Page 81 of Because You're Mine
“You may as well sleep here from now on,” he said one evening after he had carried her to his bed and made love to her. Sweeping a hand over her naked hip, he added gruffly, “It’s more convenient than sending for you every time I want you—or having to dash to your room when your legs cramp.”
Stirring in his arms, Madeline smiled sleepily. “I wouldn’t want to bother you. I know how you like to sleep alone.”
“You don’t take up that much room,” he observed, his hand drifting to her stomach. “Yet.”
Madeline turned on her side. “Soon I’ll be wide enough to cover half the bed. Oh, how I wish I were taller! Women of my height don’t carry children well—they look like ducks.”
Logan drew her back against his long body. “Madam,” he said, his voice warm and tickling in her ear, “I’ve spent every night demonstrating how desirable you are. By now I hardly think you have reason to doubt your attractiveness.”
“You’ve acquired a taste for women with large stomachs?” Madeline asked skeptically, and felt him smile against her neck.
“Only one in particular.” Logan pushed her to her back. “Now I suppose you’ll want me to prove it. Again.”
She turned away from him with feigned reluctance. “If it’s no trouble—”
“I insist,” he murmured, turning her over once more, and he covered her mouth with his.
He was an unpredictable man, sometimes indulging and teasing her, sometimes treating her with a maddening coolness. Most evenings after a theater performance, he rushed home to be with her, though when he strode through the door it was without the least appearance of haste. He was so adept at concealing his feelings that Madeline wondered if he loved her at all, or if he regarded her more as an amusing pet. There were times, however, when she had reason to hope.
Three afternoons a week Madeline sat for the portrait Logan had commissioned. The artist, Mr. Orsini, was a talented and pleasant man, without the wild temperament that she had expected of an artist.
“Your wife is one of the greatest beauties I have painted,” Orsini informed Logan, who had come to watch a sitting in progress.
“Mr. Orsini,” Madeline protested from where she was posing, “you mustn’t embarrass me—”
“She has an unusual quality,” Orsini continued earnestly. “Sensuousness mingled with purity. A bewitching child-woman.”
Unused to such lavish compliments, Madeline fixed her gaze on the floor. “Yes,” she heard Logan say softly. “That’s exactly what I see in her.”
When Madeline was able, she visited the Capital for an afternoon, watching rehearsals and even helping with line readings. Logan didn’t seem to mind her presence. In fact, he readily admitted that he liked knowing she was within his reach. “It saves me from having to imagine what trouble you might be getting into elsewhere,” he told her dryly.
Madeline enjoyed spending time with the theater company, who were not offended by the sight of an expectant woman. Accustomed as they all were to pregnant actresses who continued performing on stage until their sixth or seventh month, the employees of the Capital treated Madeline with a relaxed attitude that made her feel accepted and comfortable.
Best of all were the evenings when she and Logan would relax together after supper. They spent hours reading and talking until Logan finally carried her to bed. It seemed that the fragile bond between them was growing stronger. Madeline began to think that she was slowly winning the battle, regaining Logan’s trust…until the day that her illusions of happiness seemed to shatter.
Sunday morning proceeded in the usual fashion, with a lavish breakfast and coffee, followed by Madeline’s solitary attendance at church and then a few hours spent with Logan in the private family parlor. Logan pored over a play folio, making notes and corrections, while Madeline warmed herself near the tiled stove and did needlework.
Glancing at her husband’s dark head, Madeline was unable to resist going to him. She dropped the bit of embroidery to the floor and stood behind his chair, her hands resting on his broad shoulders. “I despise needlework,” she said, bending over to nuzzle the warm space behind his ear.
“Then don’t do it,” Logan replied, turning a page of the folio.
“I have no choice. All respectable married women do needlework.”
“Who wants you to behave respectably?” he asked absently, trying to focus on his work. “Don’t read over my shoulder, sweet. I can’t concentrate.”
Undeterred, she slid her arms around his chest. “You shouldn’t work on Sunday. It’s a sin.” She pressed two or three soft kisses where the column of his throat met his hard jaw, and felt the sudden throb of his pulse against her lips.
“I’m about to commit a worse one,” Logan replied, dropping the folio and twisting in the chair to snatch her into his arms. Madeline shrieked with laughter as he pulled her into his lap. His hands roamed intimately over her body. “What do you consider an appropriate activity for Sunday, madam?…This?…Or perhaps this… ”
Their play was interrupted by a knock at the door. Madeline struggled from Logan’s lap, pulling hastily at her skirts and retreating to the pool of heat near the tiled stove. A footman entered the room and brought a note on a silver tray to Logan. Grinning at Madeline’s attempt to appear composed, Logan took the note and dismissed the servant.
“Who is it from?” Madeline asked, returning to Logan as he broke the seal.
“Apparently an acquaintance I met through Lord Drake.” Frowning, Logan read aloud, “…I am distressed to relay some news concerning our friend Lord, Drake. Knowing of your close friendship with him, I felt certain you would wish to be informed at once…” His voice faded, and his gaze continued to move rapidly across the page.
Madeline stared at him while he finished reading silently and sat like a statue. “Logan?” she asked tentatively. He didn’t seem to hear her. Reaching for the half-crumpled note in his hand, she pried it away. A soft, pitying exclamation escaped her lips as she read the letter. It seemed that Andrew, Lord Drake, had attended a water-party on the Thames the previous night.
Sometime during the revelry, Lord Drake had fallen overboard, but no one had noticed until early morning. Although the private yacht had been thoroughly searched, there had been no sign of him. The Thames would be dragged, but often in such drowning cases the body wasn’t discovered for days.
