The Millionaire Rogue (8 page)

“Sophi—Miss Blaise is none of your business,” Hope growled. “Nor is she any of mine, for that matter.”

Lake's eyes went as round as his mouth. “Oh. Oh no. I wasn't talking about
her
! I was talking about the diamond.” He nodded at the box. “Haha! A telling mistake. Well, then. You've made my point for me—best to stay away from them both, before—well, you know why.”

Hope's head hit the back of his chair with a bang. “I hate this game.”

“Neither of them belong to you, Hope. Not only is your desire for them useless, it's downright dangerous. Deadly, even. The French Blue will go to Napoleon,”—Lake pounded the desk with his first finger—“and Miss Blaise will go to a nice marquess with a castle and ten thousand a year. Understood?”

Hope scoffed to cover the sharp, unexpected sting of fury that washed over him at the sound of Sophia's name on Lake's lips. “Perhaps I'll understand when I get back that twenty thousand I loaned you. Deadly my arse.” He nodded at a neat stack of correspondence on the far end of his desk, each letter meticulously sealed in Hope's signature blue wax. “The invitations to my ball go out today. ‘An Evening at Versailles: the Jewels of the Sun King.' A theme, if I don't say so myself, that is also a decent piece of diplomatic bait. Napoleon will be knocking on your door before the evening is out, make no mistake. And then our assignment is done. What's so deadly about all that?”

Lake glowered. “I didn't come to scold you about keeping your breeches buttoned—”

“You didn't? Really? Because it sure as hell feels like you did.”

Lake's face softened into grimness. When he spoke his voice was quiet, serious. “There's a leak. Word has gotten out about our . . .” He looked away. “Ah.
Activities
last Wednesday night.”

“What?” For the second time that afternoon, Hope started, fearful his heart might leap from his chest. At once he thought of Sophia, imploring him and Mr. Lake to silence on the side of the road in Blackheath. He'd sworn to keep her secrets safe, that no one would ever learn of her arrangement with La Reinette or involvement in Lake's plot.

Hope knew as well as anyone the
ton
was all too eager to tear apart and shun its own. A debutante who snuck out under cover of darkness to pen an infamous courtesan's memoirs was the stuff of dreams for dour dowagers and their miserable ilk. The gossip and censure would be unbearable; not only would it ruin Sophia, it'd likely destroy her family as well.

Never mind all that Hope had at stake. His reputation, his business, and the countless employees and clients who depended on him. His brothers, Adrian and Henry—though they'd been estranged since, well, since as long as Hope could remember—those wastrels remained his dependents. With the rest of the family gone, Adrian and Henry had no one else to whom to turn.

Lake held up his hand. “Whisperings only. Nothing to condemn us; nothing tantamount to blackmail. Not yet, anyway. But someone knows that we were together last Wednesday evening. And that we were up to something. Whoever he is, he's asking all the right questions.”

It was Hope's turn to glower. “So what are we going to do? I made clear to you last time we spoke, it's imperative no one know I am involved.”

“Trust me.” Lake's eye gleamed with malice. Hope swallowed. “We'll find our rat. And when we do, he'll be
very
sorry he ever opened his mouth But you must take care, Hope. Keep your eyes and ears open. Guard the French Blue with your life. And for God's sake, stay away from that girl. If this rat hasn't already figured out Miss Blaise was involved in our plot, he certainly will if she's seen—er—
associating
with you.”

Hope let out a long, hot breath and smiled tightly. “It's always the worst-case scenario with you, isn't it, Lake? If we don't end up dead or ruined or both, I'll do my best to help. But I make no promises.”

“All right.” Lake cocked a brow before he turned and limped toward the window. With a grunt he heaved it open. “But don't say I didn't warn you. Stay away from that girl.”

Hope watched in mute shock as Mr. Lake, pushing aside the damask drapes, grasped either side of the window frame and swung his legs through it. Looking back over his shoulder, he nodded. “I'll see you at the ball. Don't forget, it's important everyone is talking about that bloody jewel. See to it that they do.”

With another grunt, he launched his bulk through the window and was gone.

One bad leg.

One good eye.

Really, how the devil did Lake do it?

After Hope managed to retrieve his jaw from the floor, he stood and made his way to the stack of invitations on the edge of his desk. He grasped the letter at the top of the pile, the paper pleasantly smooth and heavy in his hands, and read the address scrawled in looping calligraphy across the page.

His Grace the Duke of Sommer

Her Ladyship Violet Rutledge

Her Ladyship the Dowager Baroness Blaise

Miss Sophia Blaise

Hope looked out the open window. A glorious spring day; the fashionable hour approached. No doubt her ladyship the dowager baroness would be chaperoning Sophia's stroll through Hyde Park. Perhaps they would stop to admire the fine horseflesh—and finer fortuned bachelors—on Rotten Row.

His fingers clenched around the invitation in his hand. He glanced at the gleaming malachite clock on the mantel behind his desk.

Quarter past three. He still had time before the beau monde poured out into the park.

He looked at the pile of pages, bills and wills and all matter of business, that cluttered his desk. An afternoon—and evening's—worth of work, at least.

He looked again at the sunlight streaming through the window.

The invitation had to get there
somehow
. He had a bit of business besides to discuss with Lady Violet.

Yes. Business.
Urgent
business. Business that had absolutely nothing at all to do with Miss Blaise.

But if he should perhaps run into her while conducting said business—well. Such things could not be helped. One
must
be polite, after all.

Calling to his man, Hope tucked the invitation into his waistcoat and made for the door.

I
t had been three days since her adventure with Mr. Hope.
Th
omas
.

Three days since he'd pressed his body to hers as they ducked into a closet to avoid deadly assassins. It was so delicious as to be absurd.

Three days since he'd pressed that last kiss into her cheek, searing her flesh with his eager, knowing lips.

And three days since Sophia had seen or heard from Hope last.

She brought her hand to her face, the skin still burning with the memory of those lips. Truth be told, she'd thought of little else but Hope and his diamond since she'd left him standing in the rain outside the kitchen door.

The more she thought, the more she felt. Confused, certainly; she did not understand the first thing about Hope, who was chasing him and why he was involved with that one-eyed monster of a man Mr. Lake.

But even more certainly than that, she felt intrigued. Despite having spent the entire night at his side, Sophia wanted to see him again. Were his eyes as blue and daring as she remembered? Did he laugh as much during the day as he did at night?

And what was it about him, exactly, that made her belly turn over in the most marvelous of ways?

Having drunk deeply his presence, Sophia was thirstier than ever for more.

Who wouldn't be, after that kiss—

“Sophia!”

She nearly fell from her chair. Sophia blinked, the image of Thomas's night-darkened face leaning in for the kiss replaced far too suddenly by Lady Blaise's look of horror.

“I'm terribly sorry,” Sophia said, straightening her spine. “What was that?”

“The
marquess
was just
asking
if you
enjoy
the
theater
.”

Sophia turned to the Marquess of Withington, baring her teeth in what she hoped was more smile than grimace. “Oh, oh yes, my lord. More than you could possibly imagine.”

When the marquess had unexpectedly swept into their drawing room a half hour before, boots shining and sideburns trimmed, Sophia had nearly fallen out of her chair for the
first
time that day.

To have the Marquess of Withington call upon one was no small matter. Indeed, to see his gleaming phaeton and pair of matching blacks pulled up before the house had sent a pulse of excitement through her.

And now here he was, patiently wading through what was obviously an excruciating conversation with Lady Blaise and Sophia. She had to give him credit: he was trying very hard not to look at her breasts, and for the most part was succeeding.

Even so. Sophia kept waiting for her initial excitement to return; for the conversation to become enjoyable, or at least easier; for a jest, a joke, a roll of the eyes that would prove the marquess was not the mindless pink he appeared to be.

Thus far, however, he'd proven himself to be exactly that.

“Capital!” Withington's face lit up. “Perhaps you and your mama could join me in my box at Drury Lane. I am partial to Shakespeare—the comedies, of course—but do so love a good opera.”

“That would be lovely,” Lady Blaise cut in before Sophia could reply. “Perhaps next week?”

“Capital!”

Sophia's smile began to hurt. “I very much look forward to it.”

The marquess rose, apparently satisfied. Sophia and Lady Blaise followed him to their feet. “Well, ladies, duty calls; her ladyship my mother is expecting me for tea. It has been a capital afternoon.”

He turned to Sophia. To her very great surprise took her hand in his and, jerking into a rather enthusiastic bow, brushed his lips against her knuckles. For a moment his gaze lingered on her bosom before he reluctantly looked up to her face. “Miss Blaise, I do so hope to see you at the theater—”

Over the plane of the marquess's bowed back, a quick, blurred movement in the gallery beyond the drawing room door caught Sophia's eye. A figure, dressed in somber shades of blue and black; she watched as the tail of a jacket disappeared round the edge of the door.

Her heart beat a loud and unsteady rhythm. It couldn't be him. Not at this hour, not today.

Yet. Her heart would not be still.

“Yes, yes, of course, thank you,” she murmured as Withington drew up before her.

It seemed an eternity between the time he dropped her hand and his final bow at the door. As soon as the marquess departed, Sophia was moving past her mother, murmuring apologies as she slipped through the door.

Darting into the gallery, she made for the back of the house, where Violet kept her study. Just ahead she heard footsteps, unhurried but firm.

A man's footsteps.

Sophia quickened her pace, walking as fast as her legs would allow without breaking into a run.

She turned the corner, breathless.

There, standing with his back to her in front of the study door, was a familiar figure. With no small appreciation she took in his long, powerful legs, broad shoulders, and the mop of dark, unruly curls that just brushed his collar.

At the sound of her steps he turned his head, right fist raised as if he were about to knock.

In the shadowy light of the hall their gazes collided.

Oh, yes. His eyes were
definitely
as blue as she remembered, and just as piercing. A breathless warmth washed over her, coaxing her lips into an open smile she couldn't have suppressed if she'd wanted to.

A smile that certainly didn't hurt.

“Miss Blaise!” He turned so sharply he lost his footing, falling into an ungainly bow. A wide, flat packet fell from his breast pocket onto the floor.

At once they both dashed forward to retrieve it, their heads nearly bumping as Sophia picked up the packet. Swiping back his hair with one hand, Hope helped her to her feet with the other.

He cleared his throat, his cheeks pink with embarrassment as he attempted to straighten his person. Sophia thought he appeared adorably disheveled; she struggled to resist the temptation to reach out and tuck an errant curl behind his ear.

“Thomas,” she said softly. She held out the packet to him. “I did not intend to startle you. Aren't men of your—er—
experience
supposed to be immune to surprise? A sixth sense and all that.”

Hope took the packet and looked down at it. While he did not smile, she could tell he was amused. “Seems the only sixth sense I've got is a knack for finding trouble.”

“And diamonds. Very
big
diamonds. Besides, what you call trouble others might call—dare I say it?—adventure.”

He laughed, looking up at her at last. His eyes were laughing, too, the skin around them crinkling pleasantly.

A beat of silence passed. The color in Hope's cheeks deepened, giving him the look of a shy—albeit devilishly handsome—boy.

She became acutely aware of it then, the tug of desire that moved between them. Bodily desire, of course; but also a desire to
stay
, to ask questions, know more, to understand and be understood.

She recognized the sensation from that night three days ago. But today it felt stronger than it did then. More immediate, a hungrier feeling.

Thomas must have felt it, too. He stepped forward, keeping his voice low. “I wanted—” He paused, embarrassed. “I wanted to write, I did—but I. Well. No, no, that doesn't sound at all right; let me try again. I have thought. Thought about this—er, often. Thought about
you
—”

Sophia waited on the tips of her toes as Mr. Hope tugged a hand through his hair, cheeks flaring with a huff of frustration.

“I'm dismal at this, aren't I?”

“Yes.” Sophia offered a small, entranced nod. “But do go on.”

“What I meant to say is, I care for—”

Suddenly the study door creaked open, and together they turned to see Cousin Violet, brow furrowed, step into the hall, a ledger cradled in the crook of her left arm. Her blue eyes slid from Hope to Sophia and back again, narrowing with suspicion.

“Did I,” she raised a brow, “interrupt something? I wasn't expecting to see you, Mr. Hope, until Tuesday.”

They both rushed to speak at once.

“No.”

“No!”

“No, most certainly not, no interruption
what
soever!” Thomas looked down at the packet in his hand. He started, as if seeing it for the first time; after half a beat he thrust it forward, offering it to Sophia. “I was just delivering an invitation to my annual ball. Friday next; I do hope you and your family will be able to attend.”

“Your ball!” Violet slammed her ledger shut, eyes alight with excitement. “Of course we'll be there. It's the only event of the season that's actually any fun. And your liquor! I promise not to drink as much of it as last year.”

She wedged herself between Sophia and Thomas and grabbed the invitation, turning the packet over in her hands and breaking the seal. Sophia peered over her shoulder as she read it.

“‘The Jewels of the Sun King!'” Violet looked up in amazement. “I daresay it's even better than last year's theme! Wherever did you get the idea?”

Over her head, Hope met Sophia's eyes, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Come to the ball and perhaps you'll find out.”

“You may count on it.” Violet folded the page and playfully tapped him on the shoulder. “Are you to be the Sun King?”

“I should think so, yes.”

“And your queen? Who is to play her?”

For a split second Hope's eyes widened with panic. A charged silence settled over them; Sophia winced as the floorboards creaked beneath her feet. Violet couldn't possibly know—could she?

Hope cleared his throat and brushed back his curls with his first two fingers. The color in his cheeks rose. “Well. No one at the moment, I'm afraid.”

“Are you ill?” Violet drew close. “I've never seen you blush like that.”

Again Hope met Sophia's eyes, a plea. “Yes, well . . . no, I mean no. . . .”

Sophia swept between them, looping her arm through Violet's. “After your inquisition, you're lucky Mr. Hope does not rescind his lovely invitation. Besides, we must change if we're to make it to the park on time.”

Violet hesitated, searching her cousin's face with those narrowed eyes of hers. Sophia felt herself growing warm beneath Violet's scrutiny, waiting for her to call her and Hope out, question them on the palpably charged air that crackled between them.

Violet was no fool, but Sophia was no witless debutante, either. And so she returned her cousin's gaze levelly, coaxing the heat from her face with every passing heartbeat.

“Very well.” Violet turned to Hope. “You're keeping something from me, I can feel it. But I suppose I can wait until the ball to squeeze it out of you. Until Thursday, then.”

Mr. Hope bowed. Watching from half a step away, Sophia swallowed in appreciation. Like his person, Thomas's bow was elegant, earnest, and just singular enough to intrigue, rather than intimidate.

He rose. “Until Thursday, Lady Violet.” Turning to Sophia, he said, “Miss Blaise. I look forward to seeing you at the ball. It is my sincerest wish that you find it as enjoyable as does your cousin.”

She met his eyes one last time, heart thudding in her chest as she read the relief there, and the promise.

A promise, she liked to think, for another go at that kissing business.

*   *   *

“B
ut I don't understand.” Violet turned, peering over her shoulder at her reflection in the mirror. “What's a nymph to do with Louis XIV and his jewels? I still think my idea is better. Madame de Montespan makes for a far more intriguing character than a wood nymph. A more dramatic entrance, too.”

Sophia glanced in the mirror and, furrowing her brow, bent to smooth the gauze of Violet's train. “My mother would drop dead if you paraded in public as the king's infamously nubile mistress, and you know it. The gauze is scandalous enough, don't you think?”

Violet tugged the neckline of her costume so low the threat of a rogue nipple was very real indeed. She puckered her lips in satisfaction before turning to her cousin. “I suppose. Here, sit; your curls have fallen.”

Sophia watched in the mirror as Violet, pins clenched between her teeth, went to work on her hair, fingers featherlight as they tucked and twisted.

Her bravado notwithstanding, Violet would drop dead surely as Lady Blaise if she knew the
real
reason why Sophia so ardently insisted they costume themselves as nymphs for Mr. Hope's ball.

Even now a shiver ran down her spine at the memory of Hope's murmured words, the low, smooth rumble of his voice as he said them.

You are as a nymph, Sophia. So lovely. So tempting.

Would he remember? And more importantly, would he notice her amid the beautiful, perfumed masses that crowded his house?

“There. Lovely.” Violet stood back to admire her handiwork. She caught Sophia's eye in the mirror. “Are you nervous? You look nervous. Is it that marquess again, Wart-what's-his-name?”