Because You're Mine (Capital Theatre #2)(65)

Trailing his hand down her body, Logan reached her stomach, then went still, his hand flattening over the place where she carried his seed. The thought that his child lay within her was a cold shock of reality. He rolled away and left the bed.

“Get dressed,” he said, making his expression blank. He headed toward the door. “I'll send for Dr. Brooke.”

“Logan…” Her use of his name caused his back to stiffen. “I've wanted to tell you…I'm sorry for what I did.”

“You'll be even sorrier in the future,” he said softly. “You can count on that.”

Strangely, it was not Dr. Brooke's examination that Madeline found humiliating, but rather Logan's presence in the room. He stood in the corner and watched the proceedings impassively, if seeming to expect that her claim of pregnancy would be revealed as a lie. She fixed her gaze on the ceiling, concentrating on the pattern of Grecian moldings. Somewhere inside there was a wild hope that she was mistaken, that there was no baby. But the awareness of life within her was undeniable, and she knew what Dr. Brooke's verdict would be.

She wondered if Logan would be a kind father, or if his animosity toward her would also extend to the baby. No—she couldn't imagine that he would an innocent child responsible for something that wasn't its fault. Perhaps time would soften him…it was her only hope.

The doctor stepped away from the bed and regarded her with a grave, vaguely disapproving expression that made her heart sink. “From what my examination has revealed, Miss Ridley, and what you've told me of your last monthly flux, I would expect the baby will arrive sometime at the end of June.”

Madeline slowly pulled the robe around herself. She didn't bother to correct the name he had used, reluctant to explain the situation to him. To her relief, Logan also refrained from mentioning her real name.

“Perhaps fatherhood will be good for you,” Dr. Brooke said to Logan. “It will give you something to think about besides that blessed theater.”

“No doubt,” Logan muttered without enthusiasm.

“If you would like to retain me as Miss Ridley's personal physician, there are a few instructions I'd like to give her—”

“By all means.” Logan stepped outside the room, suddenly feeling claustrophobic. He took no joy in the knowledge that Madeline was pregnant. The baby wasn't real to him. In fact, nothing about the situation seemed real. It was strange, however, that the rage he had felt for weeks had faded considerably since this morning. He was filled with a sense of relief that he didn't care to dwell on. Rubbing the back of his neck, he went downstairs, silently making plans. There was much to do during the next fortnight.

Mrs. Florence waited at the bottom of the stairs, staring at him expectantly. “Were Madeline's suspicions correct?” She read the answer in his eyes before he could reply. “Ah, that is wonderful news.” She smiled, her lined face suddenly glowing. “What are you thinking, to put such a sullen look on your face?”

“I'm wishing that I'd booted you out of my dressing room last night, instead of listening to you.”

Mrs. Florence laughed dryly. “I imagine Maddy is none too pleased with my interference, either. I console myself with the thought that someday you'll both thank me.”

“If I were you, I wouldn't count on that…Grandmother.” He put sarcastic emphasis on the word.

She cocked her silvery-red head and regarded him with bright eyes. “Have you begun to believe my story?”

“Not a word of it, until I go to Rochester's estate.”

“What a suspicious man you are,” she remarked. “Clearly it's from the Rochester strain in you. I've always been something of an optimist, myself.”

Logan did not touch Madeline once during the day-long trip to Gloucestershire. They sat in opposite seats, the conversation sporadic and filled with long silences. Madeline's maid, Norma, followed behind them in a second vehicle to allow them privacy.

“How is the theater?” Madeline asked.

Logan glanced at her in a way that was both defensive and accusing, as if he thought she was trying to mock him. “Haven't you read the Times?” he asked sardonically.

“I'm afraid not. I've been closed away from the world while my parents have tried to decide what to do with me.” Her brow creased with concern. “Hasn't the season gone well so far?”

“No,” he said curtly. “The critics have been sharpening their pens with glee.”

“But why—”

“The fault is mine,” he muttered.

“I don't understand,” she exclaimed, bewildered. “During rehearsals you were so brilliant, and I thought…” Her voice trailed away as she realized that the two plays in question had been launched after she had left London. She remembered the strange, blank look on his face the morning she had left him, and she was wrenched with regret. So this was yet another way in which she had caused him harm. “You were very ill, and so was a large portion of the company,” she murmured. “I'm certain that in time you and the Capital will regain your abilities—”

“I don't need you to make bloody excuses for me,” he snapped.

“Of course. I…I'm sorry.”

A sneer swept over his face. “I hate to bruise your vanity, sweet, but my professional difficulties have nothing to do with you. After you left, I found it surprisingly easy to put you out of mind, until your champion Mrs. Florence came to my dressing room last night.”