Because You're Mine (Capital Theatre #2)(94)

Logan's head dropped to her chest, and he rested his forehead against the fragrant softness of her br**sts. “I'm not sure. I…Christ. It's too late now.” Sighing, he blotted his eyes against her velvet-covered bodice. “I should have done more for him.”

“You did as much as you could. You paid his debts, and you never turned him away. You even forgave him for taking Olivia from you.”

“I should have thanked him for that,” he said hoarsely. “Olivia was a deceitful bitch.”

Madeline winced inwardly, reflecting that her own behavior hadn't been much better than Olivia's. “Will you go to Rochester?” she asked, and she felt him stiffen.

“I wouldn't trust myself to keep from killing him. More than anyone, Rochester is responsible for Andrew's death. For making his life such hell that Andrew's only escape was inside a bottle.” A harsh laugh escaped him. “The cockneys have a word for a drunkard. They call him a ‘bloat.’ The same thing they call a drowned body. Poor Andrew—it suits him either way, doesn't it?”

Ignoring the macabre observation, Madeline continued to caress his dark head. “Come to my bed, and sleep,” she said after a moment. “Let the servants clean this room and air it out.”

Logan didn't respond for a long moment. Madeline knew that he was contemplating whether or not to go back to his brandy. “You don't want me in your bed,” he muttered. “I'm drunk, and God knows I need a bath.”

Madeline smiled faintly. “You're welcome there in any condition.” Her fingertips trailed down his bare, hard arm until she took his lax hand. “Come,” she whispered. “Please.”

She thought Logan would refuse. To her surprise, he stood and followed her from the room. The small victory eased some of her worry, but she was far from relieved. She was just beginning to understand the burden Logan had been carrying. No wonder he was suffering over Lord Drake's death. How utterly betrayed he must have felt, to have learned that the wealthy boy he had grown up with had actually been his brother. Neither of them had ever had a real home or a loving family…neither of them had ever known happiness.

Her hand slipped to her stomach, as if to protect the tiny life inside. Surely Logan would be able to love an innocent child. If he wouldn't accept her heart…at least she could give him that.

Logan slept heavily, occasionally twitching or murmuring in the midst of a dream. Each time he began to stir, Madeline soothed him back to sleep, guarding him through the night. In the morning, she tiptoed from the room and made certain that no one would disturb his continuing slumber. She bathed and donned a dark blue morning gown trimmed with white lace. After breakfasting alone, she spent an hour or two at her desk answering correspondence.

“Pardon, Mrs. Scott…” The voice of the butler intruded on her thoughts. He brought a calling card on a small silver tray. “A personal call from the Earl of Rochester. When I informed him that Mr. Scott is not ‘at home’ the earl asked if you would receive him, in spite of the unusual hour.”

Thrown into consternation, Madeline stared blankly at the calling card. Sharp curiosity mingled with worry. What could the earl possibly have to say to Her? Silently she thanked God that Logan was still sleeping soundly upstairs. There was no predicting how he would react if he learned that Rochester was here. “I…I'll speak to him briefly,” she said, replacing her pen in its engraved silver holder with undue care. “I'll go to the entrance hall.”

“Yes, Mrs. Scott.”

Her heart pounded heavily as she walked to the entrance hall. All through the night she had wondered what kind of man Rochester was to manipulate his own sons and lie to them for years…to deny Logan and allow him to suffer abuse at the hands of a brutish tenant farmer. Without even knowing the earl, she despised him…and yet there was a part of her that felt a trace of sympathy. After all, Andrew had been his acknowledged son, and his death must cause the earl no small amount of pain.

Her steps slowed as she saw the iron-haired elderly man standing in the hall, his tall frame slightly stooped, his face hard-angled and utterly devoid of warmth or humor. Although there was no great likeness between him and Logan, Madeline could well believe that the earl was his father. Like Logan, the earl seemed solitary, invincible, full of banked intensity. He wore the evidence of his recent grief: a gray cast to his skin and a certain deadness of the eyes.

“Lord Rochester,” Madeline said, declining to extend a hand, merely nodding cautiously.

The earl seemed vaguely amused by her lack of deference. “Mrs. Scott,” he said in a rusty voice, “it is gracious of you to receive me.”

“I'm sorry for your loss,” she murmured.

They studied each other in the following silence. “You know about me,” he said. “I can see it in your face.”

Madeline nodded. “Yes, he told me.”

One haughty brow arched inquisitively. “I suppose he painted me as a black-hearted monster?”

“He merely relayed the facts, my lord.”

“You're a cut above what I would have expected Scott to marry,” Rochester observed. “A young woman of obvious breeding. What must it have taken to persuade your family to allow such a match?”

“They were quite pleased at the prospect of having such an accomplished gentleman in the family,” Madeline lied coolly.