Because You're Mine

  “You already have, Eleanor.” Madeline lay on her side, drawing her knees up to her chest, the skirts of her simple school frock bunched around her. Her mind raced with thoughts, and she scarcely noticed her friend's quiet departure.

  Logan Scott…a man whose appetite for women was nearly as legendary as his acting talent.

  The longer Madeline considered her own dilemma, the more convinced she became that Scott could provide the solution. She would use him to make herself so undesirable to Lord Clifton that he would have no choice but to call off the engagement.

  She would have an affair with Logan Scott.

  The sacrifice of her virginity would solve everything. If she had to live out the rest of her days in disgrace, regarded by society as used goods, so be it. Anything was preferable to becoming Clifton's wife.

  Feverishly she began to make plans. She would forge a note from her family, requesting her to return from boarding school a semester early. During the following weeks, her parents would assume that she was safe at school, while Mrs. Allbright would think she had returned home, leaving Madeline free to accomplish her task.

  She would go to the Capital Theatre and acquaint herself with Mr. Scott. After she indicated her willingness to sleep with him, Madeline expected that the matter would be quickly resolved. It was a well-known fact that all men, no matter how honorable they seemed, wanted to seduce nice young girls. And a man with Scott's reputation would show no hesitation in matters of sin and debauchery.

  When she was ruined beyond redemption, she would return to her parents and accept whatever punishment they meted out. Most likely she would be banished to the home of some relative in the country. Lord Clifton would have a complete distaste for her, and she would finally be free of his attentions. The course she had set for herself would not be easy or pleasant, but there was no other way.

  Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad, living as a spinster after all this was over. She would have ample time to read and study, and after a few years Mama and Papa might allow her to travel. She would try to involve herself in charitable works and do some good for people in circumstances worse than hers. She would make the best of things. At least, Madeline thought with grim determination, she would choose her fate rather than have it handed to her.

  Part One

  One

  Gripping the leather handle of her valise, Madeline paused at the back entrance of the Capital Theatre. It had been frightening and yet exhilarating to make her way through London alone. Her ears were assaulted with the noise of carriages, horses, and street sellers, while her nostrils were filled with a confusing mixture of the aromas of manure, animals, and garbage; the yeasty scent of a nearby bakery, and the hot waxen odor of a candle-maker's shop.

  Earlier in the day Madeline had pawned the ring Lord Clifton had given her, and the pocket of her dress was filled with the satisfying weight of coins. Wary of pickpockets, she had kept her plain gray cloak wrapped tightly around herself, but no one had seemed inclined to approach her. Now she had arrived at the Capital, and her adventure was about to begin.

  The theater appeared to comprise four or five buildings that must house workshops and storage facilities. Entering the main building, where the stage was located, Madeline walked through a maze of hallways and rehearsal rooms. She could hear people talking, singing, playing instruments, and arguing, and the temptation to peek through the half-open doors was nearly overwhelming.

  She reached a large room filled with worn furniture, including a table of drying sandwiches and wilted cheese and fruit. Actors and actresses of varying ages lounged in the room, talking and drinking cups of tea. Apparently accustomed to frequent comings and goings, they took little notice of Madeline. However, a shopboy paused and stared at her inquiringly, his eyes friendly in a foxlike face. “Is there something you want, miss?” he asked.

  She smiled, trying to cover her nervousness. “I'm looking for Mr. Scott.”

  “Oh.” He looked at her speculatively and jerked his head toward the far door. “He's rehearsing now. The stage is that way.”

  “Thank you.”

  “He doesn't like to be interrupted,” the boy advised as Madeline walked toward the stage door.

  “Oh, I won't bother him,” she replied cheerfully, gripping her valise handle with one hand as she opened the door with the other. She pushed her way past set pieces and flats, and found herself standing in the right wing of the stage. Setting her valise on the floor, she drew close to the edge of a green velvet curtain and looked across the stage.

  With its seating capacity of fifteen hundred, the Capital Theatre was a grand and spacious building. Massive gold columns inlaid with emerald glass lined the walls. Tiers of boxes and seats filled the auditorium in velvet splendor. Crystal chandeliers shed brilliant light on delicately painted scenes that adorned the ceiling.

  The floor of the stage was built at a slant, so that actors downstage could be seen as well as those in the front. The heavy boards were scarred from thousands of performances, boots and shoes and scenery leaving indelible marks. There was a rehearsal in progress; two men were walking around the stage with foils in hand, discussing the choreography of a fight scene. One of them was fair and blond, with the slender, springy build of a cat. “…not certain what you want…” he was saying earnestly, tapping the rubber-tipped foil against the side of his shoe.

  The other man replied in the most distinctive voice Madeline had ever heard—dark, deep, worldly…the voice of a fallen angel. “What I want, Stephen, is for you to put some fire into your performance. Your intention, if I'm not mistaken, is to kill the man who nearly seduced your fiancée. Instead you're handling that foil like an old woman with a knitting needle.”

  Madeline stared at him, riveted. Logan Scott was taller than she had expected, more charismatic, more…everything. His rangy, muscular body was clad in a simple white shirt that was open at the throat and a pair of dark trousers that closely followed his lean hips and long legs. The print Madeline had seen hadn't begun to do justice to him…the color of his hair, dark brown touched with fire; the sardonic curve of his wide mouth; the rosewood hue of his skin.

  Somehow his polished appearance was tempered by a hint of brutality…the sense that the princely facade could disappear at any moment and reveal a man who was capable of almost anything. Madeline blinked uneasily. She had expected Scott to be something of a rakish dandy, a charming skirt-chaser, but there was nothing light-hearted or dandified about him.

  The blond actor protested. “Mr. Scott, I'm afraid that if I don't hold back during that last bit of choreography, you won't have time to parry—”

  “You won't get through my guard,” Scott said with stunning self-assurance. “Give it everything you've got, Stephen—or I'll cast someone who will.”

  Stephen's mouth tightened. It was clear that Scott's barb had found its mark. “All right, then.” He raised his foil and lunged, evidently hoping to catch Scott off-guard.

  Responding with a short laugh, Scott parried expertly, and the foils scissored and clashed as the two men moved in a lightning-swift exchange. “More, Stephen,” Scott said, his breath quickening from exertion. “Haven't you ever lost a woman before? Wanted to kill someone for it?”

  The other actor's temper seemed to flare, as Scott clearly intended. “Yes, damn you!”

  “Then show me.”

  Stephen exploded in a flurry of movement, his face intent beneath a veil of sweat. Scott praised his efforts with a few terse words, retreating and moving forward with his own volley of feints and thrusts. Madeline wouldn't have expected a large man to move with such grace. The sight of Scott literally took her breath away. He was powerful, commanding, and chillingly self-controlled. Fascinated by the intense battle, Madeline drew closer for a better view.

  With a shock of dismay, she felt her foot catch on the valise she had set on the floor, and she fell against a small table piled with props. A candelabra, a few pieces of china, and an extra foil dropped to the floo
r, shattering and clanging noisily. The actors' concentration splintered, and Logan Scott's head whipped around toward the right wing. At the same time, Steven lunged forward with his foil, unable to halt his momentum.

  Scott gave a muffled grunt, and his taut rump met the hard floor, his large hand clasped to the opposite shoulder. The ensuing silence was disturbed only by the actors' rapid breathing.

  “What the hell…,” Stephen murmured, staring into the shadows of the wing, where Madeline struggled to her feet. He glanced back at Scott, who wore a strange expression.

  “Stephen?” Scott said, his voice slightly raspy, “it appears that the tip came off your foil.” As he spoke, a rush of scarlet spread between his fingers and over his shirt.

  “My God!” Stephen exclaimed, his face blanching with horror. “I didn't know…I didn't mean to—”

  “It's all right,” Scott replied. “It was an accident. Your performance was exactly what I wanted. Do it that way every time.”

  Stephen stared at him incredulously. “Mr. Scott,” he quavered, seeming torn between despair and laughter, “how can you sit there directing me while you're bleeding all over the floor? At times I wonder if you're human.” He tore his panicked gaze from the spreading bloodstain on Scott's white shirt. “Don't move. I'll get someone to help…send for a doctor…”

  “There's no need for a damned sawbones,” Scott called tersely, but Stephen had already fled the stage. Muttering beneath his breath, Scott tried to lurch to his feet and fell heavily again onto the floor, his face whitening.

  Madeline threw off her cloak and snatched at her woolen scarf. “Here,” she said, rushing out of the wing and dropping to her knees beside him. She wadded up the scarf and clasped it hard against his shoulder. “This will help stop the bleeding.”

  Scott inhaled sharply at the painful pressure.

  Their faces were very close, and Madeline found herself staring into the bluest eyes she had ever seen, shadowed with thick dark lashes. The irises were lined with sapphire and seemed to contain every shade of blue, from the darkest depths of the ocean to the palest midwinter sky.

  Madeline discovered that she was oddly short of breath. “I'm sorry about…,” she paused and cast a sheepish glance over her shoulder at the pile of broken stage props, “…all that. It was an accident. I'm not at all clumsy, not usually, but I was watching the rehearsal from the wing, and I tripped—”

  “Who are you?” he interrupted coldly.

  “Madeline Ridley,” she replied, using her grandmother's maiden name.

  “What are you doing here, aside from disrupting my rehearsal?”

  “I'm here because…” Madeline met his gaze again, and all of a sudden there seemed to be no choice except to declare her intentions in a bold, straightforward manner that wasn't like her at all. She had to get his attention somehow, to separate herself from the numbers of women who must throw themselves at him all the time. “I want to be your next lover.”

  Clearly caught off-guard, Scott stared at her as if she had spoken in a foreign language. He took his time about replying. “I don't have affairs with girls like you.”

  “Is it my age?”

  There was a flare of laughter in his eyes…not friendly, but mocking. “Among other things.”

  “I'm older than I look,” she said swiftly.

  “Miss Ridley.” He shook his head in apparent disbelief. “You have a unique way of introducing yourself to a man. I'm flattered by your interest. However, I wouldn't touch you if my life depended on it. Now if you'll excuse me—”

  “Perhaps you need more time to think about my proposal,” Madeline said. “In the meantime, I would appreciate it if you would consider giving me a job. I have many skills that could be useful in the theater.”

  “I'm certain you do,” he said dryly. “But none that I require.”

  “I'm educated in literature and history. I also speak fluent French, and I can sketch and paint quite well. I would be willing to sweep, mop, scrub…anything that needs to be done.”

  “I'm light-headed, Miss Ridley. I'm not certain if it's from loss of blood or sheer amazement…but in any case, you've been quite entertaining.” Scott got to his feet, the color having returned to his face. “I'll have someone recompense you for the loss of your scarf.”

  “But I—” she began to argue.

  A small crowd of people swarmed onto the stage as various members of the theater company were alerted to the accident. “It's nothing,” Scott said, seeming annoyed by their worried exclamations. “No, I don't need help walking. There's nothing wrong with my legs.” He went toward the greenroom, surrounded by carpenters, musicians, painters, dancers, and actors, all of them determined to help him.

  Madeline stared after him. What a remarkable man he was. He seemed like royalty, although most monarchs and princes probably weren't blessed with his good looks and magnificent build. She was positive that Scott was the right man to have an affair with. Surely it would be nothing less than extraordinary: a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

  True, he hadn't seemed overly eager to bed her…but she wasn't finished yet. She would wear him down with her persistence. She would devote every minute of every day to making herself indispensable to him. She would become whatever he wanted in a woman.

  Thoughtfully Madeline went toward the wing, where broken china lay scattered next to the overturned prop table. There was probably endless work to be done at the Capital Theatre. She wondered if there was someone else she could approach about a job. After straightening the table, she began to pick up a few shards of china.

  A woman's light, melodious voice drifted to her from a few yards away. “Be careful, child. You'll cut yourself. I'll have someone sweep that up later.”

  Madeline placed the china on the table and turned to behold a golden-haired woman several years older than herself. The woman was stunningly beautiful, with an aristocratic face, blue-green eyes, and a warm smile. She was also several months pregnant. “Hello,” Madeline said, approaching her curiously. “Are you an actress?”

  “I have been in the past,” the woman admitted readily. “However, I'm currently limited to the position of comanager, until after the baby's birth.”

  “Oh…” Madeline's eyes widened as she realized that the woman could only be the Duchess of Leeds, the well-known actress who had been paired on stage with Mr. Scott in everything from lighthearted comedy to Shakespearean tragedy. Although the Duke of Leeds was reputedly quite wealthy, he apparently did not choose to stand in the way of his wife's love of the theater and her flourishing career. “Your Grace, it's an honor to make your acquaintance. Please forgive the trouble I've caused—”

  “I wouldn't worry,” the duchess reassured her. “Accidents happen all the time around here.” She stared at Madeline speculatively. “I believe I overheard you asking Mr. Scott for employment.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Madeline blushed, wondering what else the woman had overheard, but her expression was bland and guileless.

  “Come with me to my office…what is your name?”

  “Madeline Ridley.”

  “Well, Madeline, you're not the usual kind of girl who comes looking for work in the theater district. Well-dressed, obviously educated…have you run away from home, child?”

  “Oh, no,” Madeline said. It wasn't strictly a lie, since she had run away from school, not home, but she still felt uncomfortable at the deception. She struggled to word her reply carefully. “Circumstances have made it necessary for me to find work somewhere…and I hoped it could be here.”

  “Why the Capital?” the duchess asked, leading her backstage to the administrative offices.

  “I've always had an interest in the theater, and I've heard and read a great deal about the Capital. I've never actually attended a play.”

  “Never?” The woman seemed astonished by the idea.

  “Only amateur productions at school.”

  “Have you aspirations to be an actress?”

&n
bsp; Madeline shook her head. “I'm certain I have no theatrical talent, and I wouldn't like to perform in front of anyone. The very thought makes my knees weak.”

  “A pity,” the duchess commented, entering a small office containing a gleaming mahogany desk piled high with folios and notices. Boxes filled with books and papers lined the wall. “A girl with a face like yours would be quite a draw for the Capital.”

  Madeline blinked in confusion at the compliment. She had always considered herself to be moderately attractive, but nothing more. There were many girls with better figures than her slender, modestly endowed one…girls with far more striking features than her light-brown eyes and honey-brown hair. Her mother, Agnes, had always said that her eldest daughter, Justine, was the beauty of the family, whereas Althea was the most clever. Madeline, the youngest, had no special distinction.

  Madeline had always been aware that she should have been a boy. Childbirth was difficult for Agnes, and the doctor had made it clear that her third baby would be her last. In spite of willing the child to be a son, Agnes had experienced the greatest disappointment of her life when a third daughter had appeared. Madeline had always felt that it was her fault. If only she had possessed some extraordinary gift that might have made her parents glad to have her…but so far she had been very ordinary.

  The duchess gestured for Madeline to sit in a chair near hers. “Tell me what skills you possess, and I'll consider the matter of your employment.”

  They talked for a few minutes while a tea tray was brought from the greenroom. The duchess spoke quickly and smiled often, her boundless energy contagious. It would have been easy for a woman of her celebrity to intimidate others, but instead she was warm and unaffected. In Madeline's sheltered life, she had never met a woman like the Duchess of Leeds. There had only been her mother, and the teachers at school with their lectures on propriety, and her friends who knew no more of the world than she.

  “Madeline,” the duchess said, “you can see from my condition that I'll be limited in my activities during the coming months. I would like an assistant to fetch and deliver things for me, and keep my office neat…there are so many tasks that no one ever seems to have time for. Your skill at needlework may also be useful to Mrs. Lyttleton, the woman in charge of creating and maintaining costumes. And although Mr. Scott steadfastly denies it, we have needed someone to reorganize the theater library for years.”