by Lisa Kleypas
It took a moment for Madeline to gather her wits. It appeared that she had married into a fortune greater than that of her parents or either of her sisters, and larger by far than Lord Clifton's.
Logan watched her expression and laughed suddenly, as if he could read her thoughts. “Before you get too high for your buttons, madam, remember that I'm not a member of the peerage, and none of your children will have titles.”
“That doesn't matter to me,” Madeline replied, while her heart quickened at the implication that they would have more children.
“It may to them.”
“They won't need titles to distinguish them. They'll learn to stand on their own accomplishments, as you have.”
“Why, Mrs. Scott.” His mouth curved in a mocking smile. “I believe you're trying to flatter me.”
As he shifted her on his lap, Madeline felt the hard ridge of his sex straining beneath her, and she flushed. Although his advances were hardly unwelcome, it was improper behavior for the middle of the day. One of the servants might walk in, or someone might pay a call. “Logan,” she said faintly as his mouth slid along her throat, “I…have so many things to do…”
“So do I.” He began to unfasten the front of her gown, brushing away her hands as she tried to deter him.
“What if one of the maids comes in?” Madeline asked, quivering as he slid his hand inside her bodice to fondle her breast.
“I'll tell her to leave.” He reached beneath her skirts, his fingers delving inside her linen undergarments and searching the most sensitive parts of her body. His eyes narrowed in excitement as he pulled her to straddle him, and there was a rending sound as he tore the delicate fabric of her drawers.
“Not here…let's go upstairs,” Madeline begged, turning scarlet with distress. His body was hard and powerful between her thighs, sleek muscles flexing as he positioned her to ride him.
“Here,” Logan countered, reaching down to unfasten his trousers. A short, breathless laugh escaped him as she squirmed on his lap. “Stop watching the damned door.”
“I can't help it.” She gasped as she felt him enter her, a hard pressure that slid easily within her moist depths. “Oh, we shouldn't—”
“Put your arms around me,” he said, his voice guttural. Muttering instructions, he guided her with his hands as she rode up and down his swollen length.
Madeline's eyes closed with pleasure, her hands clawing over his waistcoat and shirt, groping blindly for his solid shoulders. They strained and arched together, while Logan muffled her soft groans with his mouth. She would never have believed herself capable of it…wantonly straddling him, thrusting herself on him, discarding every scrap of propriety that had been instilled in her every day of her adult life. But Logan encouraged, demanded, that she abandon all shame in his arms. He filled her with each downward push, the current of pleasure rising higher and faster, until she shook with spasms of ecstasy. Logan's body went taut beneath her. The crescent of his teeth pressed into her shoulder, the hint of pain somehow intensifying her shivering delight.
Afterward, while Madeline collapsed against his chest, Logan smiled into her disheveled hair. “All those mornings at the Capital, when you helped me with those piles of correspondence…I wanted to do this with you.”
“This?” Madeline repeated, lifting her head to look at him drowsily. She felt disoriented, giddy, as if she had been drinking. “I had no idea.”
“If you would have looked in the right place, madam, you would have seen ample evidence.”
“Oh.” Raising herself on her elbows, she smiled at him. “In that case, I insist that you have no female secretaries.”
“You're the only woman I want,” Logan said gruffly, fighting the urge to cuddle her like a kitten and give voice to the endearments that filled his mind. His face hardened, and he heard himself add…“For now.”
Logan kept his expression blank as he watched the glow fade from her eyes. Carefully Madeline disentangled herself from him and began to straighten her clothes. Although Logan regretted the hurtful words, they had been necessary. Better to spoil the moment between them than to let her think she was important to him. He had made the mistake of trusting her once. There would not be a second time.
Thirteen
On the evening of the ball, Madeline stood before the mirror in her private dressing room while a maid fastened the row of buttons at the back of her gown.
Mrs. Beecham, wearing an elegant black dress with a snowy white apron, had come upstairs to assist in the final preparations. “Splendid,” the housekeeper exclaimed, standing back to view her. “You'll be the loveliest woman here tonight, Mrs. Scott. The master won't be able to take his eyes from you.”
Madeline smiled, though her heart was beating anxiously. “Have all the flowers been delivered? Has anyone visited the kitchens recently?”
“Everything has been taken care of,” Mrs. Beecham assured her. “The house is filled with heavenly flowers, and Cook appears to have outdone herself. The guests will think they're visiting paradise—and when you appear to greet them, Mr. Scott will be the most envied man in London.”
Nervously Madeline held a hand to her midriff. The flat surface of her stomach had swelled to a gentle curve, but her scarlet velvet gown had been designed to conceal her condition. A tightly fitted bodice followed the slender outline of her body before flowing into an array of rustling skirts. The gown was startlingly simple, its only adornment three ruby clasps that held the front of the bodice together, above which her breasts rose in creamy white splendor.
The scarlet hue of the ball gown became her, making her skin look like porcelain and complementing the amber color of her eyes. Her golden-brown hair had been pinned at the crown of her head in heavy loops and curls, displaying the slim length of her neck.
Logan entered the room in a few strides and stopped abruptly. He was a magnificent sight in black-and-white formal wear, with a blue-gray waistcoat of richly textured silk. His eyes, the most striking shade of blue Madeline had ever seen, flickered with some disquieting emotion as he stared at her. When he spoke, his voice held a deeper timbre than usual.
“I hope these are to your liking.” He held out a black jeweler's box to her. Pleased and surprised by the unexpected gift, Madeline moved forward to receive it.
Smiling, Mrs. Beecham ushered the maid from the room and closed the door, leaving them in privacy.
Madeline gasped in amazement as she opened the box, discovering a ruby-and-gold necklace strung in glittering loops, and matching pendants for her ears. “How beautiful! I didn't expect…” Her gaze lifted to his. “You're very generous. Thank you, Logan.”
A touch of color burnished his high cheekbones. Taking the necklace from the box, he stood behind Madeline and fastened the heavy creation around her neck. She watched their reflection in the mirror, holding still as she felt his warm fingers brush her nape. It took Logan a long time to fasten the necklace; he fumbled with the intricate catch, his breath filtering through her carefully arranged curls.
Madeline attached the ruby pendants to her ears, enjoying their jaunty swinging as she turned her head. “What do you think of my gown?” she asked, facing Logan.
To her disappointment, he showed neither admiration nor approval. “It's cut too low.”
Madeline frowned slightly. “Julia has seen it, and she said it was perfect.”
“Only if you're planning to start a riot,” he muttered, his gaze pinned on her breasts.
“If you don't approve, I can change into something else—”
“No, wear the bloody thing,” he said, attempting an indifferent tone and succeeding only at sounding sullen.
Madeline bit the insides of her lips to suppress a smile. Patiently she waited as Logan continued to stare at her. “You're going to catch cold, dressed like that,” he said curtly.
“The house is very warm,” she pointed out. “I'll be perfectly fine.” She saw his fingers twitch at his side, as if he were struggling to ke
ep from touching her. “Shall we go downstairs?”
Logan responded with a surly grunt and gave her his arm, escorting her to the ballroom as if attending the lavish party were an odious duty rather than something to enjoy.
Thankfully, their guests seemed to have no reservations about taking pleasure in the event. Hundreds of people milled through the house, chattering excitedly about Logan's art collection, the sumptuous buffet tables laden with superb cuisine, the lilting music drifting from the ballroom. Massive arrangements of orchids and tiger lilies in Oriental lacquered vases filled the air with exotic perfume.
Inspired by the inescapably romantic atmosphere, couples stole away for hasty rendezvous in the mansion's many private nooks, while gossiping women clustered like flocks of animated hens. Julia had apparently selected a perfect cross section of the different worlds Logan had traversed: peers, wealthy commoners, artists, writers, and even a few politicians. It made for a lively mix—in one evening, enough scandal was being created to fill the papers and entertain the public for weeks. Gentlemen enjoyed the host's endless supply of fine liquor and cigars, and occasionally erupted into minor squabbles over the favors of an elusive female. However, no woman attracted attention more than Madeline.
She was nothing short of a revelation, chatting and smiling, drawing conversation from those around her with surprising skill. It was impossible that she could be as relaxed as she seemed. On the other hand, Logan reflected with private irony, this was what she had been trained for her entire life: to act as an accomplished society hostess. Granted, her family had not planned for their daughter to marry a man like him—but Madeline seemed to have no proper embarrassment about being the wife of an actor.
Logan felt a flicker of pride in her performance, mingled with the bitter awareness that he should have been able to offer her better than this. No matter how competent a hostess Madeline was, she would never ascend the social heights that she would have as Lord Clifton's bride. Logan didn't blame her parents for wanting a brilliant marriage for her. In fact, he felt a strange empathy with the Matthewses, especially as he watched them that night.
Madeline's parents had come to the ball with pleasant, polite facades, but underneath they must also be experiencing mingled pride and bitterness. It was obvious that Madeline was far too refined to be the wife of a man with Logan's debauched past. She was impeccably pedigreed, and she was married to a commoner. He was wealthy, to be sure, but he was no thoroughbred.
It came time for them to lead off the dancing, and Logan offered his arm to Madeline, escorting her toward the center of the room. She was more animated than he had ever seen her, her amber eyes glittering with excitement, her cheeks flushed. It was her first ball, Logan realized with a touch of surprise. Madeline had never been taken on the rounds of social events at which she would be introduced to eligible men.
“I've never really danced with a man before,” she said breathlessly, tilting her head to look up at him as he settled one hand at her waist and clasped her fingers with the other. “I had lessons at school. An instructor came once a week. I learned with another girl as a partner, and we took turns leading.”
Logan smiled at the revelation. “Why don't I lead?” he suggested dryly and nodded to the musicians. They began a lovely waltz, the melody sweeping them across the floor before Madeline realized what was happening. Logan danced as superbly as he did everything else, knowing how to display his partner to her best advantage, expertly guiding her so there was no opportunity for her to hesitate or stumble.
Madeline knew that she danced stiffly at first. She concentrated intently on following him, on not making a misstep, until Logan laughed at her absorbed expression.
“Relax,” he murmured.
“I can't—I'm too busy dancing.”
“Look up at me.”
Obeying, Madeline discovered that everything became much easier. She no longer knew or cared where he was leading her, only that his blue eyes were warm and his arms were strong. He was so powerful, his thighs brushing hers, the muscles of his shoulder hard beneath her fingers. The room dissolved in a giddy rush, and her hand tightened convulsively on his. She knew a moment of exhilaration, and her entire being was consumed with the wish that tonight would last forever.
Other couples joined in the waltz, eager to display their own facility, until the floor became crowded. As the piece concluded and a quadrille began, Logan took Madeline aside and regarded her with a faint smile. “My compliments to your instructor, madam.”
“That was wonderful,” she exclaimed, reluctant to release his hand. “Please couldn't we—”
“Would you like to—” Logan said at the same time, but they were both interrupted by a coterie of eager men of varying ages, all of whom besieged Madeline for dances. Madeline threw Logan a glance of consternation.
“It would be selfish of me to monopolize you, Mrs. Scott,” Logan said, stepping back with a forced smile as his wife was led to the floor and drawn into the quadrille pattern. It was unfashionable for a man to pay too much attention to his wife. Furthermore, it was his duty as host to dance with some of the other women present.
Logan had always enjoyed the company of women, their complexity, their intriguing variety of shapes, scents, movements…but somehow they were all lacking now. All he wanted was Madeline. His wife's sensuous appeal in that damned scarlet dress was causing him to unravel. He had never before experienced the taste of jealousy, and suddenly he was wallowing in it. If one more friend offered him meaningful congratulations, he would commit murder. Every man in the place wanted her. They were all leering at her, at her face and figure, and most of all her half-covered breasts.
Grimly Logan recalled why he had never entertained at his home before now. There was no polite way a host could make his guests leave when he wished, and no means of escaping them. If this were someone else's ball he was attending, he would have left by now. He wanted to be alone somewhere, anywhere, with Madeline. Torrid fantasies seethed in his mind. He thought of pulling up her velvet skirts and having her on one of the long tables, of undressing her in the middle of the ballroom floor and watching their reflection in the massive column-framed mirrors.
His lurid thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of his comanager. Having briefly separated herself from her husband's company, Julia came to Logan and tapped him on the shoulder. She looked as pleased as a mother hen over the progress of her chick. “Congratulations,” she said brightly. “You were fortunate to acquire a wife like Madeline.”
“So I've been told,” he growled. “A hundred times, at least.”
Julia smiled, following his gaze to Madeline, who stood several yards away in a circle of admirers. “She has a quality that you and I lack, Logan. She likes people. She takes a genuine interest in them, and they can't help responding to her.”
“I like people,” Logan muttered defensively, making Julia laugh.
“Only if you think they can be of some use to you.”
A reluctant smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. “Why is it that you've always been able to see me exactly for what I am, Julia?”
“I would never make that claim,” she countered, her turquoise eyes gleaming with amusement. “After all these years you still manage to surprise me. Your behavior where Madeline is concerned, for example. It betrays a deeply buried romantic streak I hadn't suspected.”
“Romantic,” Logan scoffed, having always prided himself on being a cynic.
“Deny it all you like,” Julia said. “It's only a matter of time until you admit that Madeline has wrapped you around her little finger.”
“Only a hundred years or so.” He scowled as she walked away. His attention returned to his distant wife, who was still surrounded by a group of admirers. Logan began to stride in her direction when he was beset by a few of the partners in his investment trust. Fidgeting inwardly, he smiled at their effusive compliments and traded a few opinions on subjects of masculine interest.
To Log
an's relief, rescue arrived in the form of Andrew, Lord Drake. Clapping a hand on one of Logan's tense shoulders, Andrew greeted him heartily and dragged him away from the group on the pretext of asking advice on an art acquisition.
“Good God, how do you stand those dullards?” Andrew asked sotto voce. “All that talk about interest rates and dividends is as exciting as a visit to the morgue.”
“Those ‘dullards,’ as you call them, are some of the most brilliant financial minds in England,” Logan said dryly. “You'd do well to spend time with them.” As he spoke, his glance returned to Madeline. She stood in the light cast by a chandelier, her pale shoulders like velvet, her piled-up hair containing every shade from gold to maple brown.
Following his gaze, Andrew grinned. “For shame, Jimmy. I thought you above such bourgeois behavior as lusting after your own wife…but as they say, blood will tell.”
Logan looked at him sharply, searching for some hidden meaning to the comment, but Andrew's blue eyes were devoid of guile. “I've never claimed to be anything but bourgeois,” Logan replied. “And one look at my wife is explanation enough.”
“I won't dispute that. After tonight, every amateur poet in London will be laboring on an ode to her. The face of an angel, the hint of scandal about your hasty nuptials…she has everything necessary to drive the public wild with curiosity.”
“And to drive me insane,” Logan muttered, making his friend chuckle.
“You've done well for yourself, Jimmy,” Andrew said, sipping from a crystal wine glass. Clearly it was not his first drink of the evening, nor would it be his last. “A most enviable life. Wealth, a fine home, a beautiful young wife—and you started out with nothing. Whereas I was given every advantage: a name, a fortune, land—and I've squandered most of it. Lately my chief occupation has been waiting for the old man to die and leave me with a nicely endowed title. With my unfortunate luck, he'll hang on 'til I'm too damned old to enjoy any of it.”