Chapter 11
Staring at her husband in silent wonderment, Julia didn't resist as he approached her in two strides, crushing her back against the looking-glass. One large hand gripped her arm, and the other came to her face, his fingers wrapping around her jaw.
“I thought you were leaving for London tonight,” she managed to say.
“I had to see you first.”
“You saw the play—”
“Yes, I saw. I saw the pleasure you took in your acting. I saw how much it meant to you and everyone else in this cursed place.”
Julia shook her head, confused by his anger.
Damon's fingers tightened on her jaw, almost hurting her. “You're going to choose this, aren't you?” he said through his teeth. “You won't be able to give it up. Tell me the truth, Julia.”
“Not now—”
“Yes, now. I need to hear the words from you before I leave.”
“How would you react if I asked you to sacrifice everything for me?”
“Is that your answer?”
“I'm not even certain what the question is,” she cried, trying to pull free.
“I want you,” he muttered.
“But only on your terms.”
“Yes, on my terms. Taking my name, living in my home, sleeping in my bed each night. I want you to be mine with no limits…every part of you…every thought, every word you speak…”
Julia's struggles ceased suddenly as she felt his mouth on hers, the heat of his lips and tongue robbing her of breath. It seemed that he was trying to brand her with his kiss, imprint her very soul with the force of his jealous passion.
His arms were hard as they closed around her. Roughly his hands gripped the curves of her body, his head bending over hers until she arched against him. She didn't want to respond, but the wildness rose inside her until she submitted with a sob of despair.
Her hands reached around his neck, fingers clenching in his dark hair to hold him close.
Damon made an urgent sound in his throat and cupped his hands over her buttocks, lifting her high against him.
“You are mine,” he said against her throat, teeth and bristle scraping her soft skin.
“You'll never be free of me, no matter what you do.”
She only half-heard the words, her body straining desperately against his, seeking the pleasure that only he could give her.
His palms slipped up to her bodice, catching the edges of the fabric and spreading them wide until the laces slid free.
Pushing her chemise down, he sought her breasts.
His warm fingers curved beneath their tender weight, his thumbs passing over her nipples.
Gasping, Julia offered herself to him, her mouth open beneath his, her breasts impelled into his hands.
He urged her against the dressing table and lowered his head to her breast, drawing the tight peak past his lips, against the flat of his tongue.
Holding on to him for balance, Julia clasped his taut body between her thighs, her arms locked around his waist. Damon turned his attention to her other breast, licking and tugging at the rosy crest. Julia was trapped between desire and denial, knowing that the closeness she craved so desperately would be her ultimate undoing.
“Please stop,” she said between the rasping breaths that were torn from her throat. “Please…I don't want this.”
At first Damon seemed not to hear her, his attention focused on the ripening promise of her body, his mouth moving hungrily over her skin.
She pushed at his chest and head, tentatively and then with greater force, until the embrace was broken.
His gaze bore into hers, hands coming up to hold her head steady.
“I'm going to London,” he said thickly, “and then I'm coming back for you.”
“No—”
“I'll never let you go. Not until you can look into my eyes and tell me that you don't love me…that you can spend the rest of your life without needing this…without wanting me.”
Her lips trembled, but she couldn't make a sound.
The opening click of the door, as quiet as it was, made them both start in surprise. The maid, Betsy, stood in the doorway with a basket of clothes. “Oh,” she said, her eyes round as she beheld Julia's visitor.
Damon moved in front of Julia to hide her from view while she fumbled with the laces to her bodice. “Excuse me, Mrs. Wentworth,” the maid murmured, and disappeared at once. The door shut firmly behind her.
Flushing, Julia continued the effort to restore her clothing, while Damon watched intently. “Please don't come back for me,” Julia said, avoiding his gaze. “I can't see you for a while. I need time to think.”
“You mean you want time to convince yourself that things can go back to the way they were before we met. It won't work, Julia. You'll never be the same…and neither will I.”
“You'll make it impossible for me to act. I won't be able to concentrate on anything.”
“I'll return soon,” he insisted, “and we'll settle things once and for all.”
Julia didn't move as Damon left. She leaned against the dressing table for support and let out an unsteady breath.
It seemed that she had finally lost the tight control she had maintained over her life ever since leaving home.
She thought of the papers her father had given her, the key to her freedom.
Did she have the courage to use them? She hated the paralysis that had come over her, the fear of losing Damon almost as great as the fear of giving herself to him.
Slowly she undressed, letting her costume drop to the floor in a heap. “Mrs. Wentworth?” came Betsy's voice, accompanied by a timid knock.
“Yes, come in.”
The maid's face was stained with a blush. “I'm sorry about interrupting before, ma'am, but I didn't know—”
“That's perfectly all right,” Julia said evenly. “Just help me with my clothes.”
The maid helped Julia to dress, fastening a row of buttons on the back of her green silk gown.
After pinning her hair tightly on the crown of her head, Julia washed her face and checked her appearance in the looking-glass.
Her lips were soft and swollen, her cheeks were flushed, and there were betraying bristle marks on her throat.
Carefully Julia arranged the high ruched neckline of her gown to cover the marks.
She paused as she heard Logan Scott's deep murmur beyond the dressing room.
“Mrs. Wentworth, I desire a word with you.”
Julia motioned for the maid to admit him inside. Logan had also changed his clothes and washed, the residual dampness turning his gleaming hair the color of cherry wood.
Picking up her basket of clothes, Betsy said good night and left them alone.
“Were you pleased with the performance tonight?” Julia asked, “or have you come to deliver a critique?”
Logan smiled. “You exceeded every hope I had for you. You made everyone in the cast shine in your reflected glory, including myself.”
The lavish praise was so unexpected that Julia was disconcerted. She gave him a tentative smile and turned to straighten the articles on her dressing table.
“I saw Lord Savage coming backstage,” Logan remarked. “From his expression, it was obvious he didn't intend to congratulate you.”
“No, he didn't.” Julia's hands went still on the dressing table, fingertips pressed on the smooth surface until they turned white. She took care that her reflection gave no clue as to what had happened.
Logan regarded her thoughtfully and gave a short nod, as if coming to a decision. “Come with me, Julia. I want to talk to you about an idea I've been considering lately.”
She turned toward him, unable to hide her surprise. “The hour is late.”
“I'll deliver you to the inn by midnight.” His wide mouth curved in a smile. “I have a proposition that concerns your future.”
Julia was intrigued. “Tell me.”
“In private.” Logan clamped a gentle hand over her arm and drew her from the dressing room.
“Where are we going?” she asked, picking up her cloak as they left.
“I have a house near the river.”
Mystified, Julia accompanied him without further questions. She was puzzled as to why he would allow her to see yet another of his residences, inviting her a step further into the private world he guarded so jealously.
After making their way through the crowd waiting outside the theater, they took a carriage ride to a small, elegant villa situated amid thickly wooded grounds. Like Logan's London home, it was Italianate in flavor, with a luxurious but quiet atmosphere.
Sitting in the parlor with a glass of wine in her hand, Julia relaxed against the upholstered back of an Empire-style sofa.
She stared at Logan expectantly. He fiddled with a few objects placed artfully on a marble-topped pier table: a Chinese meiping vase, a green malachite box, an ebony Louis XIV bracket clock.
He slid her a sidelong glance, appraising her mood.
“You look as if you're preparing to talk me into something,” Julia commented.
“I am,” he said with disarming frankness. “But before I make the attempt, tell me how things stand between you and Lord Savage.”
Julia occupied herself with removing a minuscule bit of cork from the inside of her glass. She finally looked up at him with an uncomfortable smile. “May I know the reason you're asking?”
“I don't want to interfere in your relationship…your marriage.”
“There can be no real marriage,” she said, her voice dull and flat. “It's clear to me that we would both be better off with an annulment. Unfortunately Lord Savage doesn't agree…and he's rather overwhelming when it comes to getting what he wants.”
“And he wants you,” Logan said quietly.
“He wants a traditional wife.” Julia took a swallow of wine. “He wants me to become Lady Savage and leave all traces of Jessica Wentworth in the past.”
“That won't be possible. Not for someone with your talent.”
“If only I were a man,” she said bitterly. “Then I could have everything…my work, a family, freedom to decide things for myself…and no one would disapprove. But I'm a woman, and no matter what I choose, I'm going to be unhappy.”
“For a while, perhaps. The pain of losing something—or someone—fades in time.”