Somewhere I'll Find You (Capital Theatre #1)(40)

“Yes, my lord,” the girl replied, skittering back as he headed for the door.

It had been a hellish morning at the Capital. Julia knew she was performing badly at the rehearsal, and frustrating Logan Scott to no end. She had trouble remembering her lines. It seemed impossible to concentrate on the character she was to play, or give the other actors their proper cues. In addition to a blinding headache, she was sore in every part of her body—and more than everything else, her mind was filled with thoughts of last night and what she had done.

In a moment of recklessness she had made a terrible mistake. It had seemed so right to be with Damon. She had been lonely, vulnerable, craving the pleasure and comfort he had offered. In the harsh light of day, however, everything was different. She felt a terrible heaviness inside—her secrets were slipping away, flying out of her reach before she could snatch them back. Even the familiar atmosphere of the theater failed to soothe her. Perhaps now Damon believed he had rights over her. She must make it clear that no matter what had happened, she belonged only to herself.

“Don't make the mistake of thinking I can't replace you,” Logan warned tautly under his breath as she stumbled gracelessly through yet another scene. “It's not too late for me to give the part to Arlyss. If you don't begin to show some interest in what you're doing—”

“Give the part to her, then,” Julia said, shooting him a simmering glare. “At the moment I don't care.”

Unused to such rebellion, Logan tugged wildly at his dark mahogany hair until it nearly stood on end. His blue eyes gleamed with annoyance. “We'll do the scene again,” he said through gritted teeth. He gestured imperiously to the other actors onstage; Charles, Arlyss, and old Mr. Kerwin. “In the meantime, I suggest that the three of you go to the greenroom and study your lines. At this point I wouldn't rate your performances more than a notch or two above Mrs. Wentworth's.”

The little group obeyed with a few grumbles, evidently relieved to escape the tension-fraught theater. Logan turned back to Julia. “Shall we?” he asked coldly.

Without a word she moved to the left wing, from which she was to make her entrance. The scene was one in which the two main characters, Christine and James, found themselves in the first throes of love. As the sheltered Christine, she was supposed to be enthralled by the freedom of her masquerade, pretending to be a housemaid. She was also dismayed by her attraction to a mere footman, but unable to keep from throwing caution to the wind.

She made her entrance, trying to convey something of the character's mixture of eagerness and uncertainty…until she saw the tall, appealing figure of James waiting for her. With a laugh of excitement, she rushed to him and threw herself into his arms.

“I didn't think you'd come,” he said, whirling her around easily, letting her feet touch the ground. He brushed a curl from her face as if he couldn't believe she were real.

“I didn't want to,” she replied breathlessly. “I couldn't help it.”

With apparent impulsiveness he bent to kiss her. Julia closed her eyes, knowing what to expect. She had been kissed countless times on stage before, whenever a scene required it, by Logan, by Charles, and even once by Mr. Kerwin, who had played an aging monarch married to a young and beautiful bride. Handsome though Logan was, his kisses had never affected Julia. They were both too professional for that. It wasn't necessary to feel something in order to convince the audience of it.

She felt his lips touch hers…but suddenly the memory of last night flashed through her mind…the heat of Damon's mouth, the pressure of his arms locking her against his long body, the passion that had swept over her—

Julia tore away from Logan with a muffled sound, staring at him dazedly while touching her lips with trembling fingertips.

The character of James dropped away, and Logan's familiar expression appeared. He seemed confounded, shaking his head slowly. A vibrant note of anger pierced his voice. “What the hell is the matter with you?”

Julia turned away from him, rubbing her arms agitatedly. “Aren't I allowed to have a bad day like everyone else? You're never this harsh with the others when they're having difficulties with a part.”

“I expect more of you.”

“Perhaps that's a mistake,” she said sharply.

His gaze bored into her back. “Evidently it is.”

She took a long breath and turned toward him. “Would you like to try the scene again?”

“No,” Logan replied sourly. “You've wasted enough of my time today. Take the afternoon off—I'll work with the others. And be warned, if you're not in perfect form tomorrow, I'll give the part to someone else. This play means a hell of a lot to me. I'll be damned if I'll let anyone ruin it.”

Julia lowered her gaze, feeling a stab of guilt. “I won't disappoint you again.”

“You'd better not.”

“Shall I tell the others in the greenroom that you want them back here?”

He nodded and waved her away, his face set.

Sighing, Julia walked from the stage into the wings. She rubbed her temples and eyes, willing her headache to go away.

“Mrs. Wentworth?” A young man's hesitant voice intruded on her thoughts.

Julia paused and looked toward the speaker. It was Michael Fiske, a scene painter of exceptional talent. Armed with his paint and brushes, he had created some of the most beautiful and original flats, set pieces, and backcloths Julia had ever seen. Other theaters had recognized Fiske's talent and tried to lure him away, forcing Logan Scott to pay him an unusually large salary to retain his exclusive services. With his usual confident bravado, Fiske had informed Logan and everyone else at the Capital that he was worth his high wages. Most of them privately agreed.