Because You're Mine (Capital Theatre #2)(78)

The scene erupted into a chorus of laughter and cheers, and glasses clinked busily as frothy champagne was poured. A cup of champagne was pressed into Logan's hand, and he felt his mouth pulling into a crooked smile. “Are we celebrating my tardiness or my wedding?” he asked.

Julia came forward as she replied, her lovely face wreathed in amusement. “Let's say that both have been a long time in coming. Take care, Mr. Scott—or we all might begin to think that you're human.”

“I believe we can all agree on that point,” Logan replied. “And I want it understood that I intend to fine myself for being late.”

“Oh, that's all right,” Arlyss Barry said cheekily, “we used the cashbox in your office to pay for the champagne.”

The crew laughed gustily, and Logan shook his head, the smile remaining on his lips.

“To the Capital Theatre Company!” one of them cried merrily. “A bunch of thieving drunkards.”

Amid the general round of amusement, Logan raised his own glass. “To Mrs. Scott,” he said, and they all drank and agreed vociferously.

“Hear! Hear!”

“God bless Mrs. Scott!”

“Lord take pity on her!” someone added, and the revelers chuckled into their champagne.

Twelve

Perhaps it had been the champagne, or the will generated by news of his wedding, or merely Logan's own grudging good mood, but the atmosphere at the Capital Theatre was a hundred times improved. Logan couldn't recall when a rehearsal had gone so well. The actors were alert and responsive, and the crew performed their jobs with energy and close attention to detail. As for himself…it was as if some vital essence had been restored.

The knowledge that Madeline was waiting at home, that he was free to touch her, see her, make love to her whenever he wished, filled him with a satisfaction that he was hard-pressed to conceal. Not that he was prepared to admit any hint of love or forgiveness…he wasn't nearly ready for that. But he was fully aware that her presence in his life was necessary to his very existence. Last night, and today, had been proof of that. In the space of twenty-four hours he had returned to his old self, able once more to take the reins at the Capital with ease.

“Excellent,” Julia had said to him during rehearsal—she, who never praised his abilities because she claimed there was no need to inflate his self-opinion any further. They were rehearsing a new piece entitled The Rose, the story of an old man reliving the memories of his tumultuous life. “You nearly brought tears to my eyes during your monologue about remembering how it feels to be young,” she told him.

“It's a well-written part,” Logan replied, walking backstage with her as they headed to their respective offices.

“And you play it brilliantly,” Julia said, her turquoise eyes filled with speculation. She smiled slightly. “It seems you've recaptured whatever it was that's been missing. It's because of Maddy, isn't it?”

Although Logan was annoyed by her perceptiveness, he couldn't argue. He responded with a surly grunt.

Julia continued with obvious enjoyment. “You must resent Madeline for proving that you're not invulnerable.”

“I never claimed I was invulnerable,” he returned evenly. “And if I harbor any resentment toward my wife, it's for a very different reason.”

“Really.” Julia's gaze mocked him. She entered her office, poking her blond head outside the door to add, “I shall enjoy watching you during the next few months, Logan. It will be interesting to see which part of you will win the battle—the half that wants to be happy, or the half that wants to flee from anyone who might dare to love you.”

“Your talents are wasted as an actress, Your Grace,” Logan informed her over his shoulder, continuing on his way. “With your imagination, you should have been a writer.”

The sound of her laughter trailed down the hall after him. As soon as Logan reached his office, he saw a familiar dark head above the back of his chair. Andrew, Lord Drake, was enjoying a drink at his desk.

“Jimmy!” he cried, grinning broadly. “What a fine newlywed you look, scowling that way.”

“What do you want?” Logan asked, shaking his hand in a firm grip.

Andrew smiled and indicated a crate beside the desk. It contained a dozen brandy bottles, each tied with a jaunty bow. “I brought you a gift, Jimmy. I'll admit, my feelings were wounded that you didn't ask me to stand up for you at the ceremony—but in the face of our long-standing friendship, I decided to let it pass.”

Logan took one of the bottles and inspected it admiringly. The vintage was an exquisite thirty-year-old French brandy. “Thank you, Andrew.”

“I decided to sample a bottle while I waited for you,” Andrew said. “Like nectar of the gods. Care for a glass?”

“I'll get one from the greenroom.”

“Don't bother—I brought one for you. Can't drink brandy like this from anything but a proper snifter.”

“I should have invited you to the ceremony,” Logan said gruffly, sitting on the edge of the desk as Andrew poured. “But it was all done rather quickly.”

“So I heard.” Andrew slanted him a wicked grin, his blue eyes sparkling. “Word has it that your new wife is carrying a bag pudding.” He looked at Logan with mock horror. “Can it be true? Will the Scott household soon be blessed with a little Logan?”