Page 74 of Because You're Mine
Logan interrupted with an inquiring arch of his brow. “You may as well go straight to the point, my lord. I’m inured to flattery.”
Lord Beauchamp laughed. “I believe you’re the first actor to ever make such a claim. Very well, I’ll be direct—I want a favor for a young artist, a gentleman by the name of Mr. James Orsini.”
“I’ve heard of him,” Logan said, casting a brief smile at the young woman who placed a tray of coffee before him. His attention returned to Beauchamp.
“Orsini has a marvelous technique, experimenting with light and texture—remarkable for a man in his twenties. The problem is, he is in search of a subject that will earn him an invitation to exhibit his paintings—”
Logan interrupted with a quiet laugh, lifting a cup of bitter black coffee to his lips. After taking a bracing swallow, he looked at Beauchamp with gleaming blue eyes. “I know what you’re going to ask, my lord. The answer is no.”
“But no artist is considered important until he’s painted Logan Scott—and you’ve allowed at least twenty of them to do so, at my count.”
“Twenty-five,” Logan said dryly.
“I assure you, Scott, you’ve never sat for an artist as deserving of the honor as Orsini.”
Logan shook his head. “No doubt you’re right. However, I’ve been painted more than any actor you could name—”
“That’s because you’re so successful,” Beauchamp pointed out.
“—and I’ve had enough of it. I’ve been represented in oil, mezzotint, metal, marble, and wax…busts, medallions, paintings, conversation pieces…let’s spare the public from yet another portrait of me.”
“Orsini will agree to any arrangements you would care to make. There are a score of others in the Society who feel as strongly as I that you must allow this artist the chance to paint you. Good God, man, will you make us all beg?”
Logan regarded him with mock alarm and took another swallow of coffee. While Beauchamp waited tensely for an answer, Logan considered the possibilities. After a moment, he smiled slightly and spoke. “I have an alternate proposition. Tell Orsini that I’ll allow him to paint my wife.”
“Your wife…” Beauchamp sputtered in confusion. “That’s right, I’d heard that you were married recently…but I’m positive that Orsini would much preferyouas a subject—”
“A portrait of Mrs. Scott will be a suitable centerpiece for an exhibition. If Orsini is able to capture what I see in her, I’ll ensure that he is amply rewarded.”
Beauchamp regarded him doubtfully. “Well…Mrs. Scottisreputed to be a very attractive woman—”
“She’s damned beautiful.” Logan stared into the silken dark surface of his coffee. “There’s a quality of innocence about her that won’t change even if she lives to be a hundred…” Abruptly he recalled himself from the brief reverie. “To my knowledge, she’s never been painted before. Orsini is fortunate to have the opportunity.”
Lord Beauchamp regarded him with gathering amusement. “I’ll inform Mr. Orsini that he must paint her, as everyone will be avidly curious about the woman who’s made you so besotted.”
“I wouldn’t use that word,” Logan replied, scowling faintly.
“Dear fellow, no other word will do. The look on your face as you described her…” Chuckling, Lord Beauchamp stood and nodded good-bye to him, returning to his own table.
“‘Besotted,’ my arse,” Logan grumbled, leafing through the play folio. “I only said she was beautiful.”
Orsini accepted the proposal without hesitation, forwarding a letter of gratitude that arrived at the Scotts’ London home in the morning. Upon being informed of the plans for a portrait, Madeline reacted with dismay.
“I’ll be showing before the portrait is done,” she protested, standing before Logan in the library, nervously crumpling and smoothing a sheet of paper in her hands.
Logan closed an account book and turned in his chair to face her. “An appropriate gown will disguise your condition, and Orsini will trim your waistline with a few brush strokes. Besides, it will give you something to do during confinement.”
“I can think of many other things worth doing.”
“I want a portrait of you. After Orsini uses the work in his exhibition, I intend to purchase it.”
“Exhibition!” Madeline exclaimed, flushing. “Logan, I have no wish to be displayed as if I were some object, or a trophy—”
“But you are,” he countered. The devilish light in his eyes gave her a chill of apprehension. “You’re mine, and I’ll flaunt you when and where I choose.”
Madeline stared at him with wide eyes, too flustered to speak.
“What is that?” Logan asked, his gaze flickering to the paper in her hand.
