The Millionaire Rogue Read online

  “Yes, the most amusing thing I’ve heard all day,” Sophia said, watching through the window as Violet kissed her father on the cheek. He offered in turn an unsteady salute. Poor Uncle Sommer; he had not been himself for years now, and his condition was only getting worse. Violet certainly had her hands full. She was good, her cousin, for all her eccentricities.

  Good, because she had chosen to stay with the family, while Sophia longed for nothing more than to escape it.

  * * *

  Sophia’s pulse leapt as the old family carriage pulled onto Brook Street. Truth be told, Violet wasn’t the only one sent into a tizzy by the arrival of Lord Harclay’s invitation three days ago. Sophia smiled as she recalled Violet turning bright red whilst reading the note—something about money and champagne and settling their accounts.

  All the ingredients for an appropriately scandalous evening out. Whatever her intentions, Violet had most definitely set her cap at that libertine the earl.

  Over Violet’s shoulder Sophia had managed to catch one last line—“others of our mutual acquaintance shall join us”—and knew, knew, that Mr. Hope would be among them.

  Even now her heart danced in her chest at the thought of seeing him again. She had not heard from him since leaving his house the morning after the theft; that was nearly a week ago. Much to her disappointment he had not come to say good-bye after interrogating the acrobats with Violet and Lord Harclay; Sophia in turn did not write him following her harrowing debut in the gossip sheets, perhaps out of spite, perhaps because she knew there was nothing either of them could do.

  The French Blue, of course, remained at large.

  Besides, the marquess kept her busy, calling most afternoons, offering invitations for the evening. While talk of an offer was assiduously avoided, Sophia saw in Withington’s eyes he meant to do right by her. And what did one cryptic entry in the gossip rags matter when she was engaged to be married to a marquess?

  Still. She often found herself thinking about Thomas. She wondered what occupied his time, what he did and whom he saw. Had he had much success in his search for the French Blue? What of La Reinette, the cloaked riders, Sophia’s mysterious note?

  And then there was the memory of his touch, his mouth and hands on her body in ways that made her ache when she thought of them.

  Some days the longing to hear from him—a letter, a call, a stroll, anything—was unbearable.

  And so it was no surprise that Sophia’s entire being thrummed in anticipation as the carriage drew to a stop before the immaculate facade of Lord Harclay’s residence in fashionable Hanover Square.

  Even in the midst of her own excitement, Violet noticed her cousin’s distress. As they dismounted, she took Sophia’s hands and pulled her close.

  “Do not worry, cousin,” she said quietly, her blue eyes gleaming. “Tonight shall be great fun. Mr. Hope was asking about you today.”

  Sophia’s heart skipped a beat. “He was?”

  “Oh, yes.” Together they mounted the front steps. “It was actually rather adorable. At the end of our meeting he tied his tongue in knots trying to ask, without asking, if you were to attend tonight’s dinner. He had a certain spring in his step after I assured him you were.”

  The butler, a young, handsome man by the name of Mr. Avery, led them into the drawing room. He held the door open and motioned them inside.

  Sophia swallowed, hard, to keep her heart from leaping into her mouth. Violet patted the top of her hand and smiled. They were here at last.

  At last.

  Stepping over the threshold, Sophia blinked, turning her head; and there he was across the room, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, coupe held carelessly in his right hand, the left grazing a well-sculpted thigh.

  In her veins her blood rushed as Mr. Hope met her eyes. His were bluer than she remembered, soft and serious and so lovely she could hardly bear to look. There was a tug, vaguely familiar, in the knot of her belly—the tug between their bodies, at once sweet and terribly overwhelming.

  His lips were parted, face taut as if he, too, suffered from stolen breath. And still he did not look away; for a moment his eyes flashed with hunger, and she remembered his hands between her legs, the intoxicating tenderness of his fingers.

  Hope set down his glass, eyes never leaving hers, and made to move in her direction.

  “Miss Blaise? Begging your pardon, Miss—”

  Sophia started, turning to face the footman at her side. He held aloft a tray of delicate coupes.

  “Would you care for some champagne? An excellent vintage from his lordship’s cellars.”

  “Oh, yes please.” She took a coupe and smiled tightly. “Don’t go too far.”

  Drinking deeply, Sophia let out a long breath. She squared her shoulders in a failed attempt to gather her wits, knowing she had to face Thomas whether or not she possessed the power of speech.

  She turned, expecting Mr. Hope’s fine form to be revealed to her in new detail, but met instead with her mother’s round, radish-red face. Lady Blaise’s eyes slid from Sophia to Hope and back again, lips pursed. Her gaze settled on Sophia, displeasure evident in the sharp, single swivel of her head.

  No.

  Lady Blaise blinked, a smile appearing as if by magic on her lips. She turned to the woman at her elbow, who wore her exotic looks—tall, taller than Sophia by a head or two, and very thin—as one would a tiara of diamonds: elegantly, confidently, as if she owned them and not the other way around.

  Mama introduced her as Lady Caroline, the Dowager Countess of Berry and the Earl of Harclay’s elder sister.

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Blaise.” Lady Caroline returned her bow, nearly mauling the champagne-bearing footman as she tripped over the hem of her gown.

  Sophia grabbed Lady Caroline by the arm, catching her just in time before Lord Harclay’s excellent vintage ended up on the rug.

  “Oh, goodness, how clumsy of me! I wish I could say it was the first mishap of the day. My brother, the dear, wouldn’t even let me dance after my coming out. He was worried I’d kill someone. Can’t say that I blame him—I’m all thumbs, you see, and I can hardly walk without slaying either myself or my neighbor.”

  Sophia smiled. Lady Caroline certainly looked elegant, but was, apparently, anything but.

  She liked her straightaway.

  “I’m afraid I can relate.” Sophia sipped her champagne. “I’m not much of a dancer myself. I dare not imagine how many poor gentlemen’s toes I’ve broken this week alone. It’s a wonder Almack’s hasn’t banned me for life.”

  “Oh, but Sophia, she is good at other things.” Lady Blaise cast a warning glance her way. “Like. Er. Conversation! Yes. She’s very good at that.”

  “Splendid!” Lady Caroline clapped her hands together. “I made your cousin’s acquaintance the morning after Mr. Hope’s ball. That Lady Violet, she’s got pluck! And a rather wicked way about her. Perhaps the three of us might take tea together? I’m just out of mourning, you see, and would love the company.”

  The dinner gong sounded, and Mr. Avery stood by the door as he made his announcement. With a bow he motioned for the guests to follow him to the dining room.

  Mr. Lake’s hulking figure suddenly appeared at Lady Caroline’s side. While he was smoothly sinister as always, more so, perhaps, dressed in fine eveningwear, an uncertain softness took captive his features as he looked upon her.

  Sophia watched the working of Lady Caroline’s throat as he grazed the bare skin of her arm with his fingers. Sophia looked away, face burning. She didn’t know what she just saw, but she certainly knew she wasn’t supposed to have seen it.

  Wordlessly Lake moved past them, holding his arm out to Cousin Violet.

  Sophia blinked, running through the calculation in her head. If Lake escorted Violet to dinner, and Lord Harclay his sister the dowager co
untess, that left Mr. Hope for Sophia and Lady Blaise.

  That also meant she and Mama would be seated on either side of Mr. Hope at the dinner table. The three of them, stuck together for the length of the meal.

  Thank God the earl had a well-stocked cellar.

  She felt the heat of Hope’s gaze as he moved across the room toward her. Anticipation, prickly and fast, shot up her spine, and for a moment she closed her eyes, reveling in the sensation as much as it pained her.

  And then Thomas was at her side, bowing his greeting before holding an elbow out to Lady Blaise. She shot Sophia another look of warning over her shoulder—as if one were not enough—and took Hope’s arm with a lukewarm smile.

  “Miss Blaise.” His eyes swept the length of her pale lavender gown, the strands of tiny pearls that hung from her neck. Even as she looked away, a grin rose unbidden to her lips. “You look lovely.”

  “And you.” She took his arm. “You look like you haven’t slept since we saw you last.”

  He scoffed as he led them down the corridor, the sounds of swishing skirts and murmured conversation echoing around them.

  “That bad, eh? I was hoping my youthful good looks might compensate for the hell I’ve put myself through these past days—begging your pardon, Lady Blaise.” Thomas sighed. “I suppose I’m not as youthful as I once was.”

  “Or good-looking.”

  Mr. Hope smiled. “Yes, that, too.”

  Lord Harclay’s dining room was lit to full splendor, great chandeliers sparkling upon an enormous table set with the earl’s family silver, the century-old gilt china. Sophia was relieved to see several footmen hovering in the perimeter of the room, each man wielding an uncorked bottle of wine.

  Settling Lady Blaise in her seat, Hope turned to Sophia. He pinned her in place with those deucedly blue eyes of his, offering his hand as a footman shuffled her chair into place.

  She took it so that she might steady herself, the warmth of his palm seeping through the fine kidskin of her glove. She inhaled sharply at the firmness of his touch, the familiarity of it. Desire sliced through her.

  Mr. Hope took his seat beside her, the heat between them so palpable Sophia was surprised the table linens didn’t catch fire.

  The food was splendid, the wine, delicious. Sophia spent the better part of the meal chatting with Lady Caroline, who sat at the head of the table to her left, while Mr. Lake sat in uncharacteristic silence across from them.

  It pleased Sophia to hear her mother’s laugh as Mr. Hope shared some jest or another. He was charming, and even in the midst of all his troubles appeared to be in good spirits. While he and Sophia did not so much as meet eyes during the meal, Sophia was aware of his every movement, every word, hypnotized from the corner of her eye by his handsomeness, the beauty of his manners, and his happy way with the other guests.

  He was putting on a show, certainly; testing out Cousin Violet’s theory that Lord Harclay was the thief. From what little she knew of the earl, Sophia had no doubt he was guilty. A more notorious rake in all England there was not; he was a gambler and a drinker besides, and it was rumored he’d fought more duels than could be counted on hands and toes.

  It was obvious the man was far too intelligent for his own good, and doubtless at the age of one-and-thirty he’d drunk London dry of its every amusement and vice. Perhaps he’d thieved the diamond out of boredom, perhaps for a thrill. No matter his motive, Sophia was convinced he’d done it.

  But Mr. Hope, she knew, must proceed with great care; he stood to lose everything on such an accusation. Violet had explained that Lord Harclay was Hope’s wealthiest client, with well over a hundred thousand pounds in deposits at Hope & Co. The loss of such a client would be nothing short of catastrophic.

  While the proceedings at dinner were delicate, the amount of wine consumed at the table was not. Each course brought with it its own French varietal, and by the end of dinner Sophia’s head was swimming, her awareness of and desire for Thomas scorching through her unimpeded.

  She was at once disappointed and relieved when Lady Caroline stood and invited the ladies to retire. The gentlemen rose to their feet, chairs scraping hoarsely across the floor. Sophia followed, determined not to look in Mr. Hope’s direction lest he deliver the knockout blow.

  Too late.

  She met his eyes, which flicked for a moment to her lips before settling on her own. Sophia sensed the energy coiling inside him. He was struggling not to reach out, pull her to him, finish what he’d started in the room where Mars and Venus lay.

  Head swimming, Sophia abruptly turned, catching her hip on the edge of the table. A beautiful cut-glass pitcher of lemonade—full, because no one had touched it—tumbled off the table and landed with a terrific clatter on the floor.

  “Oh dear.” Sophia’s hand went to her throat. “I’m terribly sorry, Lord Harclay, I don’t know what happened—how terribly embarrassing—”

  Harclay waved away her words. “Think nothing of it, my dear.”

  Face burning, Sophia made for the door, followed by her mother.

  “No more wine for you!” Lady Blaise hissed.

  Violet swooped to the rescue, looping her arm through Sophia’s as they scurried through the gallery. “We’re all foxed, no shame in admitting it.”

  Sophia managed to smile in thanks, her thoughts a riot as Lady Caroline led them to a drawing room done up in bottle green velvet. She took a deep breath, trying with all her might to think of anything, anything but Mr. Hope, his blue eyes, the desire that simmered between their bodies.

  It would not do; no, it would not do at all. If Sophia wanted to make it out of Lord Harclay’s house alive, she would have to focus her attention on something else.

  Like the marquess.

  Yes. Yes, Lord Withington would do. They had arranged to meet up in his box at Vauxhall Gardens tomorrow night, and Cousin Violet caught wind the marquess spoke of nothing but their port tasting.

  Port. That bottle she and Hope had shared beneath Venus’s benevolent gaze, the sweetness of his lips as they’d plundered her own. Had it really been only a week since he’d kissed her? It felt like an eternity. No, longer than that . . .

  Sophia jumped at the pinch on her arm, turning to see her mother glowering at her side.

  She swallowed for what felt like the hundredth time that evening.

  And knew that whatever trouble she’d already caused tonight, there would be more of it.

  Much, much more.

  Sixteen

  Having lit his cigar, Hope waved the match between his thumb and forefinger and took a long pull. Smoke whirled over his head, the earthy reek of tobacco filling Lord Harclay’s dining room.

  “So.” The earl’s eyes glittered through the haze. “Lady Violet tells me you’ve made progress in your search for the diamond.”

  Hope exchanged a glance with Mr. Lake, who sat brooding at the far corner of the table, his face obscured by smoke. What in hell was wrong with him? He hadn’t been himself all evening.

  No matter. Hope had bigger problems, one of which was sitting just to his right, chomping merrily on his cigar.

  Man had a set of stones on him, Hope would give him that. The earl, he knew, was baiting him, testing Hope’s limits. It was all part of his deception, a deception that, judging from the smug look on his face, he was enjoying immensely.

  Hope gulped what little brandy was left in his balloon and flopped further into his chair, running a hand through his hair so that it hung haphazardly across his face.

  Two could play this game.

  “Great progress, yes.” Hope pulled on his cigar. “Lady Violet has proven quite wily, though I cannot say I condone her methods. Alas, I think you’ll agree”—he winked—“ladies often have the upper hand in these sorts of . . . What shall we call them? Situations.”

  Hope bit back his smile as Lor
d Harclay’s face darkened. The earl took one, two long pulls on his cigar, narrowing his eyes against the column of smoke that rose from his lips.

  “Now now, Mr. Hope. I agree we must give credit where credit is due. But we must also acknowledge the fact that Lady Violet could run circles around any of us, even on the best of days. She is”—he paused, a small, secret smile unfurling across his lips—“most unusual and invigorating company.”

  Ah. So Hope’s suspicion that Violet was—er, fraternizing, to put it kindly—with the enemy proved true. While she was indeed more intelligent, and more daring, than most anyone he’d known, could Hope trust her to choose the diamond and their livelihoods over her affection, whatever its nature, for the Earl of Harclay?

  Hope brought his cigar between his thumb and forefinger and examined it, smoke curling languidly into the air. “Make no mistake, my lord, I’ll find the French Blue—and our thief. And when I do, I have no doubt he’ll be very, very sorry he ever crossed me.”

  Lord Harclay’s lips twitched, but he had the grace not to scoff. “My offer of aid stands, Hope. The news bodes ill for my fortunes as it does for yours. I’ve men and money at my disposal. You need only ask.”

  “We’ve men and money of our own.” Lake pounded his cigar into the ashtray, making what was left of the silver and the crystal jump on the table. “Besides. I rather enjoy the hunt. Not as much as I enjoy the kill, of course. The kill is my true skill.”

  Hope grinned tightly. Whatever was wrong with Lake, he was going to get to the bottom of it. “Let us hope more so than your poetry, Mr. Lake.”

  “Ah! My poetry.” Lake smiled at him from across the table, a mirthless thing. “That I learned from you, old friend.”

  Hope tugged a hand through his hair to keep from reaching for Lake’s neck.

  The earl, eyes glittering with triumph, put out his cigar and stood. “Let’s join the ladies, shall we? My new billiards table has just arrived. It’s proven quite amusing; even Caroline likes to play. Perhaps we might teach Lady Violet and Miss Blaise? If Miss Blaise is anything alike to Violet, I daresay it shall make for great sport.”