The Millionaire Rogue (24 page)

“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.”

Two weeks later
Grosvenor Square

H
ope 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 any 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.

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.”