The Millionaire Rogue

by Jessica Peterson

  Thomas let out a sigh of relief and returned her smile, the creases at the edges of his eyes deepening with laughter.

  Why had Sophia never noticed how handsome he was until now?

  Together they turned to face Princess Caroline, who was weeping noisily into the bowl of her hands.

  Sophia handed Her Majesty the handkerchief Hope had given her moments earlier.

  Caroline took it and blew her nose into it, making a very unladylike honking sound as she did so. Sophia bit her lip to keep from laughing.

  “Oh, lovers, don’t mind me.” The princess waved the sodden handkerchief at no one in particular. “That kiss, God save me! I can see the love you bear one another. It is a—a”—here her voice faltered—“a beautiful thing!”

  She collapsed into sobs. Mr. Hope wasted no time. He stood and patted the princess on the shoulder, whispering assurances in her ear—something about love, and life’s journey, and the prince regent coming around.

  Caroline gazed upon him with a watery smile, and thanked him for his kind words. She looked to Sophia, blotting her red eyes with the handkerchief, and sniffled.

  “How lucky you are, dear girl, to be loved by a man like Hope,” she said. She paused to blow her nose again. “In this world romance is all but dead. But in his eyes, I see it is alive. Oh, lovers!”

  Again the sobs; again, Mr. Hope whispering kind words in her ear. The princess wiped at her eyes, smudging one of her eyebrows so that it appeared a slightly askew comma, hung high in the middle of her forehead.

  Mr. Hope met Sophia’s gaze over the princess’s head as he patted her gently on the shoulder. He shrugged, and mouthed I’m sorry with a roll of his eyes. He tried, and failed, to repress the boyish grin twitching at the sides of his mouth.

  Sophia looked into her lap and held back her own smile. How many times she’d smiled this evening—well, considering the circumstances, diamond and deception and all that, more than was proper, surely.

  It was all Hope’s fault. He made her feel giddy, and alive, and safe, as if nothing she did or said would be the wrong thing. And what a relief that was.

  At last, when the princess cried her eyes to slits, she called for her maids to put her to bed. Bowing his thanks, Mr. Hope held out his hand to Sophia and helped her rise from the settee, the box containing the French Blue tucked into the crook of his arm.

  They left the princess with Gunter and Frederick in the puce-colored room, keeping their steps slow and even lest they be consumed by a newborn eagerness to know what, exactly, did come after the kiss they shared.

  * * *

  Sophia had known Mr. Hope for years now—in a professional capacity, of course. Most, if not all, of her family’s meager fortune was invested in Hope & Co. stock; Mr. Hope had come to their shabby house in Grosvenor Square once a week to meet with Cousin Violet and discuss—well, Sophia didn’t quite know what they discussed, though she was relatively certain it wasn’t nearly as interesting as the conversations she’d had with Mr. Hope tonight.

  But now that Sophia knew him on more intimate terms, she suddenly found it difficult to meet his eyes, training her own on her feet. They sat opposite each other in the swaying coach, the French Blue in its shiny box on the seat beside Mr. Hope.

  While they both burst into laughter the moment the coach pulled away from Montague House, after they wiped their eyes a charged silence settled between them. Outside, the night was still and humid, holding its breath for the rain that would come at any moment.

  Sophia bit her lip to keep from squirming, the lip that was still tingling from Mr. Hope’s ardent attentions. In her chest her heart was giddy, her every sense aware of his presence an arm’s length away. Her eyes traveled from his boots, dull from tonight’s adventures, up the length of his long, shapely legs, to his square knees, set just apart. His thighs were impossibly long and well muscled, filling his fine breeches to great effect.

  Really, she must’ve been blind all these years not to see what a very fine specimen Mr. Hope was. Very fine indeed.

  Of its own volition her gaze kept moving up, passing over a suspicious bulge protruding from the place where his legs met his hips; up past the narrow waist to land on his broad, finely wrought chest, rising and falling in long, steady strokes.

  She swallowed. It was more than a little impolite to stare as she was, but my God Sophia felt as if she were living in one of La Reinette’s thrilling tales. And if this was her only chance to know, even for a night, romance and adventure and dangerous, good-looking men, then manners be damned, she was going to know them, and know them thoroughly.

  Her gaze traveled up his neck to his face. Her breath caught in her throat when she caught him looking at her, and she burned beneath the intensity of his stare.

  “Awful quiet in there! Any casualties?”

  Mr. Lake’s jolly, muffled voice startled Sophia and Hope into motion, Sophia jolting forward in her seat, and Mr. Hope jolting forward in his to catch her.

  Hope groaned and rolled his eyes. “That man is a plague,” he muttered. He reached up and pounded the ceiling with his fist. “No casualties!”

  Mr. Lake chuckled. “We’ll see about that, you devil.”

  Holding Sophia’s elbows in his palms, Mr. Hope shook his head. “Some cheek that man has, calling me the devil.”

  Sophia smiled, doing her best to ignore the heat that pulsed through her at Hope’s touch. “I think he means it as a compliment, Mr. Hope.”

  “Mr. Hope?” He cocked his head to the side, eyes sparking with mischief. “Sounds like a stodgy fellow, old and boring, doesn’t he?”

  “Thomas.” Sophia’s smile grew. “I suppose having shared a closet and a kiss, we are to be friends now.”

  “Friends, yes.” Mr. Hope slid his palms down the length of her forearms to clasp her hands. He looked down at her fingers and ran his thumb along the edge of her palm.

  That touch.

  A shiver of anticipation sparked up her spine.

  “I hope you’ll forgive me—” He paused, as if deciding what to say next. At last he looked up. His eyes, very blue, seemed to glow in the darkness, earnest with an edge of daring. He scoffed. “There’s no decent way to phrase this, I’m afraid. And what I’m about to say—I mean it as a compliment, I do, so I hope you will take no offense. But you are not at all what—whom—I expected. Where has Sophia been hiding all these years? Under Miss Blaise’s bed?”

  It was Sophia’s turn to scoff. She looked down at their clasped hands, trying in vain to ignore the skittish pounding of her pulse. After a moment she looked up and smiled. “And what of Thomas? Does Mr. Hope stash him in the brandy board of his study?”

  “Nowhere else to keep a scoundrel like Thomas. The fellow’s liable to drink me out of house and home before summer’s out. He’s got dashedly expensive taste, you know.”

  Sophia nodded at the box on the seat beside Hope. “So I’m learning.”

  “But Sophia,” Thomas said, leaning closer. “Sophia, I rather like.”

  Again she looked down at their hands, only to realize that she, too, leaned close to Thomas, so close the tops of their heads nearly touched. “Me, too. But I’m afraid the ton would disagree. And my mother—I daresay Sophia would send her into a fit of apoplexy. I can hear her now: ‘The horror, oh, the horror! How my daughter doth deceive me! Jesus, I am ready, take me now!’

  “No,” she sighed. “Sophia will not do. She may be an adventurer—”

  “And quite the actress, might I add.”

  Sophia grinned, a bittersweet thing that faded as quickly as it appeared. “Flatterer. Any debutante worth her salt knows how to make a scene. I’ve yet to master the swoon, but I can wail with the best of them.”

  He lightly squeezed her hands, imploring her to meet his eyes. They were narrowed, his head cocked to the side in curiosity. He was looking at her in that way a
gain, his handsome face glowing with unabashed interest. Sophia didn’t know what she’d done, exactly, to garner such attention; there had been none of the batting eyelashes or forced laughter or meaningless flattery she usually employed at Almack’s.

  Not that such things had proven effective in snaring suitors, anyway.

  But still. Sophia did nothing to earn Hope’s attention, save tear through the night at his side with giddy abandon.

  And any debutante worth her salt knew giddy abandon was not the sort of sentiment that attracted a well-connected viscount or duke’s son.

  “Besides.” Sophia made to drop Thomas’s hands, but he held her fast. “No man in his right mind would risk life and limb on an attachment to an adventurer and an actress.”

  “The horror!” Thomas grinned, shaking his head. “No, Sophia, I must disagree. Men and their right minds aside—really, are we even in possession of such things?—some of us prefer adventurers far and away to debutantes.”

  Sophia looked away, face burning even before she said the words. “Not the sort of gentleman I hope to marry. That I need to marry.”

  Hope paused. She felt the heat of his gaze as a stifling silence filled the carriage. She hadn’t meant to insult him; heavens, he’d shown her a grand time, and a goodly bit of his rather delectable body besides. It wasn’t as if Hope had any intentions toward her, the interest in his eyes and the warmth of his touch notwithstanding.

  So why did Sophia feel as if she’d just delivered a ringing blow to his handsome cheek? That she’d hurt him in some unknown, but still visceral, way?

  “The sort of gentleman you need to marry?” Hope carefully released her hands. He sat back and placed his palms on his knees.

  Sophia shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “You know my family’s circumstances. I don’t have much choice. A good marriage will go far to repair our fortunes, and our reputation.”

  “But you do have a choice. Your family is in the care of Lady Violet’s capable hands. She is a savvy investor, Sophia, and sees to your family’s fortunes most ably.”

  Sophia looked out the window. She swallowed. “It’s not that I don’t trust Violet. It’s just—”

  The words caught at a sudden, ominous swell in her throat. Good Lord, how many times was she going to weep tonight?

  Only this time she wasn’t trying to make a scene.

  “It’s just?” Thomas said softly.

  Sophia waved a hand through the air. “Nothing.” She pulled a long breath through her nose, hoping to still her wildly beating heart. Across the carriage she met Hope’s eyes and managed a tight smile. “I’m sorry, Thomas. I don’t mean to burden you with my. Ahem. Dramatics. Most unseemly of me, isn’t it?”

  To her very great relief, a smile broke out on Mr. Hope’s face. “Let us not forget it was your dramatics that saved our arses tonight. Begging your pardon, Sophia.” He patted the lacquered box beside him.

  Sophia nodded in the French Blue’s direction. “So. What’s next for you and Mr. Lake?”

  “Well.” Mr. Hope sighed, an exhausted sound. “London is crawling with old Boney’s spies, so it shouldn’t be difficult to turn him on to our scent. The more people who learn of the diamond’s discovery, the better chance we’ll have of getting the highest price from that blackhearted scrum.”

  “Perhaps you should host one of your balls.” Sophia tapped a finger to her lips. “They are the most famous event of the season. Last year’s was one of the few events mama allowed me to attend, and I’ll never forget the crush. Or how ridiculous you looked dressed up as that Borgia pope. Almost as ridiculous as Violet in the guise of Lucrezia. She drank so much wine that night she fell down the stairs, do you remember?”

  They laughed at that, Hope slowly shaking his head. “How could I forget? If I hadn’t been there to catch her, I daresay she’d have a very different nose than the one she has now.” He took the box from the seat and held it in his lap. “But I do believe you’re on to something, Sophia. Perhaps this year’s theme could be ‘Great Jewels of the World.’” He paused, a small smile creeping across his lips. “Though there might be some confusion as to what sort of jewels I’m referring to.”

  With startling clarity, Sophia recalled the scratch of her quill against a half-empty page, recording in badly translated English La Reinette’s tale of a smuggler’s jewels. Their great size, a “treasure trove the likes of which she’d never seen.”

  Sophia suddenly understood the madam was not talking about rubies or emeralds.

  Her face flooded with a violent rush of heat, and she was grateful for the blurring darkness that hung between her and Thomas.

  “Yes. Well.” Sophia swallowed. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

  She turned her head and nearly started. Familiar stuccoed facades filled the window, slumbering Mayfair mansions rising on either side of a wide, well-kept lane. The smells of London—close air, smoke, and a vague, medieval sort of stench—filled her nostrils.

  She blinked as a wave of displeasure spread through her.

  Tonight’s adventure, it seemed, was over.

  It was all she could do not to curse aloud. But she wasn’t ready for it to end! Not now. There was more to be done. More to know and discover. More danger, and touching, and kissing—

  Her gaze darted back to Mr. Hope, who was pressing his beaver hat onto his mess of curls.

  “If you are in agreement, I thought Lake might drop us behind the mews,” he said. “I dare not imagine what your poor mama would think if the horses jolted her awake to a face like his.”

  Sophia grinned. “I don’t think she would ever recover.”

  Hope pounded twice on the roof; Mr. Lake coaxed the horses to stop. Hope removed the diamond from its lacquered box and carefully tucked it into his waistcoat pocket before disembarking. He turned and helped Sophia out onto the street, pulling up her hood against the drizzle that had begun to fall.

  Lake looked over his shoulder, his one eye glinting in the dark. “Shall I wait?”

  Thomas held out an elbow to Sophia. “No. Good evening, Lake.”

  Lake’s eye narrowed. “Are you sure? I don’t mind, really—”

  “Lake.” Thomas pulled Sophia against him. “Good evening.”

  Lake sighed, shaking his head. “Very well. Until tomorrow, then. Miss Blaise, it’s been a pleasure.”

  With a low whistle, he jostled the horses into motion and was gone.

  Together, Sophia and Thomas turned left and made their way down a dark, narrow alley. Hope held her fast, their legs brushing with every step they took. Neither of them spoke, Sophia’s thoughts scattered by the heady thumping of her heart.

  Ahead, the familiar grim facade of her family’s London house loomed where the alley came out onto the lane. If it weren’t for Thomas’s close—very close—presence, she would’ve buckled under the full weight of her disappointment.

  It really was over. The adventure, her interlude with Thomas, the kissing and the intrigue, the kissing—

  Hope suddenly turned to her. He tugged none too gently on her arm so that she faced him and stepped forward, pressing his body to hers. She fell back against the wall, her simmering blood at last ignited by the impatience of his movements.

  “Sophia.” His voice was barely above a whisper; she felt his breath on her face. Even in the darkness she could see the intent in his eyes. They were serious. Warm.

  “What were you doing at The Glossy?”

  She looked up at him, too terrified, too enthralled, to reply.

  “Sophia. I’ll have an answer. La Reinette is not the sort of company a lady like you should keep, adventurer or no. She is alluring, certainly. But dangerous, too. Any deal you have made with her will only come back to haunt you.”

  Sophia swallowed, hard. “I. Well. I. I’m not at liberty to say.”

  Hope st
ared at her. Again he stepped forward, pressing his arm to the wall beside her head, and leaned down so that his face was half an inch from hers.

  He surrounded her, his enormous shoulders blocking the night from view. Around them came the growing patter of rain.

  “Sophia.” His voice was little more than a growl. “A debutante in search of a brilliant match doesn’t dally about in whorehouses. Tell me. What business do you have at The Glossy?”

  The rain was coming down with great intent, rolling off the brim of Hope’s hat into her face. In a swift, impulsive movement, Hope pulled his hat from his head, his curls falling rakishly across his forehead.

  Sophia let out a breath. If Hope wasn’t holding her up with his weight, her knees would have definitely buckled. Good God, never did a man look so delicious in his looming as Mr. Thomas Hope.

  “Sophia,” he repeated.

  She ran her tongue along her bottom lip, suddenly alive with sensation.

  The words came before she could stop them, a defense against his questions; a plea of desire.

  “Do it again.”

  Thomas paused. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Kiss me. Like you did for the princess. Do it again.”

  His eyes searched hers, moving from one to the other. With every sense she implored him to action, tilting her chin so that her lips waited just beneath the soft curve of his own. The air between them tightened, pulling them slowly toward one another.

  Sophia vaguely heard Thomas’s hat dropping to the ground beside her; and then his hand was cupping her face and his hair was falling into her eyes and his skin brushed against hers. He took her lips with his own, an urgent but luxuriously careful caress that drew a moan from the back of her throat.

  He moved ardently over her now; no time, no need for introductions or assurances, just desire, sure and swift, beating between them.

  Taking her bottom lip in his teeth, he opened her mouth to him, his tongue sliding along the slick insides of her lips. In her veins her blood pounded.

  For the second time that night she surrendered to the ruin of Hope’s expert touch, his hands and his shoulders, and dear God, this kiss.