The Millionaire Rogue

by Jessica Peterson

  Seven

  It was her curiosity that did it, the challenge that sparked in her eyes.

  That, and her damnably luscious lips. While Miss Sophia Blaise wasn’t entirely guileless—she had, after all, helped him swindle the French Blue from Caroline’s grasp—the debutante-cum-actress hadn’t the slightest idea how alluring she could be.

  Especially with that bottom lip caught between her teeth.

  Then there was her sudden, impulsive request. Do it again. Kiss me.

  Good Lord. What was a decent man to do but oblige the lady, and oblige her most thoroughly?

  As for his fear that he’d forgotten how to kiss—it boded well, didn’t it, if Sophia asked for another?

  Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew she was using the kiss as a weapon against him, a way of avoiding questions she quite clearly did not wish to answer. Her presence in La Reinette’s chamber was, to be fair, none of his business.

  But when it came to Sophia, Hope did not feel like being fair. Fair was for business, for money, for duels. For cards and the races. For ledgers and war and the shops on Bond Street, the grocer, the steward. Fair was predictable and dull.

  No. There was certainly nothing fair about Sophia; her egregious loveliness, her scent. There was nothing fair about the way she stoked his growing desire for her with every word she said, her unexpected bravado and the full, honest sound of her laughter.

  He would find out what she was up to with La Reinette, come hell or high water.

  Just after he kissed Miss Blaise senseless. Yes. He would find out then.

  This time he held nothing back. He kissed her with a passion that was at once foreign and intoxicating, driving deeper, softer; the more of her he possessed and discovered, the more of her he wanted. He felt wild, his body and his heart pushing him forward, his hands cupping her face as he coaxed her lips apart with his tongue.

  He’d forgotten just how lovely kissing could be.

  Sophia yielded to his caresses, parting her lips. Their kiss deepened, slowed for a moment as he gently explored her warmth. Beneath him she shifted, running her palms up over his chest to land on his shoulders. She slid a hand up the side of his throat, and he groaned when she buried her fingers in the curls at the back of his neck, pulling him closer. With her thumb she gently stroked the cut on his cheek; her touch was featherlight, soothing the wound’s sting.

  He sensed his own fingers tingling for the feel of her bodice as her breasts pressed far too invitingly against his chest. The impulse—it was nearly impossible to resist. He hadn’t expected her to be so willing, so curious, so passionate.

  If he didn’t stop soon, he knew he’d devour her whole. And while he knew the adventurer in her would very much like to be devoured, the debutante had a reputation to protect, and a certain sort of gentleman to marry.

  With one last, lingering stroke of his tongue, he pressed his lips, hard, to hers. And then he pulled away.

  For several beats they stood, foreheads touching, his hands still on her face as they gasped for air. Her breath was hot on his face; he slid his last finger down to her throat and felt the ecstatic screaming of her pulse. Her skin was scalding. An invitation for his lips to finish what his hands had started.

  He did not want to let her go.

  The rain began to fall in earnest, fat, insistent drops that fell straight from a low sky. It was a summer rain, and yet not quite. Not yet. The water was calm but cold.

  Not yet.

  He slid a wet ribbon of hair from her brow. “You are as a nymph, Sophia. So lovely. So tempting.”

  Hope dropped his hands from her face. He shut his eyes against the shouting of his blood to kiss her, touch her, take her, and stepped back, releasing the tension between their bodies.

  “I am writing her memoirs.”

  Hope’s eyes flew open at the sound of Sophia’s voice. Through the rain he could see the gleam of her eyes, her breast rising and falling as she caught her breath.

  Out of all the things she could’ve said, Hope was certainly not expecting her to say that.

  “You’re a writer?”

  Sophia shrugged. “I am no Lord Byron—”

  “Thank heaven for that.”

  “But when I was young, I lived in books. They were an escape.” She looked down at her hands. “An escape from my family, the chaos of our house. It wasn’t long before I began to write. Stories at first, small things, always in secret. I wrote about romance, adventure, pirates of course. When I was seventeen, my governess discovered one of my pirate melodramas I’d foolishly hidden beneath my pillow. Imagine my shock when, rather than rapping my knuckles with her stick, she asked me to pen her memoirs.”

  Hope blinked as understanding dawned on him. “Your governess wasn’t—”

  “Yes.”

  “Not that Miss Entwhistle, surely—”

  “Yes. That Miss Entwhistle.”

  “Dear God. I remember those memoirs caused quite the stir that year.” Hope tugged a hand through his curls. “Surely your pirate melodramas were less, er, explicit than Miss Entwhistle’s tales.”

  “Not really, no.”

  Forget his curls. Hope gave his cravat a ruthless tug and cleared his throat. “Well, then. How did you come to work for La Reinette?”

  “Miss Entwhistle wrote me some weeks ago, said a friend of hers sought a writer for her memoirs. I had every intention of refusing, I did. But from the moment we met, La Reinette enthralled me. I couldn’t say no. The stories she tells! Sometimes I feel I ought to be paying her.”

  Thomas furrowed his brow, swiping back his curls with his hand. La Reinette was his friend and, a decade ago, more than that; she was enthralling, yes, all too aware of the hypnotic power of her beauty.

  “Does she mean to publish these memoirs?”

  Sophia pushed back her sodden hood. “You know how popular memoirs are these days. The more scandalous, the better.”

  Thomas stepped forward. He hooked his thumb beneath her chin and lifted her face. Her eyes met his.

  “Take care, Sophia. La Reinette may be glamorous, but she resides in a world much different from your own.”

  Sophia grinned. “If I’m old enough to make my debut, then certainly I’m old enough to look after myself, Thomas.”

  “I hope you recognize the irony of that statement.”

  “Please.” She placed her palms on his chest. Beneath her touch his heart leapt. “You mustn’t tell a soul. I am sworn to secrecy. I shall take care, I promise. Besides, La Reinette guaranteed discretion, protection, too.”

  “Did she.” Thomas frowned. He covered her hands on his chest with his own and sighed. “Very well. But remember what you promised me. And should you find yourself in trouble, you must come to me straightaway.”

  Pleasure pulsed through him as her grin deepened. “Hm. I think Mr. Lake, with that vicious little eye patch of his, might be better at protecting my prized virtue than a scoundrel like you.”

  If they weren’t standing pressed knee to navel in an alley in Mayfair well past midnight, Hope would’ve thrown back his head and laughed.

  “I’ve been called many things, Sophia, but never a scoundrel. Though I suppose it is scoundrelly to kiss debutantes in dark alleys.”

  “Scoundrelly, yes. But only in the best of ways.”

  Her grin was saucy now, playful; her eyes gleamed with pleasure even as drops of rain rolled down the smooth planes of her cheeks.

  In the very center of Hope’s chest, a puzzling lightness took shape. A lightness he recognized, vaguely, but could not name.

  He sighed, biting back the impulse to lean in and proceed with the devouring he’d reluctantly halted a few heartbeats ago. Instead he stooped to pick up his hat and, holding it above Sophia’s head, held out his elbow.

  Hope sensed her reluctance as she looped her a
rm through his.

  So. She was no more eager for the night to end than he. Hope smiled. He’d done his job, and done it well.

  Together they skipped across the lane, the rain mercifully obscuring the sound of their boots on the cobblestones. Sophia led him down the sloping walk that ran along the side of the house, and drew up at last before the kitchen door.

  She released his arm and stepped up onto the stoop, turning to face him.

  “Well.” She clasped her hands. “Thank you, Mr. Hope, for a marvelous evening.”

  “Thomas. You must call me Thomas.”

  His name on her lips came out in a soft whisper. “Thomas.”

  They looked at each other. The lightness in his chest threatened to burst through his entire being. Around them the rain pattered noisily, an opaque curtain that hid this moment from the rest of the world.

  Without thinking, Hope leapt forward onto the stoop. With his hand he cupped her face and, drawing close, pressed his lips to her cheek. It was a simple kiss, quick and tender; he couldn’t help but kiss her with feeling.

  Sophia inhaled, holding her breath as he looked down at her.

  “Good night, Sophia.” His voice was foreign to him, soft and rough all at once.

  Beneath his hand he felt the working of her throat as she swallowed, her eyes never leaving his. “Good night, Thomas,” she breathed.

  And then, as if waking from a dream, she blinked; she turned and noiselessly scurried into the house.

  In her haste, she’d left the door open a crack. He reached for the handle and for a moment allowed his hand to linger there, the metal alive with the memory of her touch. Bowing his head, he closed the door softly behind her. Then he turned and stalked into the darkness.

  He took the familiar route in long, hard strides, heart thudding, throat suddenly tight, the pouring rain a welcome antidote to the heat that pulsed beneath his skin.

  Thomas.

  It had been so long. So very long since he’d been anyone but Mr. Hope, creditor, investor, banker, businessman. Casual acquaintance, trusted but distant friend. This Thomas, this man on the lips of a lovely woman, this adventurer—he couldn’t possibly exist beside the likes of Mr. Hope. There wasn’t time enough in the day, and too many memories besides. Memories he’d spent more than a decade trying to forget.

  Hope had left that man behind for a reason. And thus far, forgetting Thomas had served him well.

  But now.

  He closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath through his nose.

  Now all he could smell was the clean, fresh scent of Sophia’s skin, the sweet hint of wine on her lips. All he could see were her green-gold eyes, the way they slanted so invitingly as she teased him. He could feel nothing but the warmth of her skin, the opening of her lips, her fingers tangling in his hair.

  Could hear nothing but the soft breathlessness of her voice as she said his name.

  Thomas.

  Nymph indeed.

  * * *

  City of London

  Fleet Street

  Three days later

  Mr. Hope held the diamond up to the thick, golden afternoon light that streamed through his office window. He turned the French Blue over in his fingers, wincing as the jewel blinded him with a particularly vicious spark of radiance.

  He was thinking of her again. With a smile he recalled Sophia’s theatrical sobs, and her wonder at seeing the diamond for the first time. Afterward he’d kissed her, right there in front of Princess Caroline—

  “Forbidden fruit, old friend.”

  Hope started at the sound of the voice, grappling after the diamond as it tumbled from his grasp.

  “Dear. God!” He caught the French Blue and held it fast in his palm. He looked up and met Mr. Lake’s narrowed eye. “Damn you, Lake, how’d you get past my men? This sneaking about has gone on long enough. You’re lucky someone hasn’t shot you yet.”

  “Trust me, they’ve tried. No one’s come close, of course—”

  Hope rolled his eyes. “Of course.”

  “But I’m deadly good at this ‘sneaking about,’ as you well know by now. And besides. I like the challenge. Front doors are for ninnies,” Lake said, setting a familiar black lacquer box before Hope on the desk.

  “If by ninnies you mean normal people, then yes, I concur.” Hope carefully placed the diamond back in Princess Caroline’s box and shut the lid with an agitated thwack. He put his elbows on his desk and clasped his hands. “So. Assuming you haven’t come to mock my History of the World’s Greatest Diamond yet again—”

  “That’s not what I was talking about.” Lake crossed his bulging arms and from his considerable height stared down at Hope.

  Hope blinked, furrowing his brow. “I don’t understand.”

  Lake continued to stare. “Oh, I think you do.”

  “Actually, I don’t.” Hope blinked again. Forbidden fruit. What the devil was Lake talking abou—

  Ah.

  Lake was talking about Sophia.

  His face rushed hot, and Hope snapped his gaze to the lacquered box on his desk. Lake was a man of many skills; Hope didn’t know until now that mindreading was one of them.

  “Sophi—Miss Blaise is none of your business,” Hope growled. “Nor is she any of mine, for that matter.”

  Lake’s eyes went as round as his mouth. “Oh. Oh no. I wasn’t talking about her! I was talking about the diamond.” He nodded at the box. “Haha! A telling mistake. Well, then. You’ve made my point for me—best to stay away from them both, before—well, you know why.”

  Hope’s head hit the back of his chair with a bang. “I hate this game.”

  “Neither of them belong to you, Hope. Not only is your desire for them useless, it’s downright dangerous. Deadly, even. The French Blue will go to Napoleon,”—Lake pounded the desk with his first finger—“and Miss Blaise will go to a nice marquess with a castle and ten thousand a year. Understood?”

  Hope scoffed to cover the sharp, unexpected sting of fury that washed over him at the sound of Sophia’s name on Lake’s lips. “Perhaps I’ll understand when I get back that twenty thousand I loaned you. Deadly my arse.” He nodded at a neat stack of correspondence on the far end of his desk, each letter meticulously sealed in Hope’s signature blue wax. “The invitations to my ball go out today. ‘An Evening at Versailles: the Jewels of the Sun King.’ A theme, if I don’t say so myself, that is also a decent piece of diplomatic bait. Napoleon will be knocking on your door before the evening is out, make no mistake. And then our assignment is done. What’s so deadly about all that?”

  Lake glowered. “I didn’t come to scold you about keeping your breeches buttoned—”

  “You didn’t? Really? Because it sure as hell feels like you did.”

  Lake’s face softened into grimness. When he spoke his voice was quiet, serious. “There’s a leak. Word has gotten out about our . . .” He looked away. “Ah. Activities last Wednesday night.”

  “What?” For the second time that afternoon, Hope started, fearful his heart might leap from his chest. At once he thought of Sophia, imploring him and Mr. Lake to silence on the side of the road in Blackheath. He’d sworn to keep her secrets safe, that no one would ever learn of her arrangement with La Reinette or involvement in Lake’s plot.

  Hope knew as well as anyone the ton was all too eager to tear apart and shun its own. A debutante who snuck out under cover of darkness to pen an infamous courtesan’s memoirs was the stuff of dreams for dour dowagers and their miserable ilk. The gossip and censure would be unbearable; not only would it ruin Sophia, it’d likely destroy her family as well.

  Never mind all that Hope had at stake. His reputation, his business, and the countless employees and clients who depended on him. His brothers, Adrian and Henry—though they’d been estranged since, well, since as long as Hope could remember—those
wastrels remained his dependents. With the rest of the family gone, Adrian and Henry had no one else to whom to turn.

  Lake held up his hand. “Whisperings only. Nothing to condemn us; nothing tantamount to blackmail. Not yet, anyway. But someone knows that we were together last Wednesday evening. And that we were up to something. Whoever he is, he’s asking all the right questions.”

  It was Hope’s turn to glower. “So what are we going to do? I made clear to you last time we spoke, it’s imperative no one know I am involved.”

  “Trust me.” Lake’s eye gleamed with malice. Hope swallowed. “We’ll find our rat. And when we do, he’ll be very sorry he ever opened his mouth But you must take care, Hope. Keep your eyes and ears open. Guard the French Blue with your life. And for God’s sake, stay away from that girl. If this rat hasn’t already figured out Miss Blaise was involved in our plot, he certainly will if she’s seen—er—associating with you.”

  Hope let out a long, hot breath and smiled tightly. “It’s always the worst-case scenario with you, isn’t it, Lake? If we don’t end up dead or ruined or both, I’ll do my best to help. But I make no promises.”

  “All right.” Lake cocked a brow before he turned and limped toward the window. With a grunt he heaved it open. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Stay away from that girl.”

  Hope watched in mute shock as Mr. Lake, pushing aside the damask drapes, grasped either side of the window frame and swung his legs through it. Looking back over his shoulder, he nodded. “I’ll see you at the ball. Don’t forget, it’s important everyone is talking about that bloody jewel. See to it that they do.”

  With another grunt, he launched his bulk through the window and was gone.

  One bad leg.

  One good eye.

  Really, how the devil did Lake do it?

  After Hope managed to retrieve his jaw from the floor, he stood and made his way to the stack of invitations on the edge of his desk. He grasped the letter at the top of the pile, the paper pleasantly smooth and heavy in his hands, and read the address scrawled in looping calligraphy across the page.