Hope sucked a breath through his teeth and rocked back on his heels. The laughter faded from his belly. He closed his eyes for a moment, willing his voice to remain even. This was nothing, a story. He could, his apparent lack of narrative prowess aside, tell a damned story.
“Before I was born, my father traveled to the court of Louis XVI. He’d gone on business, a meeting with the minister of finance; but he was taken by the beauty of the court, the allure of such excess. He was especially enamored of the jewels; jewels, he said, like he’d never seen before. When I was little he would tell me stories of the French Blue, the whisperings he’d heard at court of its curse, its journey across the seas. My father saw him wear it once, Louis, on a brooch hung from a ribbon slung about his chest. He never forgot that, my father.”
“Incredible,” Sophia whispered, shaking her head. “To have been witness to the spectacle.”
Hope looked down into his glass. “I had hoped to make the journey myself someday. I wanted to see King Louis wearing le bleu de France, just as my father had. He promised, my father, to take me; and I promised to accompany him. We were to go together, he and I.
“Of course.” Hope swallowed, hard. “Of course we never went. But when I heard the Blue was in England, and in Princess Caroline’s possession, I knew I’d been given a second chance. At last I would know the diamond as my father knew it, albeit without poor old Louis in the picture.”
He sighed. “And now the French Blue is gone.”
“I am sorry.” Sophia’s voice was soft.
“No. I am sorry to have ruined our merrymaking with yet another terrible tale.” He held up the bottle. “More port?”
Despite her protests he refilled her glass.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked.
He held out the glass and met her eyes. “Very much so, thank you, Sophia.”
She looked at him for a beat; satisfied, she took the glass in her hand and tossed back her head to look at the room. “Quite the office you’ve got. Looks more like a museum. Or an art gallery.”
Glad for the change of subject, Hope swept his eyes over the priceless antiques, the Turkish carpets and Italian masterworks that decorated the space. “Do you have a favorite?”
“Yes.” She rose to her feet, the port in her glass sloshing a bit as she made her way to stand in front of the fireplace. Pointing to the gilt-framed painting that hung above the mantel, she said, “This one. It’s beautiful.”
Hope joined her in front of the fireplace. Together they admired the painting, its vivid colors, the ethereal luminescence of the two figures reclining across the expanse of the work. It was beautiful, yes.
Beautiful in that sensual, explicit sort of way that made the old masters of the Renaissance so famous. Mars, in all his well-muscled glory, was naked, asleep after the rigors of physical love; Venus, curvy and luscious, lounged beside him in a diaphanous gown not dissimilar to the one Sophia now wore.
Hope blinked at the familiar twist of desire between his legs.
“Botticelli is among my own favorites,” he said. “This is his Venus and Mars. Do you know the tale?”
Sophia cocked her head to the side, her purple-stained lips pouty in concentration.
Dear God. Was she trying to kill him?
More port.
“Star-crossed lovers, yes?” she said.
“Yes,” he replied. “An ancient Romeo and Juliet, if you will. Venus is married to Vulcan, the king of the gods. He’s powerful but—if you’ll excuse my crudeness—impotent. It’s no surprise, then, that our fair Venus falls in love with Mars, who, as you can see, is a rather handsome fellow, flowing locks and all that.”
Sophia turned to Hope with a smile. “If his were a bit darker, they’d look just like yours.”
Hope cleared his throat for what felt like the hundredth time that night. He was glad the glow of the fire was dim, for beneath the cover of semidarkness he felt himself blushing.
“You can see here”—Hope pointed to a trio of satyrs making off with Mars’s spear—“that the artist is suggesting Venus’s love for Mars disarms him. That his love for her in turn is so great, so powerful, that it leaves him defenseless.”
Sophia turned to him. “That love,” she said softly, “conquers all.”
“Yes.” Hope looked at her, his belly turning over at the soft slant of her eyes. “That love conquers all. Even, it seems, the matchless god of war.”
For several breathless moments they looked at one another. Beside them the fire sputtered and cracked. Sophia’s face, in shadow one moment, dancing light the next, was lovely, those lips of hers parted slightly. An invitation.
No. No. Not tonight. There was too much to do, and the French Blue, it was gone, stolen at his own ball—he had to keep a clear mind, focus on the task at hand—
More port. While it was making him forget everything good and right, his manners and his decorum and his sense of duty, it also helped him to forget his grief. The diamond, his father—they disappeared in the presence of Miss Sophia Blaise.
Sophia blinked, a look of—was that disappointment?—darkening her features. She placed her empty glass on the mantel and began to wrangle free of Hope’s jacket.
“Too warm?” Hope asked, setting aside his glass to help.
In reply Sophia shot him a smoldering look over her shoulder.
That twist between his legs pulsed to a full-on rush of heat.
Warm? Dear God. A drop in the old proverbial bucket.
Hope stepped back, holding the jacket awkwardly in his hands, unsure what his next move should be.
Again that look in Sophia’s eyes.
Harry, England, and Saint George. The diamond, and Napoleon; the twenty thousand pounds he’d put down to set the plot in motion, the bank and all the lives at stake, keeping her safe from the men after her—
It all went out the door when Sophia stepped forward and took the jacket from his arms, spreading it out on the carpet before the fire. She took her glass from the mantel and held out her hand.
“I like it here,” she said. “Let’s sit.”
Hope, embarrassingly, let out a groan. “Just one—” He loosened his cravat. “Just one moment, Sophia.”
He dashed to the desk, grabbing the bottle of port; turning back to the fireplace, he took his own cup from the mantel and held it between the fingers of one hand along with the bottle. With the other hand he took Sophia’s, and together they began to sink to the floor when she stumbled over her dress, caught beneath her foot. She pitched backward; Hope’s arm darted out just in time, grasping her by the arm.
“Oh,” she gasped. “Oh, dear. That port’s strong, isn’t it?”
He guided her to the floor beside him. “No stronger than usual. Are you all right?”
Sophia stretched out her legs toward the fire, propping her weight on her free hand. Hope followed suit, her mirror image. Her slippered toes grazed the tip of his boot, once, before she moved her foot.
“Yes.” Sophia held out her glass. In the moving light of the fire her color was high, eyes wet and willing.
He swallowed. And filled her glass.
He held the bottle up to the fire. Damn it. Almost empty.
“Did we finish the whole bottle?”
Hope splashed what was left into his glass, and looked up at Sophia with a smile. “Just did.”
“Goodness.” She brought the glass to her lips and took a long pull. “We should probably slow down, shouldn’t we?”
He laughed, and she laughed along with him.
Again that heated silence. Propped on his hand, he was close enough to reach out and touch her, swallow her in a kiss.
Just as he was leaning in, she surprised him by speaking up.
“Might I ask you a question, Thomas?”
He pulled back slightly, p
raying she did not sense the foolish thing he’d been about to do. Putting aside his glass, he ran a hand through his hair and grinned. “Since when have you asked my permission to do anything, Miss Blaise? Go on, then.”
“You and La Reinette. How—how do you know her? And why go to her about the French Blue before anyone else? I did not realize she was a woman of such great. Er. Importance.”
Well. Out of all the things she could’ve asked, Hope wasn’t expecting that.
He narrowed his eyes. Was that a reflection of his own jealousy he heard in her words? More likely Sophia was merely trying to piece together the details of the plot.
Still. Though it shamed him to admit it, some small part of him was pleased she might be jealous. Perhaps—perhaps—he intrigued her as much as she intrigued him.
Perhaps a small part of her cared for him, even.
He did not dare follow that thought any further.
“Ah, La Reinette.” Hope wondered how much he should tell Sophia about his long, and often complicated, relationship with the mercurial Frenchwoman. “How much do you know?”
“Only that she’s got a taste for pirates, and has a habit of attracting dangerous—albeit handsome—men.”
“Well, then.” Hope pulled back a curl with his fingers. “I shall begin at the—er, beginning, then.
“Marie and I are very old friends. We first met ten—no, twelve years ago, in Paris. I was working with Lake at the time, doing—well, it doesn’t matter. Suffice it to say my line of work brought me into contact with Marie around the time Napoleon overthrew the Directory.”
“Who is she?”
Hope sighed. “No one knows, really. She keeps her own secrets even better than she keeps everyone else’s. I do know she rose to prominence during the Revolution, when it was rumored she—how do I put this?—befriended several high-ranking nobles. It wasn’t long before she was the maîtresse-en-titre to the likes of royal dukes and German princes.
“More than that, she was their confidant throughout the bloodshed that was to come. Marie became involved in all sorts of intrigue to save her lovers. She was discreet, intelligent, too. But even she was not immune to the danger of those times. Back then France was a fearful place, you see; madame guillotine exacted terrible justice. Everyone was afraid.
“And so when the danger grew too great, I helped La Reinette escape to England. Together we found asylum in London. I loaned her the funds to establish The Glossy; she in turn became my first client and an advocate of Hope and Company besides. It wasn’t long before I could count all of her high-ranking clients as my own. She operates, you see, in perhaps the most rarefied circle in all of England.”
Sophia nodded. “Rubbing elbows with London’s finest, La Reinette would be the first to hear of any plot against you.”
“I wouldn’t call what she does ‘rubbing elbows,’ exactly,” Hope said, tugging at his cravat. “But yes. If anyone of any importance had designs to steal the diamond, she would be the first to know about it.”
“And the note,” Sophia said. “I know the diamond is of utmost importance, Thomas. But I do hope La Reinette can help us uncover who wrote that letter. Not only does he threaten us, he threatens my family, too.”
Hope met her eyes. For the first time, she appeared frightened. “We’ll find him, Sophia. I’ll do everything I can to keep your family safe in the meantime.”
Sophia looked down at her glass, shaking her head. “And here I thought myself an adventurer. My God! She wouldn’t be afraid. Not after the things La Reinette must’ve seen, and the people she’s known.”
“So now you understand, Sophia,” Hope said, finishing what was left of his port, “it is no small thing that she chose you to write her memoirs. If—when—they are ever published, they will be a sensation. You must be possessed of great talent.”
Sophia scoffed. “Indeed, I beat out several other applicants for the assignment. Zero, to be exact.”
“Marie wouldn’t have taken you on if she didn’t see something in you she liked.”
“Well.” Sophia tipped her head back, draining the last drop of her port. “We’ll see if La Reinette still likes me enough to finish what we’ve started. Everything’s—” Her voice softened. “Everything’s changed, you know.”
Hope turned his head to look at her. The words left his lips before he could stop them. “Yes. But some things, I hope, for the better.”
A beat of charged silence settled between them, long enough that Hope would’ve squirmed if it weren’t for the goodly amount of port hard at work in his blood.
Her face was open as she looked back, lips slightly parted as she waited. Willing. Curious.
Christ. He needed the port now more than ever. Up until this moment it had kept his hands and his mouth busy.
But now. Now they were left idle, set ablaze by the not insignificant amount of said port he’d imbibed in the last few hours.
He didn’t like how much he liked not thinking about the diamond, or the bank, or the world outside. How much he liked thinking about Miss Sophia Blaise instead.
The silence grew unbearable.
And then, embarrassed—terrified, in Hope’s case; terrified that he would do something he’d regret, that would compromise everything for which he’d worked so hard, but dear God he’d never wanted anything so badly—they both moved to stand at once.
Sophia bent her knees, the whole of her bare leg exposed as Hope took her by the arm and hauled her up beside him.
A lovely, lithe, impossibly shapely leg.
For some inexplicable reason, both Hope and Sophia were breathless as they stood, not daring to touch, before the fire. Hope trained his eyes on Botticelli’s masterwork above the mantel, balling his hands into fists to keep from reaching out for Sophia, indulging the desire that pounded unabated through his body.
But staring at Venus only made his struggle worse. Had she always been this sensual, the goddess, her legs so visible through the transparent gauze of her gown?
If those damned Frenchmen, those acrobats, or the diamond’s thief—heaven above, Hope was a wanted man—didn’t kill him first, then this Venus at his side, brought to startling, sensual life, would certainly be the death of him.
Sophia turned her head and met his eyes, her breast working as she struggled to catch her breath. “Thomas,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “We should—I should—”
In one swift, ruthless movement he reached for her, curling his hand around the back of her neck as he pulled her to him, lowering his lips onto her own.
Knowing as he did that, once he’d started, he would not be able to stop.
Twelve
Thank God Thomas kissed Sophia first, before whatever she was about to say slipped from her tongue. I should go. I should stay. We should kiss, and keep kissing until whatever happens after that happens.
No, it would not do at all; she did not trust herself with a bellyful of port and Mr. Thomas Hope looking at her like that.
Like he was racked with thirst that could only be slaked by swallowing her whole.
Sophia had only known Thomas—truly known him—for a week or two. But in those two weeks they’d each shared more of themselves than either of them ever had with anyone else. He knew her secrets, and she knew his. Well, a goodly amount of them, anyway. Together they’d shared adventure, cheated death, and outwitted villains, touching and talking and kissing along the way.
She felt as if she knew him better than she knew even her dearest friends.
Even so. One did not discuss the goddess of love over a bottle of wine with a frightfully unmarried member of the opposite sex. Never, never, never.
And yet.
It could’ve been the port—no, it was most definitely the port—but the memory of Hope’s kiss, his touch, pounded through her with every breath she took. The longer they t
alked and drank, drank and talked, the press of the evening’s events faded. In their place rose a dizzying—oh, that deuced port!—fire, its embers bursting to flame when he’d looked at her for several long, silent heartbeats, his eyes darkened by pain, struggle, something heavy with which he was grappling.
When they’d stood, chests heaving, before the fire, Sophia wasn’t sure if Thomas would lean in or turn away.
When he’d leaned in—well.
Whatever reservations she had dissolved into desire when his lips met hers. This was no innocent kiss; his deadly intent was as palpable as the heat that radiated from his body.
Beneath the knowing gaze of Botticelli’s Venus, Hope opened Sophia to him. His hand slid from her neck to her cheek, and together with his other hand cradled her face, turning her head in time to the strokes of his kiss.
When she matched him, caress for caress, he let out a deep, contented moan and stepped closer, pressing his body against hers. His flesh felt at once familiar and frightening. The warmth of his emotion, the terrific hunger of his desire—she recognized these things in her own response to the kiss, yes.
But if they were both flooded with longing, who would stop them from sinking into one another, from giving in and giving up everything that they wanted, that they were?
Hope’s lips were traveling across her jaw now, pressing into the exquisitely tender skin of her neck. She inhaled his scent, clean lemon, spicy sandalwood. So lovely, so inviting . . .
No. Stop. The words were there, the debutante still alive somewhere inside the tangle of her limbs.
Thomas kissed her neck, teasing her with his teeth, his tongue, sending bolts of white-hot pleasure through her.
The words were lost. Her eyes rolled shut as she tilted her head back, surrendering to Hope’s desire for her, the sensation of his mouth moving over her as if he knew where she wanted to be touched before she knew it herself.
So this—this was it. What came after kissing. The it Sophia had been warned against since she was old enough to listen.
The Millionaire Rogue Page 12
