Because You're Mine (Capital Theatre #2)(3)

“Madeline,” Agnes exclaimed, “retrieve that at once! I will not abide such childish tantrums. You will wear that ring from now on—and you will take pride in it!”

“It doesn't fit,” Madeline said stonily. Remembering the feel of Clifton's wet mouth on hers, she scrubbed her sleeve across her face until her lips and chin were raw. “I won't marry him, Mama. I'll kill myself first.”

“Don't be dramatic, Madeline.” Agnes bent and picked up the ring, holding it as if it were priceless. “I hope that being married to a man as solid and earthbound as Lord Clifton will rid you of such wild outbursts.”

“Earthbound,” Madeline whispered with a bitter smile. She found it incredible that her mother could sum up all the repulsive qualities in Clifton with such a banal word. “Just the quality every girl dreams of in the man she marries.”

For once it was a relief to return to the academy, where there were no males except for the dancing instructor who came to tutor the girls once a week. Madeline walked along the narrow hallway with a hatbox in hand. The rest of her belongings would be brought upstairs later. Reaching the room she shared with her best friend, Eleanor Sinclair, she came upon a crowd of a half-dozen girls settled on the beds and chairs. As Madeline was the oldest student at Mrs. Allbright's academy, and Eleanor was the second-oldest at seventeen, they were frequently visited by the younger girls, who considered them mature and worldly.

The girls appeared to be sharing a tin of biscuits and exclaiming over some colored print that Eleanor held. Noticing Madeline's arrival, Eleanor gave her a welcoming smile. “How was Lord Clifton?” she asked, having known before Madeline's departure of the planned meeting with her betrothed.

“Even worse than I expected,” Madeline replied shortly, walking to her own narrow bed, which was placed opposite Eleanor's. She dropped the hatbox to the floor and sat on the edge of the mattress, wishing that the girls would leave so she could talk privately with her friend.

Soon, Eleanor's friendly gaze promised, while the other girls continued to huddle in their excited circle.

“Just look at him,” one of them exclaimed breathlessly. “Can you imagine what it would be like to actually meet him?”

“I would faint,” someone else declared, and they all giggled.

“He's the most handsome—”

“He looks like a highwayman—”

“Yes, there's something in the eyes…”

Madeline shook her head at the flurry of feminine sighs. “What in heaven's name are you looking at?” she asked, her glumness replaced by growing curiosity.

“Let Madeline see—”

“But I haven't gotten a proper look yet—”

“Here, Madeline.” Eleanor brought the colored print to her. “My older sister gave it to me. It's the most difficult-to-find print in London. Everyone wants a copy.”

Madeline's gaze fell on the picture. The longer she stared at it, the more fascinated she became. The man's face could have belonged to a king, a sea captain, or an outlaw…someone powerful…someone dangerous. He was not classically handsome—his features were too bold. There was a lionesque quality about his lean face, his gaze narrow and piercing, his wide mouth set with the hint of an ironic smile. The color of his hair was indeterminately brown in the print, but it appeared to be thick and slightly rumpled.

The other girls waited for her to blush and giggle as they had been doing, but Madeline kept all sign of emotion from showing. “Who is he?” she asked Eleanor calmly.

“Logan Scott.”

“The actor?”

“Yes, the one who owns the Capital Theatre.”

A strange feeling came over Madeline as she continued to stare at him. She had heard about Logan Scott, but she had never seen his likeness before now. At the age of thirty, Scott was an actor of international fame, surpassing the standards set by David Garrick and Edmund Kean. Some even said he had not yet reached the height of his powers. Among his attributes was a voice that was reputed to stroke the ears like velvet or set fire to the air with its crackling intensity.

It was said that women pursued him everywhere, enthralled not only by his skillful stage performances as the romantic hero, but even more by his portrayal of archvillains. He excelled as Iago or Barabbas…he was the consummate seducer, betrayer, and manipulator, and women adored him for it.

A man in his prime, attractive, cultured…everything Lord Clifton was not. Madeline was wrenched with sudden longing. Logan Scott inhabited a world she would never be part of. She would never meet him or anyone like him…she would never flirt and laugh and dance, never be seduced by a man's tender words or a lover's touch.

As she stared at Logan Scott's face, a wild, mad idea came to her—one that made her fingers tremble.

“Madeline, what's the matter?” Eleanor asked in concern, taking the print from her. “You're so white all of a sudden, and you look very strange—”

“I'm just tired,” Madeline said, forcing a smile to her face. She wanted to be alone; she needed time to think. “The weekend was a strain. Perhaps if I rest for a while—”

“Yes, of course. Come, girls—we'll meet in someone else's room.” Considerately Eleanor herded the crowd out the door and paused before closing it. “Madeline, is there anything you need?”