Page 35 of Because You're Mine
“Would you like me to leave?” she asked softly.
He closed his eyes, taking so long to answer that she thought he might have fallen asleep once more.
“Stay,” he finally said.
“Is there someone I should send for to take care of you? A friend or relative—”
“No. I want you.” He closed his eyes, the conversation finished. His fingers curled in a fold of her gown.
Despite her worry, Madeline wanted to smile. Even in his sickbed, he was as commanding as ever. For some reason, he wanted her to remain. He trusted her. She had no more thought of leaving. “Logan,” she murmured, testing his name on her lips.
Somehow, after her ambitious scheme had failed, she found herself standing watch in a sickroom. Nothing had gone according to plan. Strangest of all, she didn’t even care about her own problems. All she wanted was to see Logan well again.
She went to the writing table positioned beneath one of the windows, and wrote a note to Mrs. Florence, explaining the situation. Folding it neatly, she sealed the letter with a stick of brown wax, then rang for a maid and gave her the letter to be delivered to Mrs. Florence’s residence on Somerset Street. “Please send a footman to collect my belongings,” she added, and the housemaid bobbed in a curtsy before departing.
Madeline returned to her bedside vigil. It seemed that Logan’s condition deteriorated by the hour, the fever strengthening its hold and advancing stealthily. He was too groggy to argue as she fed him sips of beef tea. After Madeline’s persistent efforts, he had managed to eat perhaps half a cup of the nourishing broth; then he fell asleep once more.
Somewhere in the house a large clock chimed twelve times, its tone deep and sonorous. Despite herself Madeline grew weary, her head bobbing as a wave of sleepiness nearly overcame her. She stood and stretched in an effort to waken herself, turning with a start as she heard someone enter the room.
Mrs. Beecham and the valet approached the bed. “How is he?” the housekeeper asked in a friendlier manner than she had used before. It seemed that she had adjusted to the idea of Madeline’s presence and had decided to set aside her suspicions.
“The fever is worse.”
“That is what Dr. Brooke said to expect,” Mrs. Beecham replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “Mr. Scott’s valet, Denis, is going to assist me in sponging him with cold water. Perhaps that will help to bring the fever down. You may wish to rest for a few hours. I thought you would like to occupy the small bedroom in Mr. Scott’s private suite.”
“That is very kind of you,” Madeline replied. “But I want to be here if Mr. Scott needs me—”
“I’ll watch over him until you return,” the housekeeper assured her. “You’ll need a few hours of sleep. Miss Ridley, in order to be fresh for tomorrow.”
The point was well taken. Madeline was exhausted, and there were many long hours, even days, ahead before the fever would run its course. “Thank you,” she said, and the housekeeper showed her to a guest room only a few doors away.
Her gowns and other garments had been put away in a mahogany armoire. The bed was covered by a blue silk canopy that matched the embroidered counterpane. Madeline declined the offer of a maid to help her change, preferring to undress herself.
Donning a prim white nightgown with rows of pleats at the neck, Madeline climbed into bed. It seemed that she had never been so tired. Sleep claimed her immediately, the welcome darkness filling her mind.
At the first ray of morning light, Madeline snapped awake, feeling somewhat refreshed. Eagerly she reached for the robe that matched her nightgown and hurried to Logan’s room, her bare feet quickly chilled in the cold morning air. A maid was lighting a fire in the grate while Mrs. Beecham collected a pile of damp linens that had been used to cool Logan during the night.
There were smudges beneath the housekeeper’s eyes, and her forehead was tracked with lines that had not been there the previous day.
“There is no change,” she said in answer to Madeline’s unspoken question.
Madeline went to the bed and stared down at Logan. His skin was dry and burning, his lips slightly chapped. The suit of flannels had been removed, and a single sheet rode low on his waist, exposing the muscled lines of his torso, the dark patches of hair beneath his arms, the hollow of his navel. She had never seen a naked man before. Her gaze strayed to the area of his body covered by the sheet, the endless length of his legs, the intimate shape of his loins draped with thin white linen. Her cheeks prickled with a modest blush, and she turned to find Mrs. Beecham’s gaze on her.
“You’re not his ‘companion,’ as you claimed,” the housekeeper said with quiet conviction. “Whatever you are to him…you’re not his mistress.”
Six
Caught off-guard, Madeline couldn’t reply at first. Her heart changed its rhythm, and she tried to think above its rapid thundering. “How can you be certain?”
Mrs. Beecham smiled. “Everything about you proclaims it. Your nightgown, for one thing…a garment intended only for sleeping. Your manner, the way you look at him…it’s clear that you haven’t been intimate with him. You’re a well-bred girl, barely out of the schoolroom. There is a particular kind of woman that suits Mr. Scott’s taste…the kind that wears silk peignoirs and sleeps until two o’clock in the afternoon and would never lower herself to the drudgery of nursing a sick man. You are not his mistress.”
“I work at the Capital,” Madeline admitted. “Not as an actress…I’m only an assistant. But I am Mr. Scott’s friend. At least, I hope he considers me as such.”
“And you’re in love with him,” Mrs. Beecham remarked.
“Oh, no,” Madeline said, feeling the blood leave her face. “As I said, my feeling toward him is friendship…and admiration, of course—”
“You’ve gone to a great deal of trouble, and placed your own health at risk, only for the sake of friendship?”
