Because You're Mine (Capital Theatre #2)(83)
When he had reached his limits, Logan pulled her to her side and drew her leg high over his hip. Her small body, so supple and responsive, twined around him bonelessly, fitting as if she had been made for him. Entering her by slow degrees, he savored the feel of her, silk and heat enfolding him tightly. Her face was transfixed beneath his, her soft mouth drawn taut, low sounds coming from her throat. Slowly he rocked against her, pushing inside her, until Madeline shuddered and moaned, sensations colliding in a white-hot burst of rapture. Then Logan moved strongly between her thighs, inflamed by her sweet welcoming warmth, letting the tension uncoil and streak through him in exquisite release.
Afterward Logan remained inside her, cupping her body in his hands. Her skin was as delicate and fragrant as the petals of night-blooming jasmine. Lowering his mouth to her throat, he tasted the faint flavor of salt and touched his tongue to her still-rapid pulse. This was a luxury he didn't usually allow himself, to linger with her in the aftermath. Too intimate, and dangerous.
The ticking of the gold mantel clock seemed to mock him. Ignoring the sound, he relaxed beside Madeline, his hands buried in the soft sheaves of her hair. She was his, after all. He could do as he liked with her…just as long as she never came to suspect that he loved her.
Faced with the prospect of a morning meeting with a playwright whose new work required extensive editing, Logan decided to see him at Banbury's coffeehouse. He often did such work at the coffeehouse, where he was always shown to the same table located near a large window that provided ample daylight. The atmosphere at Banbury's was relaxed and convivial. Hopefully it would serve to lighten the playwright's mood, since he tended to regard each word he had written as sacred.
“Brew a pot that's extra strong and black,” Mr. Banbury called to his daughter, who helped him run the place. “Mr. Scott has just arrived!”
Logan made his way to his usual table, stopping briefly here and there to exchange a few words with friends and acquaintances. Banbury's tended to attract an intellectual crowd: artists, philosophers, and hordes of writers from Fleet Street.
One of the coffeehouse patrons, a fellow member of the Society of Artists, approached Logan as he set out the play folio, fresh sheets of parchment, and writing implements.
“Scott, what luck to see you here this morning!” the man, Lord Beauchamp, exclaimed heartily. “I've been meaning to speak to you about a certain matter…pardon, I can see that you're waiting for someone, but it won't take long to ask you…”
“Ask away,” Logan said easily, indicating the chair next to him.
Lord Beauchamp sat and regarded him with an earnest smile. “I wouldn't trouble you with this, Scott, but knowing of your close relationship with the artistic community and the generous patronage you've given to so many artists—”
Logan interrupted with an inquiring arch of his brow. “You may as well go straight to the point, my lord. I'm inured to flattery.”
Lord Beauchamp laughed. “I believe you're the first actor to ever make such a claim. Very well, I'll be direct—I want a favor for a young artist, a gentleman by the name of Mr. James Orsini.”
“I've heard of him,” Logan said, casting a brief smile at the young woman who placed a tray of coffee before him. His attention returned to Beauchamp.
“Orsini has a marvelous technique, experimenting with light and texture—remarkable for a man in his twenties. The problem is, he is in search of a subject that will earn him an invitation to exhibit his paintings—”
Logan interrupted with a quiet laugh, lifting a cup of bitter black coffee to his lips. After taking a bracing swallow, he looked at Beauchamp with gleaming blue eyes. “I know what you're going to ask, my lord. The answer is no.”
“But no artist is considered important until he's painted Logan Scott—and you've allowed at least twenty of them to do so, at my count.”
“Twenty-five,” Logan said dryly.
“I assure you, Scott, you've never sat for an artist as deserving of the honor as Orsini.”
Logan shook his head. “No doubt you're right. However, I've been painted more than any actor you could name—”
“That's because you're so successful,” Beauchamp pointed out.
“—and I've had enough of it. I've been represented in oil, mezzotint, metal, marble, and wax…busts, medallions, paintings, conversation pieces…let's spare the public from yet another portrait of me.”
“Orsini will agree to any arrangements you would care to make. There are a score of others in the Society who feel as strongly as I that you must allow this artist the chance to paint you. Good God, man, will you make us all beg?”
Logan regarded him with mock alarm and took another swallow of coffee. While Beauchamp waited tensely for an answer, Logan considered the possibilities. After a moment, he smiled slightly and spoke. “I have an alternate proposition. Tell Orsini that I'll allow him to paint my wife.”
“Your wife…” Beauchamp sputtered in confusion. “That's right, I'd heard that you were married recently…but I'm positive that Orsini would much prefer you as a subject—”
“A portrait of Mrs. Scott will be a suitable centerpiece for an exhibition. If Orsini is able to capture what I see in her, I'll ensure that he is amply rewarded.”
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