Page 50 of Because You're Mine
She was a beautiful child with a mass of blond curls and large blue eyes, her small hands filled with dolls. “Thank you for my toy,” she said shyly, returning his smile with a wary one of her own.
At that moment the Duke of Leeds entered the room. As always, it struck Logan that the man was completely different in private than in public situations. To the outside world Damon presented an aloof mask, while at home with his family he was warm and smiling, cavorting with his daughter in a manner that no one would have believed.
“Papa!” Victoria cried, darting across the room to him, and Damon scooped her up with a soft laugh.
“Hush, imp, or you’ll wake the baby. And then I’ll have to take you outside and roll you in the snow as punishment.”
The child giggled at the idea and looped her arms around her father’s neck. “I’ll put a snowball down your collar, Papa.”
“I’ll bet you would,” Damon replied ruefully, grinning at his daughter’s demure threat. He turned to Logan, his smile fading a degree. “Scott,” he acknowledged in a polite tone. They had never been close and probably never would be. They moved in some of the same social circles, yet they occupied very different worlds. Julia was the only bridge between them, serving as a wife to Damon and a colleague to Logan.
It was no secret that Damon would be pleased if his wife never set foot onstage again, but he tolerated her profession because it made her happy. Logan respected the duke for that, knowing that only a rare man of his position would allow his wife to mix in the disreputable world of the theater.
“A handsome child,” Logan said, nodding toward the sleeping infant. “My congratulations.” Before Damon could acknowledge the compliment, Logan turned to Julia. “When are you coming back to the Capital?”
“When I’m able,” Julia replied, smiling at his abruptness.
Logan glanced at her speculatively. “You look healthy enough to me.”
“Regardless of my wife’s condition,” Damon interceded, “the babe is still too young for her to return to London.”
Victoria spoke up with childish curiosity, her expression anxious. “Is he going to take Mama away from us, Papa?”
“Of course not, Tory,” Damon replied, his expression gentling as he regarded the small face so close to his own. “Come, let’s visit the new horse in the stables, while Mama explains to Mr. Scott that his theater is not the center of the universe.”
“Don’t forget her coat,” Julia called after them, laughing as the pair exited. Her smiling regard turned to Logan, and she indicated a seat nearby. “Old friend,” she said, half in jest, half in earnest, “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten my existence.”
“I told you I’ve been busy.” Logan sat and stretched out his long legs, casually regarding the tips of his polished shoes. “It’s not easy managing the theater without you, much as I hate to admit it.”
Julia bent to gather up the discarded dolls, each of them no longer than one of her fingers. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come to you when you had the fever—”
“I wouldn’t have wanted you,” he assured her swiftly. “Not at the risk of harming the babe.”
“At any rate, it seemed that you were in capable hands.”
They both fell silent while the subject of Madeline hung between them like a silent specter.
“I’ve been reading theTimes,” Julia commented. “The reviews haven’t been flattering of late.”
“The critics can go hang themselves,” Logan said. “The theater seats are filled every night. That’s all that matters.”
The papers had taken to complaining about what they called a series of blank-souled performances on Logan’s part, technically proficient but emotionally bereft. Unfortunately, even he couldn’t disagree with their collective opinion. The knack he had always taken for granted—of connecting with the audience, of making them see a play through his eyes—had vanished. He didn’t care. He couldn’t seem to care about anything now.
Even his keen interest in the company had evaporated, replaced with a sour attitude that seemed to antagonize everyone. The Capital players were resentful of his directions, his sharp manner…for God’s sake, even his acting.
“I don’t know what you intend when you read the line that way,” Arlyss Barry had actually dared to complain during rehearsal the previous day. “I don’t know how my character should react when I can’t tell what you’re supposed to be feeling.”
“Worry about your own performance,” Logan had snapped, “and I’ll take care of mine.”
“But my character—”
“Have your character react any way you like. I don’t give a bloody damn.”
And Arlyss had continued the rehearsal with flat, unemotional line readings that fell just short of mimicking his own. Logan had been tempted to fine her, but that might have provoked the entire company into outright rebellion.
Perhaps the atmosphere at the theater would return to normal once Julia came back, with her softening influence and diplomatic ways. Perhaps acting on stage with her would help Logan to rediscover the inner reservoir of emotion he had always tapped for his performances.
Another endless silence passed, and then Julia dared to bring up the subject that lay at the heart of everything. “Any news of Madeline?”
