Because You're Mine (Capital Theatre #2)(92)

Unused to such lavish compliments, Madeline fixed her gaze on the floor. “Yes,” she heard Logan say softly. “That's exactly what I see in her.”

When Madeline was able, she visited the Capital for an afternoon, watching rehearsals and even helping with line readings. Logan didn't seem to mind her presence. In fact, he readily admitted that he liked knowing she was within his reach. “It saves me from having to imagine what trouble you might be getting into elsewhere,” he told her dryly.

Madeline enjoyed spending time with the theater company, who were not offended by the sight of an expectant woman. Accustomed as they all were to pregnant actresses who continued performing on stage until their sixth or seventh month, the employees of the Capital treated Madeline with a relaxed attitude that made her feel accepted and comfortable.

Best of all were the evenings when she and Logan would relax together after supper. They spent hours reading and talking until Logan finally carried her to bed. It seemed that the fragile bond between them was growing stronger. Madeline began to think that she was slowly winning the battle, regaining Logan's trust…until the day that her illusions of happiness seemed to matter.

Sunday morning proceeded in the usual fashion, with a lavish breakfast and coffee, followed by Madeline's solitary attendance at church and then a few hours spent with Logan in the private family parlor. Logan pored over a play folio, making notes and corrections, while Madeline warmed herself near the tiled stove and did needlework.

Glancing at her husband's dark head, Madeline was unable to resist going to him. She dropped the bit of embroidery to the floor and stood behind his chair, her hands resting on his broad shoulders. “I despise needlework,” she said, bending over to nuzzle the warm space behind his ear.

“Then don't do it,” Logan replied, turning a page of the folio.

“I have no choice. All respectable married women do needlework.”

“Who wants you to behave respectably?” he asked absently, trying to focus on his work. “Don't read over my shoulder, sweet. I can't concentrate.”

Undeterred, she slid her arms around his chest. “You shouldn't work on Sunday. It's a sin.” She pressed two or three soft kisses where the column of his throat met his hard jaw, and felt the sudden throb of his pulse against her lips.

“I'm about to commit a worse one,” Logan replied, dropping the folio and twisting in the chair to snatch her into his arms. Madeline shrieked with laughter as he pulled her into his lap. His hands roamed intimately over her body. “What do you consider an appropriate activity for Sunday, madam?…This?…Or perhaps this… ”

Their play was interrupted by a knock at the door. Madeline struggled from Logan's lap, pulling hastily at her skirts and retreating to the pool of heat near the tiled stove. A footman entered the room and brought a note on a silver tray to Logan. Grinning at Madeline's attempt to appear composed, Logan took the note and dismissed the servant.

“Who is it from?” Madeline asked, returning to Logan as he broke the seal.

“Apparently an acquaintance I met through Lord Drake.” Frowning, Logan read aloud, “…Iam distressed to relay some news concerning our friend Lord, Drake. Knowing of your close friendship with him, I felt certain you would wish to be informed at once…” His voice faded, and his gaze continued to move rapidly across the page.

Madeline stared at him while he finished reading silently and sat like a statue. “Logan?” she asked tentatively. He didn't seem to hear her. Reaching for the half-crumpled note in his hand, she pried it away. A soft, pitying exclamation escaped her lips as she read the letter. It seemed that Andrew, Lord Drake, had attended a water-party on the Thames the previous night.

Sometime during the revelry, Lord Drake had fallen overboard, but no one had noticed until early morning. Although the private yacht had been thoroughly searched, there had been no sign of him. The Thames would be dragged, but often in such drowning cases the body wasn't discovered for days.

Gently Madeline touched her husband's stiff shoulder. “Was—is—he a strong swimmer? Perhaps he managed to reach shore—”

“No, he couldn't swim well,” Logan said, his voice hoarse. “He was probably too damned drunk to even try.”

Her hand settled on the nape of his neck. “Logan, I'm sorry—”

He jerked away from her, his breath hissing between his teeth. “Don't.” A visible tremor ran along his back. “I want to be alone.”

Every impulse in her body prompted her to stay, to comfort him, but Logan didn't want her. He was shutting her out of his grief. It was the worst hell imaginable to love someone who didn't want it. If he did have feelings for her, he fought them at every turn.'madeline stared at his dark head and couldn't stop herself from touching his hair. “Logan, what can I do?” she whispered.

“Just leave.”

Madeline's hand fell away, and she left the room without looking back.

For the rest of that day, and most of the next, Logan closed himself in his room and drank. The only time he spoke to Madeline was to tell her to notify the Capital that he wouldn't be coming to work. His understudy would take his place in the performance the following evening.

“When will you return?” Madeline asked, staring into his set face and liquor-glazed eyes. She was met with a stony silence in reply, and he shut himself away in his room once more. He didn't want her company, nor anyone else's. In spite of Madeline's pleas and the trays of food she sent upstairs, he refused to eat.