The Millionaire Rogue

by Jessica Peterson

  Sophia bucked against him, arching her back and baring her breasts to him. He devoured one nipple, moved to the other; and then he saw stars as her sex clenched around his cock, a series of viselike pulses that drew him to the point of his own orgasm.

  Thomas pulled out just in time, gritting his teeth against the strangled cry in his throat as he spilled his seed on the smooth edge of her hip. Sophia was gasping beneath him, clawing at the skin of his chest as her legs gathered around his buttocks. Her hands slid over his shoulders to his back, pulling him to her.

  He let out an exhausted sigh, and together they fell into the warm cocoon of his bed, their bodies slick with sweat. The scent of their lovemaking hung heavy between them.

  They lay tangled, his leg crossed protectively above her own. As he struggled to catch his breath, his chest brushing the hardened points of her nipples—Christ, was she trying to kill him?—a sensation, loud, overwhelming, rushed through him, as if a flood had broken through the levee at the very center of his being. He closed his eyes, wrapping his arms about Sophia so that she might help him bear it; and found that having her so close, her head tucked into the curve of his neck, only made the sensation pulse brighter, the flood rush faster.

  In his chest his heart felt enormous, painfully so; it was working double as Sophia’s breath tickled the skin of his chest. Pressing a kiss into her hair, he rested his chin on the top of her head.

  He was in love with her.

  And now that he had the courage to admit it to himself at last, it was too late.

  Not that he ever had a chance in the first place. This was, after all, the same Miss Sophia Blaise who dreamed of earls and castles and crests.

  And while Thomas was in possession of none of these things, he was, at the moment, in possession of something—someone—he wanted more than he’d ever wanted the bank, the fortune, the paintings, and the titled investors.

  This desire, this love—he felt it in his bones.

  Even if she was never his to have.

  Pain sliced through him, hot, wild, leaving him breathless. The thought of letting her go, of releasing her from his bed so that she might end up in that of the Marquess of Withington—

  He bit back the angry surge of his blood. Sophia was his for tonight and tonight alone—that much Thomas understood. And he wasn’t about to waste the precious few hours they had together burning with jealousy.

  And so he quietly gathered her to him, trailing his lips along her forehead. He pulled back the coverlet, wiggling both their bodies beneath its warmth. His pain was matched only by the contentment of curling his body around hers, their limbs coiled in sheets damp from their exertions.

  The contentment of knowing, though they spoke not a word, that Sophia loved him in turn.

  * * *

  Thomas leapt from the bed at the pounding on his door. Light, gray and watery, filled the room; it was almost dawn. He started, as if seeing the contents of his bedchamber for the first time. In the complete blackness of the disappearing night Sophia had taken captive of his every sense; nothing but her sighs, her rising body, and the beating of her heart had filled this room.

  There were her clothes, puddled on the rug; a stray silk stocking hung from the back of a nearby chair. His breeches and shirt were scattered in a far off corner.

  Well, then. The maids were in for a treat when they made their rounds later that morning.

  Beside Thomas, Sophia bolted upright in bed, the sheets falling from her bare chest to reveal her breasts.

  Hope swallowed. They were just as lovely, perhaps even more so, than he’d imagined last night in the dark. Her long, wavy hair was loose about her shoulders, tousled just enough to indicate he’d made quite thorough love to her.

  He swallowed again at the familiar tightening between his legs.

  “Come back later,” he called, watching Sophia’s cheeks flush pink as she covered herself with the sheet. “I’m afraid I’m indisposed at the moment.”

  Daltrey’s voice was heavy. “I am sorry to wake you, sir, but I’ve just received news I believe you and Mi—you might want to hear straightaway.”

  Hope ran a hand through his hair with a groan. “All right, give me a moment.”

  He put his hands on the bed and leaned forward, grazing her nose with the tip of his own.

  There was too much and yet nothing at all to say. Sophia had come to purge them both of the affection they bore one another by indulging it wholly, passionately; to slake her thirst by drowning in him for one night, and one night only. One night to forget the terrors that tightened the noose around each of their necks, the worries that bound them to fortunes and futures they did not choose.

  And now that the night was past, Sophia would go back to her life, and her marquess; and Thomas to his bank and the missing French Blue and the memory of a family long gone; they would go back without regret.

  Or so was the intention.

  Before he could stop himself, Hope dipped his head and pressed his lips to hers, taking her bottom lip between his teeth. Good God she was delicious. Perhaps they had time for one more—

  “Mr. Hope!”

  Hope dropped his head and groaned. “I am very sorry,” he said, meeting her eyes. He saw in them his own confusion; sadness and desire clouding the irises, turning them a darker shade of green. Christ, how he wanted to hold her face in his hand and kiss her until it was only desire he saw in her eyes. Desire for him and no one else.

  Sophia slid under the sheets, pulling them over her head. Shrugging into a robe, Hope stalked to the door and wrenched it open.

  “Well?”

  Daltrey stood on his toes, peering for a moment over Hope’s shoulder. Hope pulled the door shut behind him with a look of consternation. “Out with it, Daltrey. I’d like to get back to bed.”

  The butler cleared his throat, proffering a scrap of paper in his gloved hand. “It’s the Lady Violet, sir. She’s been shot in a duel.”

  * * *

  Duchess Street

  Hope stretched out his legs before the fire, the exquisite heat helping to calm the dull chill of horror, of rage and of sadness, that plagued him all day and into the night.

  Lady Violet had not been dueling herself, though it wouldn’t have surprised Hope if she had. Feisty, that one, with a mouth on her that would make a sailor weep. What a breath of fresh air she’d been after all the dour dowagers and witless heiresses he’d encountered over the years; Hope had liked her straightaway, even more so after he discovered her passion for brown liquor rivaled his own.

  No, it was the Earl of Harclay and Mr. Lake who’d exchanged insults, and then bullets, that morning. Violet had the misfortune of trying to end such foolishness at the very moment both parties discharged their Manton dueling pistols. Apparently it was Harclay’s bullet that lodged between her ribs, though the details on this were vague at best.

  Sophia had burst into tears when she’d heard the news. They’d arrived at her house just as Violet’s body was being brought in by the surgeon; already she was unconscious, her wound vicious-looking and black with blood.

  His belly clenched at the memory of it. Though the surgeon reassured Sophia her cousin would be fine, just fine, his face was grim. Even Lady Blaise in the midst of her hysterics knew better than to believe him. Violet’s condition was serious.

  Hope had resisted the urge to throttle Lake, bloody idiot, then and there. He’d crossed the wrong man this time; Harclay was one of the few who could go toe to toe with Lake and best him at his own game. Lake had, after all, given up the earl to those beastly acrobats, which led to that business of Lady Violet being kidnapped; the earl couldn’t have been pleased about that.

  Then, of course, there was Lake’s odd relationship with Lady Caroline, the Dowager Countess of Berry and the earl’s sister, to consider.

  Really, just what the devil was Lake up t
o? He had some explaining to do.

  And so Hope waited in his study for Lake to appear through a window, or perhaps through the chimney this time; he would know Hope wanted to see him.

  He did not have to wait long. As the clock on the mantel struck eleven o’clock, Lake silently moved from the darkness into the half-moon of light put off by the fire.

  For a long moment Hope stared him down. His face was drawn, his skin pale; dark circles ringed his eyes, red from lack of sleep. While he longed to throttle the man, yes, Hope felt pity for him, too. He was selfless, Lake, and savagely loyal; but even such a creature as he had his weak moments, his bouts of extreme and utter stupidity.

  He was a man, after all.

  And this was one such bout.

  “What happened?” Hope said quietly.

  Lake sank into the chair opposite Hope’s. He put his elbows on his knees and hung his head. “I went to visit Lady Caroline last night at her brother’s house. It was foolish of me to have been there, but I will not say it was a mistake. I was climbing down from her window—”

  “Really, your aversion to front doors borders on the insane.”

  “And the earl, he and Lady Violet, they were—well, you know. They were leaving the house just as I was; an hour or two before dawn. We met in the drive. He was insulted I would dare visit his sister, and she just out of mourning. He was especially insulted that Lady Violet was kidnapped after I sold him out to the acrobats.”

  “And so he challenged you to a duel. Why didn’t you refuse him?”

  Lake shook his head and scoffed. “I may not play the part, old friend, but I am the son of a baron. I cannot refuse a challenge when my honor is at stake.”

  “Honor?” Hope arched a brow. “You were climbing through a widow’s window in the middle of the night. Somehow I doubt you and the dowager countess spent the wee hours of the morning brushing up on the Bible.”

  The sides of Lake’s mouth twitched. “It isn’t what you think. Well, it is, but Caroline and I, we—”

  “Unless the two of you are secretly married, whatever you are or aren’t doing is an insult to her honor as well as her brother’s.”

  Above the ball of his enormous shoulder, Lake met Hope’s eyes.

  Hope sank further into his chair. “Oh God. You are secretly married, aren’t you? But how—”

  “That’s beside the point.”

  “I hardly think you being secretly married to a countess is beside the point.”

  Lake pushed himself upright with a groan, wincing as he twisted his arms about his torso. “I’m getting too old for this dueling nonsense.”

  “Your nonsense has placed us further away from the French Blue than ever. I hardly think the earl will be inclined to hand over the jewel after shooting his—his—bah! After shooting Lady Violet in the ribs.”

  Lake groaned again. “He doesn’t have it. Not anymore.”

  Hope pitched forward in his chair. “Doesn’t have it? The French Blue? Christ above, Lake, what the devil do you mean by that?”

  “That’s an awful lot of religion in one sentence.”

  “I swear to God, I’ll—”

  “All right, all right.” Lake held up his hands in surrender. “Lady Caroline knew where her brother was hiding the diamond.”

  Hope nearly choked. “But how? He could be hiding it anywhere!”

  “Says when he was younger he used to hide all his naughty bits in a drawer with his socks. As a boy he’d keep rocks and bugs and even a pigeon in that drawer of his to safeguard them from his governess. When he got older the bits were less innocent, of course—a well-thumbed copy of Fanny Hill, a few fashion plates of girls without the fashion—but it was always the same. He hid his secrets in that drawer.”

  “My God.” Hope ran a hand through his hair. “All this time, and that damned diamond was in his sock drawer.”

  “Last night Caroline took me to his dressing room, and together we rummaged through his socks. She swore we’d find it.”

  “But it wasn’t there.”

  “Exactly, it wasn’t there. At first Caroline and I were perplexed; she swore there was nowhere else he’d keep the jewel. You mustn’t forget Harclay stole a fifty-carat diamond in the midst of the season’s most well attended ball for the mere thrill of it. He could care less about money. Makes sense a careless daredevil like him would keep his prize in his sock drawer.”

  “But the diamond wasn’t there.”

  Lake held up a finger. “Right. And Caroline was convinced it wouldn’t be anywhere else, so I ran through the possibilities. He came to you after the kidnapping, didn’t he, to ask for money?”

  “Yes.” Hope furrowed his brow. His eyes went wide as understanding, swift and startling, smacked him square in the forehead. “The acrobats must’ve blackmailed him. Asked him for more money. But after I’d frozen his accounts, he didn’t have access to nary a penny. So he traded the diamond for Violet’s safety. Christ!”

  “I don’t believe Jesus has anything to do with it, but yes, I’ve every reason to believe Harclay traded away the diamond.”

  Hope fell back in his chair. “Christ,” he repeated. “That means we’re back to where we started, doesn’t it? The diamond could be anywhere by now. Anywhere. This is bad news, Lake, very bad news indeed. If only I had known!—well. Too late for that. But I don’t know how much longer Hope and Company can hold out. I need a good headline, Lake. I need good news so the bank might be saved. We’ve got to find the French Blue.”

  “I know,” Lake said quietly. A vein jumped in his temple. “You aren’t the only one with something to lose, old man. The French have grown impatient. They know something is not right; they are demanding the diamond, and soon, or they will go elsewhere in their search. So yes. We must find the French Blue. I am doing everything in my power, Hope, to set it all to rights.”

  Hope let the back of his head fall against his chair and stared at the ceiling. “Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse. Let us not forget our friend Cassin.”

  Lake scoffed. “At this point I’m tempted to let him kill us so that we might be put out of our misery.”

  “Ha! Wishful thinking.”

  “Wishful indeed.”

  For several moments they sat in silence. Hope contemplated the shadows on the ceiling, flickering in time to the beat of the fire. He was surprised he was possessed of enough energy to sense the sinking in his belly so keenly.

  “Sophia,” Lake said. “How is she?”

  Hope cast him a sideways glance. “Forbidden fruit. Your words, not mine.”

  “Perhaps I’ve changed my tune. Forbidden fruit is, after all, the best kind.”

  Twenty-eight

  Two weeks later

  Grosvenor Square

  Hope fingered the limp daffodils in the cut glass vase by the library window. They were a gift from the Marquess of Withington; Hope remembered him sweeping awkwardly into the house some days ago, flowers tucked under his arm. He’d jerked to his knee like a knight-errant and gravely offered them to Sophia. Hope hadn’t even tried to keep from rolling his eyes. They were a hell of a way from Camelot, and he had no patience for King Arthur or his silly pantomime of courtly love.

  Hope ran his thumb along the inside of a yellowing stem and sighed. Born and raised in the city made famous by its ruinous fervor for tulips, Hope was well versed in the language of flowers. The daffodils were an interesting choice; popularly known to embody rebirth, new beginnings, they were also a symbol of unrequited love.

  Which meaning had the marquess meant to convey? By all accounts Sophia returned Withington’s favor; when the fashionable half of London wasn’t discussing the theft of the French Blue, it was whispering behind gilded fans and half-closed doors about the marquess’s imminent proposal. Why her? they wondered. And: What a fool he is, to pick her when he could have an
y other!

  Hope, of course, begged to differ.

  Without thinking he snapped the sagging flower from its wilted stem with his thumbnail. Its petals loosened into his palm, releasing an earthy scent, water and green and air.

  Sophia’s scent.

  He gathered the petals into a fist, inhaling deeply, before releasing them onto the windowsill. The afternoon light was waning; she would be down soon, and he wanted to be ready.

  Settling into a settee by the empty fireplace, he tucked the bottle of port into his coat and waited for what felt like an eternity. He listened to the sounds of the house, the crunch of gravel as vehicles passed below the open window. Summer had arrived at long last; and while the air was warm, Hope had been plagued by a chill these past days. The port—yes, that would help.

  On the back wall the clock sprang into action, six strokes before it fell silent again. His heart skipped a beat at the sound of footsteps on the stair. He sat up, smoothing the dark kerseymere of his breeches.

  He heard the whisper of her skirts at the threshold, followed by the click of the door as she closed it behind her. She sighed, a low, defeated sound; her steps were light on the carpet.

  Blood thrumming, Hope shot to his feet and turned to face her.

  Sophia started, her hazel eyes blinking wide in surprise. “Mr. Hope!”

  Ah, that stung. The banker’s name on her lips.

  “Miss Blaise.” He fell into a bow.

  “I did not know you were here. Violet received your letters; when she is well enough she would like to thank you for your kindness in person.”

  Hope rose, meeting her eyes. The knot in his belly tightened. Though her eyes were red and wet, the sleeves of her print-cotton gown pulled up about her elbows, she looked beautiful. The light from the window set fire to the wisps of dark hair that framed her face; her lips were parted just enough to reveal the rosy-pink forbidden flesh of her mouth.