The Millionaire Rogue (23 page)

The kiss was gentle at first, a question; when she responded with rising vigor he pressed back in kind, running the length of her outline with his hand. He cupped her breast, lightly teasing her nipple with his thumb, and she felt that familiar twist of desire flame back to life low in her belly.

She couldn't, it seemed, get enough of Thomas; couldn't draw him close enough. She breathed him in, lemons, soap, that familiar spice. Her thirst for him was without depth.

He slipped his tongue between her lips. Gently he laid her on her back, rolling on top of her to rest on his elbows. His breath was warm on her cheek; she shivered at the expanse of their contact, his flesh pressed to hers from knee to nose.

Thomas dipped his head, trailing his lips along the edges of her mouth, her jaw, her neck. She closed her eyes and willed herself to remember this moment. What his mouth felt like on her skin, the heady trail of fire ignited by his lips. She'd never, not in all her life, felt something so poignant—a sensation that reverberated on both sides of her skin.

Above her he shifted, moving his leg to rest between her own. He paused, waiting for her answer. Sophia put her lips to the hollow between his earlobe and jaw; he tensed, sucking in a breath; and then with his knee he was coaxing apart her legs, settling himself between them.

Reaching back one hand at a time, he bent her legs so that he might fit more snugly against her. Again she felt his cock prodding her flesh, the tip warm and eager and far too large for its own good.

Without thinking, she reached down, curious to know how large, exactly, he was. Thomas let out a hiss as she wrapped her hand around his shaft, drawing a breath of surprise at the smooth, hard feel of him, the pulsing energy of his desire for her.

Carefully Thomas pried her fingers from his manhood, guiding her hand instead to the tip of her sex.

“Here,” he said. Placing his hand over her own, he moved their fingers together over her slick flesh. Sophia gasped again at the unexpectedly intimate feel of her own body. This—this didn't feel at all shameful.

No. This felt dashedly
good
.

Thomas's hand moved down, sliding his cock down the length of her womanhood to rest just beneath where her hand worked. With his first two fingers he gently opened her, nudging himself inside her.

He kissed her mouth. She kissed him back, lips fervently working over and through each other.

She drew a breath, easing the tingle of nerves in her belly, and surrendered.

H
ope closed his eyes, breathing in the feel of her flesh, ripe and willing, against his own. His body hummed with a passion that radiated from the very center of his chest; he wanted to be gentle and fervent with her all at once; he wanted to make love to her well, thoroughly, for this would be his only chance.

She was very wet, the curls of her sex slick and soft as he brushed them with his fingers, wet and very tight. He would have to go slowly, and with great care. The idea of hurting her—

Well. He would never forgive himself.

Slowly, very slowly, he slid inside her. For a moment her fingers stilled above the joining of their bodies. She breathed in short, shallow gasps; for a moment he worried she was afraid, but then thought better of it.

Sophia wouldn't have to come to him if she were afraid. Not like this.

His kiss softened, and she moaned into his mouth. Her fingers resumed their meandering, and with his hand Hope guided himself further inside her.

Breath by breath, inch by inch he moved forward. Her flesh tightened around him as her climax approached, and he sucked in a breath for what felt like the hundredth time that night.

Dear God she felt lovely; if he wasn't careful, he'd spill his seed in the space of the next heartbeat—and lest Sophia think him some randy adolescent, he was determined to make this last as long as he could.

He couldn't see a thing, not with the fire burning so low, but the darkness only sharpened his desire; for what he could not sense with his eyes he did with his hands, his mouth, his skin. She was
here
; she was
his
.

Sophia's kiss grew messy, and she moved her lips over his jaw to his ear and throat. He winced at the shock of pleasure that ran through him, meeting the barrier inside her at that same moment.

He felt wild with the need to possess her, to make her his, at least for this moment.

At least for tonight.

Thomas gently bucked his hips, sinking to the root. Beneath him Sophia pulled back, sucking a breath between her teeth; he sensed her flesh tightening with pain. He bent his neck so that his nose grazed hers. In the dark he could make out the gleam in her eyes, wide with uncertainty.

Where their bodies were joined he grasped her hand and together their thumbs moved over her flesh. Her eyes fluttered shut, a moan of pleasure in her throat.

He pressed his lips to hers and began to move, slowly at first, soft, languorous strokes; Sophia rose to meet his caress. She did not hesitate; her movements matched his own, her hips riding against his as their hands tangled in her sex between them.

She sighed, a happy, luxurious sound, almost a laugh, and Hope felt in the midst of his merciless desire for her a tightening in his belly and his throat. She was impossibly beautiful, this woman, and he wanted nothing more than to make her laugh. To make her happy.

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—some
one
—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.

*   *   *

T
homas 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

H
ope 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 to? 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—”