The Millionaire Rogue Read online

  Nymph. He remembered her dressed in that diaphanous gown the night of the ball, the peek of a milky-white thigh through the fabric.

  Hope cleared his throat. “I sent them as soon as I received word she’d woken. I cannot imagine your relief at knowing the Lady Violet would.” He searched for the right words. “Would be all right.”

  “Yes.” She looked down at her clasped hands and scoffed. “I knew she’d come back to us, if only to return the earl’s favor and shoot him in the ribs. Though I must give credit where credit is due. Harclay didn’t leave her side, not even to change clothes. At last my mother, bless her, convinced him to bathe. He left only after Violet sent him away.”

  Hope raised a brow. “Duel notwithstanding, I thought they were getting along rather swimmingly, the earl and Violet.”

  “Apparently not. The diamond is still missing; our fortunes continue to fall. Though Violet hasn’t slept or ate since he left.” Sophia looked up, a tight smile on her lips. “But now you have come to call. I usually take port at this hour, though I’m afraid our supplies are rather low, what with the earl having plundered the cellar these past weeks. That man has a deuced thirst.”

  Hope untangled the bottle from his jacket and held it aloft. “I thought that might be the case, so I brought this. Might I interest you in a nip?”

  Sophia met his eyes. “How did you know?” she said.

  Because I know you.

  “Because I’ve been keeping my own vigil. Over Violet.” He set the bottle on a round table near the far window and went to work with a corkscrew he pulled from his waistcoat pocket. “Over you.”

  “Over me?” she scoffed.

  “Yes,” he replied smoothly, though his heart beat a loud and unrelenting rhythm in his chest. “I pass your house every evening on my way home from the bank. These windows, they face the street. I see you standing there by the window, glass in hand. Always at six o’clock.”

  “Well.” Sophia swallowed and took the tiny crystal coupe he offered her. “I cannot say if I am more flattered or terrified that you know the schedule of our days here. But I am willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

  “How kind of you.”

  She smiled. “I do try, Soph—Miss Blaise.”

  Hope looked into her eyes as he held his coupe out before him. “To Lady Violet, that she may be recovered. I’ve missed her, you know.”

  Sophia touched her coupe to his and together they downed the port. Hope’s eyes nearly rolled to the back of his head with pleasure at the familiar burn in his throat. It helped loosen the tightness there; loosen the tangle of his thoughts.

  “I’ve missed you.” His voice was low, more intimate than he’d intended. But there it was: the truth.

  Sophia’s eyes flashed with uncertainty. After a beat she held out her coupe. “Another, if it please you.”

  “It would please me very much.” Hope went to the table and refilled their glasses to the brim. He turned and motioned to the sill by the open window. “Please, let’s sit.”

  Sophia sidled onto the ledge, pushing aside the gauzy curtain as it billowed in the breeze. She took the coupe from him, their fingers brushing, and stared down at it.

  Hope lifted his knee onto the sill and leaned into it. An errant curl swirled about her forehead, her skin glistening in the yellow light of the dying sun. He reached out, intent to brush back the curl, but stopped himself.

  “Sophia,” he said.

  She met his gaze; her eyes were wet. “Please, Thomas . . .”

  “It was your wish that we not go on as we had. After the night in my room I understood what you wanted. Why you wanted it. And I had every intention of respecting that, Sophia, I did. I had told myself it was better for the both of us. You have your season, and your match to which to see; and I of course have the bank and that bloody diamond. I am sorry to break the vow we took that night—the vow that we should leave everything we felt in that bed, in those hours. But despite my best efforts I cannot leave it there.”

  “Thomas, you cannot . . . we cannot . . .”

  Thomas looked out the window, looked back at Sophia. She bit her bottom lip to still its trembling.

  He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. The breeze felt cool on his skin, suddenly warm on account of the workings of his heart.

  “I only mean to ask how you have been, Sophia.”

  Sophia turned her head to look out the window, bearing the soft flesh of her throat. Thomas watched the jump of her pulse there; it matched his own. It took his every effort not to cradle her neck in his palm, not to hook his hand along her jaw and ear, to tangle his fingers in her hair.

  “I am well.” Again that tight smile. “Now that Violet is back, the house is less lonely, and the weather, it’s been lovely.”

  “After our meeting. After that night. I . . . I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  She turned and met his eyes. For a beat his words hung between them.

  “No, Thomas. You didn’t hurt me. I confess,” here her cheeks burned pink, “I was a bit sore the next day. Hardly mattered, what with Violet bleeding from her chest.”

  “No.” The word came suddenly, more vicious than he intended. “It matters to me. I wanted to make you feel as well pleasured as you made me feel that night. I wanted you to have everything you came for and more.” I wanted to be your first, your last, your only.

  Again she looked down at her glass, still full, and let out a sound somewhere between a scoff and a sob. “If you have any doubts as to your . . . your pleasuring that night, Thomas, allow me to put them to rest. Well pleasured. Well touched. Well lov—it was all done well. Better than that.”

  He let out a sigh of relief. “Good.”

  “I haven’t had the chance to thank you for what you did. You didn’t have to see me that night. I know what I asked was rather . . . unconventional. Not to say unexpected.” She raised her glass and looked at him. “Thank you, Thomas.”

  His pulse leapt. As he pressed his glass to hers he felt the familiar tug between their bodies, that irresistible pull that moved in the center of his being.

  “Thank you, Sophia, for blessing me with your friendship. I will not forget that kindness.”

  She smiled. Her eyes welled but she did not weep. “I am not leaving for the moon, you know. We might still be friends after all this,” she waved her hand, “is over.”

  “Yes.” He swallowed. The sun was waning now; evening had set in. The light reflecting off Sophia’s skin burned gold to yellow to blue.

  “And everything else.” His eyes flicked to her midsection, hidden beneath the tiny pleats of her gown. “It is well? I took the appropriate precaution, of course, but no plan is foolproof.”

  Sophia’s cheeks went from pink to red. “Yes, all is well.”

  “You’re sure of it? It’s early yet.”

  “Yes, Mr. Hope, I’m sure of it. Yesterday I . . . well. Needless to say I received all the proof I needed, praise God.”

  Hope tipped back his coupe. “Yes, yes indeed. Praise God.”

  The breeze tickled a loose curl at his temple. He brushed it back. Looking at Sophia, her lips stained red from the port, a swift pulse of desire curled through him. Desire for her body, desire to possess her.

  For a moment he selfishly wished all wasn’t well. That in the darkness that night, as he’d joined his flesh to hers, they’d created something bigger than themselves. Miss Sophia Blaise, carrying his child. He knew they’d make a beautiful baby; her dark hair, her shapely lips, his eyes, perhaps, his long fingers and unruly curls. With his child in her belly, Sophia would be his and his alone. He’d have an excuse to take her under his protection, and give her his name.

  Mrs. Sophia Hope.

  He ached for it to be true. For her to confess, so that he might have an excuse to whisk her away to the altar and then, with any luck,
to Italy for an extended honeymoon. Or would she like Greece better? She did have a soft spot for pirates, so perhaps Morocco was the ticket . . .

  Impulsively he reached for her, taking her face in his hand. In the dying light of the window, something glinted at her breast. He looked closer to see a thin gold chain, from which hung a ring bearing a small but exquisite yellow diamond in the shape of a heart.

  Which was ironic, as at that moment Hope’s own heart seemed to lose its shape as it exploded in his chest. He felt bits of bloody flesh settle on the shelf of his ribs, his breath dying in his lugs.

  Sophia’s gaze flicked from the diamond to his eyes, her features loosening as if they might collapse.

  “I believe congratulations are in order,” Hope said, trying his damnedest to keep from choking on the words. “The Marquess of Withington is a lucky man. A good man. When did the happy event occur?”

  Sophia drew back, taking the ring between her thumb and forefinger and pulling it across the length of the chain. “He proposed just this morning. I . . . I confess I did not know what to say. He was so lovely, and kind . . .” She looked away, her throat working as her eyes fluttered shut.

  “Anyway,” she shook her head, “he insisted I keep the ring while I considered his offer.”

  “How very chivalrous of him.” Hope’s gaze wandered to the sagging dandelions across the room. Unrequited love—bah! Nothing more than wishful thinking. What lady in her right mind wouldn’t love ten thousand a year and a castle in the country?

  He swallowed what was left of his port. “When you do say yes, the papers will be aflutter with the news. Perhaps my old friends won’t run another headline about the French Blue for a day or two. God knows I could use the break.”

  “If I say yes.”

  “When you say yes. Your family stands to lose as much as I do if we don’t find that blasted diamond and prove to my rather unadoring public that I can indeed safeguard the bank’s assets. Your marriage to the marquess may be your family’s only hope.”

  Sophia threw back her port with a wince. The sadness in her eyes evaporated, replaced by a gleaming mischief. “‘My family’s only hope’—why, that’s awfully grim stuff. You’ve been reading Shakespeare again, haven’t you?”

  Hope stiffened. “Perhaps.”

  “The tragedies? I bet you’ve been penning a poem or two as well. Something about that forbidden fruit you and Lake are always talking about.”

  Hope, suddenly warm, tugged at his collar and cleared his throat. “As you can imagine, the tragedies have suited my mood these past weeks. But what with the bank so far under water, I’ve hardly had time to pen poetry. Poetry. Bah! I gave that up long ago.”

  Even Hope wasn’t convinced by his denial. Judging from Sophia’s arched brow, she wasn’t, either; she was grinning, the pallor of her sadness disappearing, her old colors—trouble, beauty, earnestness—rising in its place.

  “I’d like to read it,” she said softly. “You aren’t the only one to have visited the tragedies so recently. My dearest mama has been nothing short of a nervous wreck and, as you can see, her antics have driven me to drink. I’ve found particular solace in the sufferings of Tybalt.”

  “Ah, yes. Jolly fun fellow, that Tybalt, if not a bit . . . oh, I think bloodthirsty’s the right word. Italians.” Hope shook his head. “Never fear, Miss Blaise, the murderous rage shall pass in a few weeks’ time. You must refrain from using any sharp objects in the interim, letter openers and the like, lest your dearest mama end up like poor Mercutio.”

  Sophia laughed, the kind of laugh that made the skin at the edges of her eyes crease with pleasure. “And we must take care, lest God smite us for plotting my mother’s demise.”

  “Bah! God hath smote us already. Smite away, I say. Smite away.”

  For several heartbeats, Hope watched as Sophia’s shoulders moved in time to her laughter. He knew without asking it was the first time she’d laughed in weeks, since Violet’s accident that terrible morning at Farrow Field. He saw the tension in her neck relax, the sinews of her sloping shoulders loosen with her delight; her surrender, if only for a moment, to him.

  He remembered with startling clarity the feel of those muscles and sinews beneath his hands as he worked his way across every inch of her body, the sensation of her sinking beneath him into the warm softness of his feather bed. How sweet it had been then, her surrender; how he’d reveled in it, worshipped it, while drowning in his own.

  A breeze tickled his skin; the light from the window was softening now, burning the silken strands of Sophia’s hair a fiery white. She caught him watching her; their eyes met for a long moment. She was so beautiful it made his belly hurt; he was lost in her gleaming skin and wild hair and almond-shaped eyes.

  And then they were leaning toward each other, her lips parted just enough for Thomas to make out the white gleam of her pearlescent teeth. Her scent invaded his every sense, clean air with a hint of soap, his eyes fluttering shut as he inhaled whatever parts of her he could. He couldn’t, they shouldn’t, but . . .

  They both jumped back at the sudden racket at the door. Sophia managed to spill what was left of her port on her cotton dress, a very unladylike curse escaping the mouth he’d been about to kiss as she brushed at the stain with the back of her hand.

  “Hello?” came Violet’s voice, thin and tired. She was at the door in the arms of a rather diminutive footman, who sputtered and panted as he wove his way into the room beneath the weight of his burden. “Is that port I see on your dress, cousin? Damn you both, why didn’t you wait for me?”

  “Forgive me, Lady Violet, I was about to take my leave . . .”

  “. . . was in the library, looking for a book . . . Shakespeare, you know the one, star-cross’d . . .”

  “I didn’t know you’d be down . . . I was just visiting, er, the house . . .”

  “. . . dreadful headache after listening to Mama complain for an hour about the roads . . . terrible this time of year . . .”

  Gasping with pain, Violet unwrapped her arms from about the poor footman’s neck as he settled her on the nearby settee. She surveyed Hope and Sophia, her eyes narrowed with suspicion or pain, he couldn’t quite tell.

  “You’re up to something,” she said. “What is it?”

  Hope cleared his throat, as if to speak, but Sophia interjected before he could begin.

  “Mr. Hope was calling to ensure you received all the letters he’d sent you. He heard you had woken and was merely concerned for your well-being. Ah, the letters, there they are!”

  The footman, poor chap, panted as he bent down to place a neat stack of correspondence on Violet’s lap. Lady Violet blanched a whiter shade of—well, white as she looked down at the pile.

  Mr. Hope took that as his cue to leave. “Miss Blaise,” he bowed to Sophia, “I do so hope you enjoy the gift. Remember what I said about sharp objects. Good evening. Lady Violet.”

  He stalked from the room, Violet clutching the back of the settee as she turned to watch him go. “Sharp objects?” he heard her say. “What the devil does he mean by that? Sophia!”

  Hope took his hat and gloves from the footman and charged through the front door, the blood marching in his ears so loudly he did not notice the Earl of Harclay bounding up the steps until it was too late.

  They ran headfirst into one another, the earl drawing back as Hope muttered his apologies.

  “Hope! Just the man I was . . . er . . . hoping to see! Do you have a moment, old man?”

  Hope cleared his throat for what felt like the hundredth time and pulled at the wrists of his gloves. He had no patience for the earl this afternoon; he was as liable to ram his fist into Harclay’s face as he was to give him a moment.

  “I’m afraid not, my lord.”

  “Trust me.” Harclay slung an arm about Hope’s shoulder and pulled him close. “You’re going to want t
o hear this news.”

  Hope went stiff, arching a brow. “News?”

  “I’ve found it!” the earl whispered. “The French Blue. I’ve found it. Not only that—I’ve devised a plan, rather ingenious in my humble estimation, to have it back in your pocket by week’s end.”

  Twenty-nine

  Sophia had every intention of keeping her distance from Thomas. No matter her dreams of him at night, the delicious wanderings of her thoughts by day; no matter the ache in her heart or the heavy weight of the diamond ring about her neck. Sophia swore to focus her affections, and her thoughts, on the Marquess of Withington, and to do so required removing Mr. Hope from her heart and her head.

  With the French Blue lost, the family’s fortune dwindled; her uncle was in debt to the tune of thousands of pounds. First they lost their credit with the grocer, the fishmonger, the shops on Bond Street. Next, they would lose the house.

  Guillaume Cassin was still at large. The threat of exposure, and subsequent ruin, was very real indeed.

  If ever there was an opportune time in which to agree to an opportune offer of marriage, this would certainly be it.

  Sophia had every intention of doing right by her family, she did. But fate, in the form of an unexpected visit from that scalawag Earl of Harclay, had other plans.

  He’d found the diamond, or so he claimed. And his scheme to get it back—well, it was nothing short of absurd, as it involved multiple steps, multiple disguises, and crimes that were punishable by medieval sorts of death. Like his plan, the earl was either cracked or utterly brilliant; Sophia could not yet say which it would be.

  “I was at White’s, a few evenings ago,” Harclay panted. He paced before the grate in the drawing room, Cousin Violet laid out upon the sofa, Sophia perched at her feet.

  “As I was drinking myself into a stupor I happened to overhear King Louis—yes, that King Louis, the one who’s been living so high on the hog in exile, here in England—and his brother the Comte d’Artois discussing payment for le bleu de France. Seems we’re not the only ones on the hunt for the diamond.”