Because You're Mine (Capital Theatre #2)(40)

“That is very kind of you,” Madeline replied. “But I want to be here if Mr. Scott needs me—”

“I'll watch over him until you return,” the housekeeper assured her. “You'll need a few hours of sleep. Miss Ridley, in order to be fresh for tomorrow.”

The point was well taken. Madeline was exhausted, and there were many long hours, even days, ahead before the fever would run its course. “Thank you,” she said, and the housekeeper showed her to a guest room only a few doors away.

Her gowns and other garments had been put away in a mahogany armoire. The bed was covered by a blue silk canopy that matched the embroidered counterpane. Madeline declined the offer of a maid to help her change, preferring to undress herself.

Donning a prim white nightgown with rows of pleats at the neck, Madeline climbed into bed. It seemed that she had never been so tired. Sleep claimed her immediately, the welcome darkness filling her mind.

At the first ray of morning light, Madeline snapped awake, feeling somewhat refreshed. Eagerly she reached for the robe that matched her nightgown and hurried to Logan's room, her bare feet quickly chilled in the cold morning air. A maid was lighting a fire in the grate while Mrs. Beecham collected a pile of damp linens that had been used to cool Logan during the night.

There were smudges beneath the housekeeper's eyes, and her forehead was tracked with lines that had not been there the previous day.

“There is no change,” she said in answer to Madeline's unspoken question.

Madeline went to the bed and stared down at Logan. His skin was dry and burning, his lips slightly chapped. The suit of flannels had been removed, and a single sheet rode low on his waist, exposing the muscled lines of his torso, the dark patches of hair beneath his arms, the hollow of his navel. She had never seen a na**d man before. Her gaze strayed to the area of his body covered by the sheet, the endless length of his legs, the intimate shape of his loins draped with thin white linen. Her cheeks prickled with a modest blush, and she turned to find Mrs. Beecham's gaze on her.

“You're not his ‘companion,’ as you claimed,” the housekeeper said with quiet conviction. “Whatever you are to him…you're not his mistress.”

Six

Caught off-guard, Madeline couldn't reply at first. Her heart changed its rhythm, and she tried to think above its rapid thundering. “How can you be certain?”

Mrs. Beecham smiled. “Everything about you proclaims it. Your nightgown, for one thing…a garment intended only for sleeping. Your manner, the way you look at him…it's clear that you haven't been intimate with him. You're a well-bred girl, barely out of the schoolroom. There is a particular kind of woman that suits Mr. Scott's taste…the kind that wears silk peignoirs and sleeps until two o'clock in the afternoon and would never lower herself to the drudgery of nursing a sick man. You are not his mistress.”

“I work at the Capital,” Madeline admitted. “Not as an actress…I'm only an assistant. But I am Mr. Scott's friend. At least, I hope he considers me as such.”

“And you're in love with him,” Mrs. Beecham remarked.

“Oh, no,” Madeline said, feeling the blood leave her face. “As I said, my feeling toward him is friendship…and admiration, of course—”

“You've gone to a great deal of trouble, and placed your own health at risk, only for the sake of friendship?”

Stricken, Madeline stared at her. Her throat felt tight, and the dull ache of the night before had worked its way back into her chest.

“Well, there's no need to discuss it,” Mrs. Beecham said, seeming touched by whatever she saw in Madeline's face. “Your reasons for being here are none of my concern. You may stay as long as you wish…until Mr. Scott says otherwise.”

Madeline nodded and sat down, feeling for the edges of the chair before lowering herself into it.

“He hasn't eaten for a while,” she heard the housekeeper remark. “I'll send up some milk toast. Perhaps you can coax him to take some.”

Madeline was only half aware of the woman's departure. She stared at the sleeping man's profile. This morning there was a shadow of bristle on his face, imparting the swarthiness of a sea captain or highwayman.

Taking his large hand between hers, she stroked the smooth back until she reached his hair-dusted wrist. His hand was strong and well-tended, the nails short and buffed to velvety smoothness. There were no rings on his fingers, only the white marks of a few nicks and scars. She remembered the touch of his hand on her face, her breast…the gentle brush of his fingertips.

Madeline wanted him to caress her again. She wanted things from him that she could never have. She wasn't aware that she had lowered her head to his hand until she felt his skin against her lips. Turning his palm up, she pressed her mouth to the creased hollow and tasted the salt of her own tears.

Logan would never want her…he had made that clear enough. And she had made any sort of trust between them impossible by approaching him with lies and an assumed name, and making him the object of a sordid plan. How could a man with his pride forgive her for such behavior? He couldn't.

She had never felt this kind of pain—persistent, heavy, crushing out every fragile flicker of happiness inside her. How ironic that she had pursued her goal with such cool determination, and ended up with her heart broken. She had always understood the social and even physical risks she was taking, but never the emotional ones. She hadn't planned on falling in love with Logan.