The Millionaire Rogue (32 page)

But now.

Now
the diversion was done, leaving only the vengeful hearts that beat in the bodies standing before him.

Hope was going to die, and by a
rapier
named
Bernadette
, no less. No honorable death for him; no battle-scarred sword to the neck. Cassin would kill him and throw his body in the Thames, and that would be that.

It was a rather sobering thought.

He closed his eyes against the rage, the regret, and the hurt that welled up inside him. All he could think of was Sophia; all he could see in the vast blackness behind his eyelids was her face, the tender indent in her bottom lip as she bit down on it. More than anything he wanted to see her one last time, to tell her that he loved her above all things, above the bank and his grief and the family he left behind.

To tell her that
she
was his family now. That they should start one of their own.

To tell her he should've never let her go. That he couldn't bear the thought of another man, no matter her dreams of a brilliant match, touching her, having her, marrying her.

God, what he would give to kiss her one last time. He remembered that first kiss in Princess Caroline's puce-colored drawing room, the way Sophia had yielded to him, invited his touch. Her sense of adventure, her wit, and her honesty.

While his heart was glad to have known her at all, to have loved her and held her when he did, he cursed himself for never telling her. For letting her go.

And then his brothers—why did he never apologize, try, and try again until things between them were right and good? They were the only family he had left, and Thomas had kept them at arm's length, virtual strangers.

He would go to his grave regretting these things.

Hope opened his eyes. Cassin was raising his rapier, his dark eyes gleaming with malice. He swung Bernadette in the air, winding up for the deathblow.

Sophia
, he pleaded silently.
Sophia, I am sorry.

Cassin brought down the blade. Hope flinched, his heart lurching in his chest.

Was it to be heaven or hell for his soul? Probably hell, all things considered; surely the devil enjoyed his liquor more than all the angels and saints . . .

“Stop!”

There was a great racket by the door; Hope's eyes flew to the threshold to see a disheveled lump of a man dart into the pantry, tossing his ridiculous feathered hat to the side as he launched himself at Cassin.

The Frenchman's eyes went wide; and then all Hope could see was a tussle of a black cape and long, shining curls, Cassin grunting and La Reinette screaming and Umberto falling face-first to the ground just inside the door.

Bernadette fell, too, with a scraping clatter that did not bode well for its bejeweled handle.

Cassin had somehow managed to take the man by his curls, tugging him viciously against his chest so that the intruder now faced Hope, his head caught in the crook of Cassin's rather massive arm.

“Sophia?” Hope breathed. “What the devil do you think you're doing?”

“Yes.” Cassin panted. “Yes, what is she doing here?”

La Reinette swooped down and retrieved Bernadette, placing her in Cassin's outstretched hand. “Guillaume, it is perfect. We will kill them both, and poof! All our problems, they are gone.”

Hope's blood surged as he watch Cassin pull Sophia against him, holding the blade of the rapier at her throat.

“You foolish girl,” Cassin murmured into her ear. “You think you might save him, all by yourself? Haha! You make us laugh.”

Sophia's eyes were wide; she grasped Cassin's forearm as if that might keep him from slitting her throat. For a moment she met Hope's gaze; he could not tell what she was thinking. There was nothing she could do, nowhere she could go. They were done for, as good as dead.

Without warning, Sophia winked—at least he
thought
he saw her wink. And then she let out a hot, distraught sigh, her hand moving from Cassin's arm to her face before she crumpled against him, eyes rolling up into her head before they closed altogether.

Dear God. She'd
swooned
.

And she'd looked just like her mother as she'd done it. Learned from the best indeed!

Cassin froze; La Reinette drew back, brow furrowed.

It was just enough of a pause for Sophia to leap into action. Her eyes flew open as she slammed her elbows into Cassin's gut, and he doubled over with a shout of pain. His rapier once again clattered to the floor; at once Sophia and La Reinette dove after it.

With his heart in his throat, Hope watched the women wrestle each other to the ground, Sophia yelping as La Reinette tugged at her hair. His own limbs pricked to join the fight, to shield Sophia from the madam's wrath.

La Reinette got the better of Sophia, rolling on top of her as she drew back her fist and slammed it into Sophia's cheek. Hope burned with white-hot rage, tugging at his bindings with a viciousness that made his wrists bleed in sympathy with her bloody lip.

Cassin was still rolling on the floor, whining meekly in unintelligible French. Sophia continued to struggle, but La Reinette had the clear advantage. Pinning her to the ground between her knees, Marie reached over Sophia's head and snatched the rapier from the ground.

She climbed to her feet, breathless, and held the point of Bernadette to Sophia's throat.

“Don't,” Hope snarled. “Leave her be, Marie.”

Marie ignored him, using the rapier's tip to tilt Sophia's chin. “So pretty,” she murmured. “So very, very pretty. I see why he loves you,
mademoiselle
. Your charms are many.”

Sophia glanced toward Hope. She held her hands by her ears in surrender; but as he watched, she lowered her right hand slowly, very slowly, toward the waist of her suspiciously enormous black-satin breeches.

“Marie.” Hope turned to face La Reinette. “Point your blade at me. I am the one deserving of your anger. Besides. Disposing of one body is one thing; but two bodies is a different matter altogether. Isn't that so, Cassin?”

Cassin moaned his consent.

La Reinette met Hope's gaze. “Before, yes, I to—”

Sophia pulled the gleamingly ornate pistol from her breeches and held it in her right hand, releasing the safety as she pointed it at La Reinette.

Hope's heart went to his throat. Out of all the things Sophia could have been hiding in those breeches, he never guessed she'd hide an antique dueling pistol that looked to be a relic of Queen Elizabeth's court; but the trick worked.

La Reinette stumbled back in horror, Sophia rising to stare down the barrel of the gun at Marie's pale face.

Sophia nodded at the rapier. “Drop it.”

Marie did as she was told. Holding up her hands, she said, “
Mademoiselle
, listen to me. Listen, yes? I let you go. We let you go, forget the gossip sheets and the memoirs, we forget everything we did to you. Keep your honor, your reputation. Marry whatever lord you pick. I give you this if you give me
him
.”

Hope's pulse stilled at her words. He glanced at Sophia; he could not tell what she was thinking. But La Reinette was offering her everything she ever wanted: the peace to pursue her marquess, and marry him without event, her reputation and her pride intact.

His throat tightened. At least he got to see her one last time.

It was too enticing an offer. Sophia should take it and run. She was on the verge of making her dreams come true; this one last push, and it would all fall into her lap.

Sophia should leave Thomas and never look back.

But she didn't.

Instead, she said, “Untie him.”

“But,
mademoiselle
, I—”

“Un
tie
him,” Sophia thrust the pistol against La Reinette's temple, “or so help me God I'll put a bullet through your head. I am not a soulless lightskirt like you; I won't leave Thomas. I can't leave him.”

After a beat, Marie stooped before Hope, head down as she went to work at the ropes that bound his ankles.

Relief washed through Thomas as she untied one leg, then the other. Perhaps he would make it out of here alive; perhaps he and Sophia had a fighting chance.

He glanced up to meet Sophia's eyes. They were hard, still full of alligator tears, but hopeful.

Venturing a smile, Hope opened his mouth to speak when a flash of movement behind Sophia caught his eye.

Too late did he see Cassin rising to his feet, reaching through the gloom with his broad-fingered hand for Sophia's throat.

I
t all happened so quickly Sophia hardly had time to think. She was pulled, hard, from behind, a hand wrapping around her neck and squeezing shut her windpipe. Cassin's warm, foul breath filled her nostrils as he tugged her around to face him.

With trembling hands she jabbed the pistol into his ribs, but he merely smiled down at her, tightening his grip on her throat.

“Do it,” he hissed. “I remember your shot, it is not very good. I was there, remember, when you could not shoot me?”

Sophia swallowed. Of course she remembered. If only she had remembered to have Thomas teach her how to properly fire a pistol in the meantime. Damn him, she'd been too distracted by his body, his hands, specifically, to waste what precious time they had on so mundane a thing as
shooting
.

Still. Such knowledge would've come in handy at a moment like this.

Sophia fingered the trigger. Dear God, was the gun even loaded? She'd snatched it as an afterthought from a drawer in Uncle Rutledge's dressing room. For all she knew it could be a prop from Drury Lane, an ancient heirloom that hadn't been fired in two hundred years.

Well.

Whatever it was, Sophia was about to find out.

Screwing shut her eyes, she gritted her teeth in anticipation of the discharge and pulled the stiff trigger.

There was a great rushing sound in her ears as her heart leapt to her throat. She opened her eyes, and Cassin was staring at her, his dark eyes inscrutable.

And then his face creased and the gruesome seam of his mouth opened and he laughed, a loud, triumphant sound. He let loose her throat and wrenched the pistol from her hands, tossing it to the floor where it landed with a decidedly hollow
clunk
.

Sophia glanced at Hope, eyes widening with panic.

This was bad.

He sat very still in his chair. Behind him La Reinette dropped his bound hands—
blast, his hands were still tied
—and slowly rose, her doe eyes brimming with triumph.

“I gave you the chance,” she said, grinning. “I gave you the chance to go but you do not take it. So now, we will have the two bodies.”

Sophia glanced at Hope, feeling the heat drain from her face. His blue eyes sparked; her heart skipped a beat.

Before she knew what he was about, he reached out and with his foot kicked the rapier up into the air. With bated breath Sophia watched it arc through the room; reflexively she reached up and managed to catch it, thoughtlessly, by the blade.

Ignoring the searing burn that burst across her palm, she took the sword by its rather ridiculous handle. This time she did not hesitate; she whirled about and, praying she was better with a rapier than she was with a pistol, slashed the weapon in the general direction of Cassin.

She sensed the blade finding purchase in the hardened flesh of his arm. He cried out, more a girlish scream than a shout, and fell back. She slashed again and again, so many times until she was breathless and sure Cassin would stay put crumpled there in the corner.

From behind her she heard a scuffle and a decidedly female groan. Sophia turned just in time to see Hope take La Reinette's legs between his own and haul her to the floor.

La Reinette screamed,
No, no!
; her head came down on the floor with a liquid
thud
; she was silent, suddenly.

A strange, heady sort of quiet descended upon the room as Sophia met Thomas's eyes. He was breathing hard, the muscled expanse of his chest straining against his shirt, stained with blood and sweat.

Sophia dropped the rapier.

It was just the two of them. The only ones left standing. Or sitting, in Thomas's case.

She began to shake, her eyes warming with tears.

“Thomas,” she breathed, throat so tight with relief she could hardly breathe.

His blue eyes were soft as he spoke. “Don't cry, Sophia. You know how I feel about you crying. Untie me, and I shall see to the rest.”

*   *   *

T
hey remained in the shadows, stalking through the darkened streets of Mayfair much like they had done that first night those weeks and weeks ago.

Only this time, Thomas held Sophia's hand firmly in the warmth of his own, their arms brushing as they walked the familiar route side by side.

She felt as if she were walking on a cloud, or perhaps among the stars. Everything felt different; everything looked and smelled and
was
different with Thomas moving quietly beside her. He swallowed her whole in the great bulk of his shadow. Sophia felt safe here, warm, as if nothing and no one could touch her. Nothing and no one mattered, not when she was with Thomas.

It would hurt to let him go; she was no fool, and knew that despite their victory over La Reinette and Guillaume Cassin, the matter of the missing French Blue still remained. Thomas belonged to Hope & Co. He would need to see the matter through to its bitter end, and she knew there was not time enough in his days for her.

Still.

Still her heart hoped.

She squeezed his hand.

I love you.

Sophia waited for him to squeeze back, but he did not.

Her throat tightened with disappointment as they turned into the familiar alley that led to the lane on which her family resided. A chill ran up her spine at the memory of the kiss she shared with Thomas; yes, it was this very spot where he turned . . .

Sophia nearly tripped over his boots as Thomas drew to a sudden stop. With his body he pressed her, hard, against the wall, the scrape of the brick against her bare neck a welcome foil to her pounding heart.

She sucked in a breath as he pulled her against him, his touch rough and riotous and urgent. In the space of a single heartbeat her body went up in flames, the blood rushing hot and wild beneath her skin as he cupped her face in his hands.

And then he was kissing her, his lips gentle as they pulled and teased and stroked her own. His hands were in her hair and his nose was brushing hers and she surrendered to the inescapable tug between their hearts. He surrounded her, her legs nestled between the hardened mass of his thighs, his arms brushing her shoulders as with his hands he moved her face in time to his lips.

Sophia let out a moan; whether it was pleasure or distress, she could not say; but Thomas pulled away, his breath hot on her cheek as he touched his forehead to her own. His eyes were closed.

“Sophia,” he breathed. “Sophia, I love you.”

Despite herself, she felt the corners of her mouth edging up into a grin.

“What?” he whispered. “What's so amusing?”

“I thought I'd never hear you say it.”

He pulled back, looking into her eyes. “And do you have anything to say in reply?”

“Perhaps,” she teased. “Perhaps not.”

“The anticipation is killing me.”

Sophia glanced down to where their hips were pressed snugly against each other. “I know.”

“Well?”

She looked up and met his eyes, face creasing with happiness. “You fool. Of
course
I love y—”

He captured the words with his mouth, his kiss in his excitement, his relief, adorably clumsy. Her heart turned over in her chest.

Lovers, let them love.

Thomas pulled back, his eyes serious. “Don't marry the marquess, Sophia. I beg you, don't do it.”

“You don't have to beg.” Her grin faded. “I couldn't.”

“Couldn't? Couldn't do what?”

She looked down at her hands. “Withington is a fine fellow. Better than that. He is kind and generous, and deserving of greatness. I desire for him the love that I know for you. I refused his proposal. I gave back his ring.”

“You did.” Hope let out another breath. “But he's the season's greatest catch! Everyone wants to marry the marquess, including your mother.”

Sophia scoffed. “Everyone, it seems, but me.”

Hope couldn't help himself; he smiled. “Marry me, then. I don't have a title, nor do I have a castle; and my fortune—well, I don't have much of that left, either. But I love you. By God, Sophia, I love you more than is proper, more than I should. I love you, and I want you with me all the days of my life.”

Sophia swallowed the ominous tightening in her throat even as her heart leapt. “But the bank—the diamond . . .”

Hope shook his head, brushing back a handful of rogue curls. “I was blinded by my grief. My greed. But I don't want to be blind anymore, Sophia. You've opened my eyes to a kind of happiness I never thought I deserved. That I never thought I'd know. And now that I know it, I cannot live without it. I want to do right by my brothers, and by you. Marry me, Sophia. Please do me the great honor of becoming my wife.”

The tears were warm as they streamed from the corners of her eyes. “Yes,” she said, wiping her cheeks with the lapels of his jacket. “Yes!”

Thomas kissed her long and hard after that, the sort of kiss that left her breathless, lips throbbing, her body alive with the desire for more,
more
. She tangled her hands in the wilds of his hair, pulling him closer; he could never be close enough.

“We're going to have to tell my mother, you know,” Sophia said, when at last Thomas had released her, draping an arm about her shoulders as they strolled bonelessly toward the house.

“I know.” Thomas pressed a kiss into her forehead. “I'm decently handsome, or so I've been told. Perhaps I might use my masculine charms to woo from her a blessing?”

“You're not
that
handsome,” Sophia teased.

They turned out onto the lane, and Sophia looked up from the scuffed tips of Hope's boots—her
betrothed's
boots!—to see her family's ramshackle house ablaze with light.

“What the devil?” Sophia quickened her pace, Thomas trotting in time beside her. “I hope everything's all right.”

“Perhaps Lady Violet has returned?”

“Perhaps.”

Together Thomas and Sophia flew through the front door. The hall was empty; the quiet was punctured by a distant chiming, or was that laughter she heard, a vaguely familiar trill?

Sophia tugged Thomas through a pair of French doors at the back of the house that opened onto a derelict rose garden. There, on the crumbling stoop, sat Lady Blaise and Uncle Rutledge, each of them puffing on the most enormous cigars Sophia had ever seen.

“Mama!” she gasped, blinking in disbelief. “What's happened?”

Lady Blaise waved away Sophia's words, chewing thoughtfully on her cigar.

“Your cousin,” she said, releasing a plume of smoke from between her lips. “She's run off with the Earl of Harclay. Gretna Green, she told us. Can you imagine?”

Sophia glanced at Hope. “Oh, dear, Mama, I am so very sorry.”

“Sorry?” Uncle Rutledge's hairy white brows shot up. “What's there to be sorry for, dear girl? We're celebrating!”

“Celebrating?”

“Yes,” Lady Blaise said. “The circumstances of the marriage are not ideal, of course, but neither of us thought Violet would ever be wed, much less to the
Earl
of
Harclay
!
Ha! To think she would be the one to tame that wicked rogue.”

Lady Blaise turned to Thomas and started, as if seeing him for the first time. “Oh! Before I forget. Violet left something for you, Mr. Hope. The box is on the table inside, in the drawing room.”

Thomas and Sophia exchanged a glance. A beat of breathless silence passed between them.

Then, without further ado, they skidded into the house and through the hall, their footfalls giddy as they echoed through the empty rooms.

There, on the round pedestal table in the center of the drawing room, rested a plain wooden box. It was small and square, its hinges oiled bronze.

“Dear God,” Sophia breathed, eyes glued to Hope's fingers as they feathered across the lid, at last lifting it open. “Is it—”

“Yes.” Thomas held the French Blue between his thumb and forefinger. It glinted in the light of the chandelier above, sparkling wildly as he turned it over in his hand. “Yes, Sophia, it is.”

“Well.” She took a step forward. “Perhaps you might woo mother dearest, after all.”

Thomas lobbed the stone into the air and caught it in his palm. He met her gaze, his eyes alight with mischief as he took her hand, turning it over in his. Carefully he set the diamond in the middle of her palm, curling her fingers around it.

“It's for you. A necklace, perhaps. We'll call it the Hope Diamond.” He traced his fingers lightly over the edges of her collarbones, his thumb grazing the edge of her bodice.

Sophia gaped. “But Thomas, I couldn't possibly . . . it's far too large, and precious . . .”

“What was it I said in Princess Caroline's drawing room? Oh yes: ‘Only such a stone would be worthy of your beauty.' I meant what I said then, and I mean what I say now. It's yours.”

Sophia blinked at the sudden prick of tears. Really, the weeping was getting a bit excessive; but she couldn't help it. This kind of happiness, it was unspeakably wonderful.