Because You're Mine (Capital Theatre #2)(39)

She studied his face, the pallor of his skin emphasizing the stark beauty of his bone structure. His lashes lay in feathery crescents on his cheeks, the eyelids trembling slightly as he drifted through fever-induced dreams. Such a proud, solitary man, rendered helpless in sleep, his lips parted like those of a child. If she were in love with him, it would devastate her to see him this way.

Madeline sat without moving, trying to understand the dull pain that had settled in her chest. If she were in love with him, the ache would never leave. The memories of him would haunt her every day for the rest of her life…because there would never be another man like him.

Briefly she thought of her own dilemma. There was so little time for her. Perhaps it was already too late, and her parents had discovered that she had left school. If they had, they would be frantic with worry. They would look for her—and once they found her, they would browbeat and threaten her until she crumpled under the pressure. She would end up as Lord Clifton's bride in spite of her best efforts to resist. Unless she were damaged goods.

She should leave here at once and find someone to have an affair with. No doubt there were far more willing targets than Logan Scott. She had never imagined it would have been so difficult to seduce him, not a man with his reputation. But she hadn't bargained on his complexity or his unexpected scruples. He had refused to dishonor her, and she wouldn't fool herself into thinking she could change his decision.

She wasn't needed here. Scott had servants to care for him, the services of an excellent doctor, more friends and acquaintances than he could count. He would recover without her help. Frowning, Madeline watched him sleep for a long time. She sat by the bed, changing the cloth on his forehead or spooning a few drops of tonic between his lips when the cough became troublesome.

Every now and then a servant came to ask if Madeline required anything, but she refused. Except for those brief intrusions, it seemed that there was no world outside the bedroom. Minutes stretched into hours, until the afternoon sky began to fade and evening shadows approached.

Just as Madeline considered sending for some beef tea, Scott began to waken. He stirred and blinked, his eyes fever-bright. Gently Madeline removed the damp cloth from his head and resumed her seat on the edge of the bed. “Mr. Scott,” she said, smiling at him.

He stared at her as if she were a figure in a dream, his expression curious and slightly detached, and then an answering smile hovered on his lips. He spoke in a rusty voice punctuated with harsh coughs. “It seems…I'll never get rid of you.”

Madeline poured a glass of water and helped him to drink, keeping her hand on the glass and sliding her arm behind his head. Unsteadily he leaned back against her supporting arm as he took a few listless swallows. He was very heavy, and the muscles in her arm began to strain from holding him. When he had had enough, he turned his face away, and she eased him back to the pillow.

“Would you like me to leave?” she asked softly.

He closed his eyes, taking so long to answer that she thought he might have fallen asleep once more.

“Stay,” he finally said.

“Is there someone I should send for to take care of you? A friend or relative—”

“No. I want you.” He closed his eyes, the conversation finished. His fingers curled in a fold of her gown.

Despite her worry, Madeline wanted to smile. Even in his sickbed, he was as commanding as ever. For some reason, he wanted her to remain. He trusted her. She had no more thought of leaving. “Logan,” she murmured, testing his name on her lips.

Somehow, after her ambitious scheme had failed, she found herself standing watch in a sickroom. Nothing had gone according to plan. Strangest of all, she didn't even care about her own problems. All she wanted was to see Logan well again.

She went to the writing table positioned beneath one of the windows, and wrote a note to Mrs. Florence, explaining the situation. Folding it neatly, she sealed the letter with a stick of brown wax, then rang for a maid and gave her the letter to be delivered to Mrs. Florence's residence on Somerset Street. “Please send a footman to collect my belongings,” she added, and the housemaid bobbed in a curtsy before departing.

Madeline returned to her bedside vigil. It seemed that Logan's condition deteriorated by the hour, the fever strengthening its hold and advancing stealthily. He was too groggy to argue as she fed him sips of beef tea. After Madeline's persistent efforts, he had managed to eat perhaps half a cup of the nourishing broth; then he fell asleep once more.

Somewhere in the house a large clock chimed twelve times, its tone deep and sonorous. Despite herself Madeline grew weary, her head bobbing as a wave of sleepiness nearly overcame her. She stood and stretched in an effort to waken herself, turning with a start as she heard someone enter the room.

Mrs. Beecham and the valet approached the bed. “How is he?” the housekeeper asked in a friendlier manner than she had used before. It seemed that she had adjusted to the idea of Madeline's presence and had decided to set aside her suspicions.

“The fever is worse.”

“That is what Dr. Brooke said to expect,” Mrs. Beecham replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “Mr. Scott's valet, Denis, is going to assist me in sponging him with cold water. Perhaps that will help to bring the fever down. You may wish to rest for a few hours. I thought you would like to occupy the small bedroom in Mr. Scott's private suite.”