Page 10 of Somewhere I'll Find You
“Because you never part with a shilling unless it's absolutely necessary.”
“I'm generous with you,” he pointed out.
“Yes, which is absolutely necessary in order to retain my affections.”
Damon laughed. “And well worth it,” he replied, his gaze sweeping over her voluptuous figure. She was dressed in a sea-green gown molded tightly over her round breasts, pushing them high in an opulent display. Her full hips were outlined by a skirt ornamented with lavish silk flowers and jade beading.
“Tell me about Mrs. Wentworth,” Pauline coaxed, reaching up to smooth his dark hair, aware that the proprietary gesture would be noticed by everyone around them. “What was she like?”
Damon searched in vain for an appropriate word to describe the woman he had encountered. Finding none, he shrugged helplessly.
Pauline's lips gathered in a petulant frown, and she tossed her head until the emerald plume fastened in her dark curls bobbed merrily. “Well, I've no doubt she's like every other actress, willing to lift her skirts for every man she meets.”
Wryly Damon thought that Julia Wentworth's behavior was likely no different than Pauline's, except that Pauline believed her bloodlines made her superior. “She didn't appear to be promiscuous.”
“It's said all over London that she's having an affair with Logan Scott. One only has to see them act together to know for certain.” She gave a dramatic little shiver for emphasis. “The air fairly smolders! But Mr. Scott would have such an effect on any woman, I'm certain.”
Damon knew little about the world of theater, but like everyone else he was aware of Logan Scott's accomplishments. Scott championed a more natural style of acting than had ever been attempted before. His powerful yet vulnerable Hamlet was legendary, but he was equally talented at comic roles in light fare such asThe Frustrated Husband. Although Damon was far from qualified to be a critic, he had recognized Scott's extraordinary gift of drawing the audience into the thoughts and emotions of a character.
Even more impressive was the flood of money Scott had brought to the Capital Theatre, making it a worthy rival of Drury Lane. He was an adept manager of both people and profits. A man of such talents should be courted by the cream of society—and indeed, Scott appeared to have many well-born and prominent friends. But he would never be fully accepted by them. He was a self-made man, and the peerage believed he had aspired to a position he had never been meant for. Men and women in the acting profession existed to entertain both the masses and the aristocracy, belonging nowhere but in their own half-world of art and illusions.
The image of Jessica Wentworth's beautiful face came unbidden to Damon's mind. What would become of her when she was no longer able to earn her living on the stage? An actress had few choices, except to take her chances as a wealthy man's mistress, or if she was fortunate, marry some aging widower or humbly endowed member of the peerage…but of course, Mrs. Wentworth was already married.
What would you like to forget?
A husband.
What kind of man had she married? Who was he, and why—
“Darling, what are you thinking about?” Pauline tugged imperiously on his arm. “I'm not accustomed to seeing a man's attention drift so far away whenI'mclose by.”
Damon shook the thoughts of Jessica Went-worth from his mind and looked down at Pauline. “Then give me something else to think about,” he murmured, and smiled as she leaned up to whisper provocatively in his ear.
By the time Julia reached the marble staircase that led to the upstairs rooms, her throat had tightened and her eyes were stinging with tears. She paused at the first landing, her fingers clenched on the banister.
“Jessica.” She heard Logan Scott's unmistakable voice, and his feet on the stairs as he approached her. She waited without turning around, not wanting him to see her face. “What happened?” he asked with a touch of annoyance. “I happened to glance in your direction, and saw you running from the ballroom like a scalded cat.”
“I'm tired,” she managed to say thickly. “I can't go back in there tonight.”
“Has someone said something to upset you?” Logan took hold of her arm and forced her to face him. His breath caught as he saw her tears. “Tell me what happened.” There was a glint of fury in his gaze. “If some bastard dared to insult you, I'll knock his arse from here to—”
“No,” she murmured, pulling away from his hard grip. “No one said anything to me. I'm perfectly all right.”
Logan frowned as she brushed her fingers furtively over her wet cheeks. “Here.” A quick search in his green coat, and he produced a linen handkerchief.
Julia accepted the offering and blotted her eyes, trying to control her emotions. She wasn't certain how she felt…afraid, angry, sad…perhaps even relieved. She had finally met her husband, spoken with him, looked into his eyes. Savage seemed like a cold, self-controlled man, a man she wanted nothing to do with. And he felt the same—he didn't want her, had never written or tried to find her, and was perfectly content to ignore her existence. Although it was unreasonable, she felt betrayed by him.
“Perhaps I can help in some way,” Logan commented.
A wry smile twisted her lips. “You've never offered to help me before. Why now?”
“Because I've never seen you cry.”
“You've seen me cry hundreds of times.”
“Never for real. I want to know what happened tonight.”
“It has to do with my past,” she said. “That's all I can tell you.”
