The Millionaire Rogue (15 page)

S
ophia smoothed the pale silk of her skirts and wondered how much earsplitting opera, exactly, one could endure without losing one's hearing.

The marquess's box, while of prime location and excellent prominence, only made matters worse; they were so close to the stage Sophia heard every footstep, every murmured endearment, and, of course, every agonizing aria.

Beside her, the marquess raised his glass of claret and tried not to wince as the prima donna screeched a crescendo. “Capital, isn't it?”

Sophia nodded enthusiastically, unsure whether he was referring to the opera or the claret. “The best I've had—seen! Do you come often to Drury Lane?”

“Oh, yes,” the marquess shouted above the din. “I am rather fond of Shakespeare's comedies. The operas—they are good, too. And you, Miss Blaise. Do you enjoy the theater?”

Sophia sighed, realizing they'd had this
exact
conversation in her uncle's drawing room some weeks ago. “Yes. Yes I do.”

Even with actors yelling declarations of love at one another on the stage, the silence that settled between Sophia and the marquess was painful. A pulse of longing shot through her at the memory of her conversations with Mr. Hope; how easily words and thoughts flowed between them. There was no pretense, no desire to impress. She could be honest with him, and much to her surprise, she was fond of her honest self; Hope's, too.

Sophia wished, for a moment, that Hope were her escort tonight.

And felt ashamed as soon as the wish was made. She shouldn't feel this way about a man like Thomas Hope. She didn't want to
want
him like this, especially when the season's greatest catch sat in a chair mere inches from her own.

The marquess had kindly invited her to his box so that they might become acquainted—and, with any luck, more than that. It was an invitation for which her fellow debutantes would gladly sell their souls, surely. And the marquess—he wasn't such bad company. Not as bad, at least, as tonight's opera.

Sophia turned and caught Withington looking at her, a soft gleam in his dark eyes she recognized but could not place. His gaze was not lascivious or lustful, though she could tell the poor chap struggled not to look at her breasts. Rather she saw in his eyes curiosity, a steady declaration of interest that belied his boyish exclamations.

Understanding rolled through her, swift and startling.

He
liked
her!

The Marquess of Withington actually
liked
her.

All along, Sophia assumed the marquess hunted her for the same reasons she hunted him; practical, if not cynical, reasons. After all, what sort of fool believed affection, much less love, had anything at all to do with marriage?

While she claimed no great fortune, her uncle
was
a duke, and she supposed her face qualified as passably pretty. Withington would bring his fortune, and she would bring her hazel eyes and that greatest inheritance of all, her goodly-sized bosom.

But to her very great surprise, the marquess was proving far more honorable in his courtship. He called on Sophia, and strolled with Sophia, and invited Sophia because he genuinely
enjoyed
Sophia, no matter the subject of their conversation.

Withington looked away, blushing as he sipped nervously at his claret. His movements were ungainly, severe, as if he were a puppet and his strings were jerked too taught by an overeager master. While certainly odd, his lordship's awkwardness was also endearing; proof, perhaps, of the goodness of the heart that beat beneath his expensively clothed breast.

Sophia sipped her own claret, though it was shame, rather than embarrassment, that flushed her cheeks.

She had to salvage the evening. Not only because it would serve her well in obtaining that brilliant match—a match she needed to make, now more than ever—but also because Withington deserved kind company; wit, too. He was a gentle man, and right now she was making a mess of his good intentions.

The marquess deserved better. He deserved her honest self.

“I've recently acquired a predilection for port,” Sophia said, ignoring her mother's gasp from the row behind. “Perhaps it might be amusing to arrange a tasting of sorts?”

Withington grinned so widely Sophia thought his face might split in two. “Well, Miss Blaise, I did not know ladies drank port! Capital news, I say, capital indeed! We shall arrange the tasting straightaway. We might have it on the terrace at my house, if it please you? The weather seems to have taken a turn for the better.”

“Yes,” Sophia said, smiling. “That would please me very much, my lord.”

“Capital! It shall be a great pleasure to have you at
my
home for a change. Begging your pardon, Lady Blaise.” He winked at Sophia before turning to her mama. “Of course I find your
salon
a most capital affair. The tea, it is so very. Yes, so very good.”

Sophia bit her lip to keep from laughing. She was going to like this Withington fellow; and could only hope he would like the honest Sophia in turn.

*   *   *

One week later

S
ophia tapped her slippered foot on the floor of the carriage, glancing out the window at a darkening sky.

“Where the devil is she?”

Lady Blaise clucked in disapproval. “Heavens, mind your tongue! I don't know where you learn these things—”

“Cousin Violet,” she answered matter-of-factly. “We've an invitation to dine at the
Earl
of
Harclay's
house, and we're going to miss it, all because of her. If I've got to wait another minute—”

“I hardly doubt the marquess would approve, especially after that dreadful comment of yours about having a taste for port. Really, where
do
you—”

“Cousin
Violet
,” Sophia repeated through gritted teeth. “She's never late. Nor does she ever take such care in her toilet. Poor Fitzhugh dressed her in every gown we own between the two of us. I don't care what Violet says about searching the earl's house for the missing jewel. She is fond of him, I can see it in her eyes—oh, oh thank
heaven
, there she is!”

Violet appeared at the front door, her satin gown shimmering in the light of the gas lamps. She was coiffed and perfumed and pulled within an inch of her life, pink rose blooms tucked into the gleaming mass of her dark hair.

She looked dazzling.

And Violet did not dazzle for nothing.

“Well, aren't you coming, Violet?” Sophia poked her head out the coach window. “We're going to be late!”

Violet waved away Sophia's words. “Mr. Hope always arrives at a fashionably tardy hour. You won't miss a minute of his company, I promise.”

Sophia resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at her cousin.

Alas, the urge proved too strong.

“So
phia
!” Lady Blaise rapped her none too gently with an ivory-handled fan.

Sophia fell back into the coach, a familiar fire in her cheeks.

“What's this about Mr. Hope?”

“Nothing.” Sophia kept her eyes trained on her lap. “He's to be a guest of Lord Harclay's, that's all. Violet seems to think I've set my cap at him.”

Lady Blaise tensed, her eyes widening before she could stop them. “Well. Have you?”

“No!” The force of Sophia's response surprised both of them. She cleared her throat and tried again. “What I meant to say is, it is a joke, mother
dear
est, nothing more. What foolishness! Dearest Cousin Violet has perhaps been at her flask again.” Sophia's laugh was flat and grating. “Hope is a
banker,
for God's sake.”

Even as the words escaped her lips, she hated herself for saying them, thinking them,
believing
them at one point or another.

This snobbery, this heartless betrayal of all she'd shared with Hope—these things were at odds with the woman she was now. It wasn't her. Not anymore.

And yet, cowed by her mother, she did not deny them.

Lady Blaise relaxed into her seat and sighed with relief, hand on her breast. “Thank heaven, Sophia, you had me worried with all this talk of caps and tradesmen. And here you've managed to snare a marquess. Not just any marquess, either.
The
marquess. Ha! Now
that
is a good joke.”

“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.

*   *   *

S
ophia'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.