,” he said, his voice steely. “Not in bed, or out of it.”
The statement shocked her. She understood that she had hurt him, and that this was the form of his revenge, to inflict his will on her. “You mustn't,” she managed to say, her wrists straining in his grasp. “I don't want that.”
Logan laughed, the sound mocking her as he bent his head once more. Madeline's eyes pricked with tears of fury and shame, and she felt his mouth on her, there where she had never imagined it, never thought it possible. Although she tried to close her thighs, her traitorous body disobeyed, spreading wide to receive him. His lips were hot, burning her, his tongue a sleek invasion that made her groan and cry out in mortifying pleasure. She ceased to be herself, reduced to a wanton creature who clung and arched with frantic need until a great rolling wave of climax came over her, leaving her limp and weak in its aftermath.
Before the glow of sensation had faded, Logan moved his body over hers. She felt him enter her, and she tried to protest the massive intrusion, pushing feebly at his chest. He forced himself inside her swollen depths until she groaned in surrender and opened to him. The rhythm began, a slow, steady thrusting that sent her beleaguered senses whirling out of control once again.
Madeline turned her face into the hard curve of his neck and shoulder, feeling somehow that this act had made her his in a way that their other time had not. Then, Logan had been a partner, a teacher, a beloved friend. This time he was her master, dominating her body and soul.
The pleasure overtook her once again, like fire dissolving inside her, and she gasped against his taut throat. Logan drove inside her one final time, burying himself deeply, his large body shuddering in release. The perspiration from his skin sealed them together, arms and legs wrapped in a tight embrace. Somehow it reassured Madeline to feel Logan tremble slightly, to feel his breath strike her skin and his heart pound in his chest. No matter how he tried, he wasn't able to stay indifferent to her. He relaxed over her, and she welcomed his heavy weight until he rolled away with a sigh.
She wished that he would kiss her, caress her, even hold her hand for a moment, but he refrained from touching her. Abruptly the room was chilly again. Madeline reached for the sheet and covers, pulling them up to her shoulders. Perplexed, she wondered if he wanted her to leave.
“Shall I go now?” she asked.
Logan took a long time to answer. “No. I may have need of you again tonight.”
Her mouth compressed at the arrogant command, but she rested back against the pillows. Be patient with him, Julia had advised…well, it was certainly worth the effort. She
would try to atone for the past—she owed that to him. She turned on her side to watch his profile in the firelight. Logan's eyes were closed, but she sensed that it took a long time for him to fall asleep, and she could only guess at the thoughts that occupied him.
In the decade since Logan had started the Capital Theatre, lovingly reconstructing and refurbishing the old set of buildings; assembled a company of actors, musicians, painters, carpenters, costumiers, sceneshifters, property men, stage managers, and the like; and trained the lot of them to his satisfaction…he had never been late to rehearsal. Until this morning.
He usually awoke easily, but this morning he had been drowsy and dream-fogged…and when he had seen Madeline sleeping beside him, he hadn't been able to stop himself from reaching for her. He had made love to her while she had yawned and purred like a sleepy kitten. Only afterward had he realized how late it was.
Cursing and scowling, Logan had dressed with lightning speed and raced in his carriage to reach the theater as quickly as possible. However, he arrived a full forty-five minutes after the designated hour, and he winced as he strode through the back entrance and headed to the greenroom. The company would doubtless mutter and grumble about his lateness. They were entitled to complain. He had never hesitated to fine any of them for the same offense.
The greenroom was empty save for Jeff, the shopboy. “Mr. Scott!” he exclaimed. “We all wondered if you were coming today—”
“Where is everyone?” Logan interrupted, a scowl pulling at his face.
“Onstage, sir. The duchess took it on herself to rehearse 'em, seeing as how you weren't here.”
Logan nodded shortly and went through the door leading to the backstage area. He was aware of a ripple of hasty mutters, and a bit of scuffling as he approached the stage. Squaring his shoulders, he came out of the wing—and stopped short as he saw the entire company waiting in a semicircle with glasses and cups in their hands. There was the sound of corks popping, and the crew grinned like idiots as they confronted him. “Congratulations!” someone shouted, while at the same time another voice laughingly accused, “You're late!”