The Millionaire Rogue (6 page)

The jewel was somehow smaller than he'd imagined, but much more beautiful. Seductive even, like a woman with a wicked smile and sphinxlike eyes. He sensed trouble. He knew he couldn't, shouldn't, could never have her; but this desire, it was unlike anything he'd ever known, and the impulse to indulge it was overwhelming.

Cut into an irregular oval, the French Blue was about the size of a small rose bloom. Hope wondered how large it had been when Jean Baptiste Tavernier had brought it, rough and uncut, to France from India some two centuries before. The Sun King's jeweler had done the diamond justice, however; it was brilliant and near flawless. Hope understood where the curse had come from, understood why emperors had toppled kingdoms to possess the jewel; understood why the French Blue meant so much to Lake, and how much it would mean to Napoleon. This power the French Blue possessed over men, it was nothing short of hypnotic.

At last Princess Caroline spoke, breaking the diamond's spell.

“Will this suit my young lovers?” She glanced down at the note on the table beside her. “I do believe it is a fair bargain.”

Hope pried his eyes from the diamond and looked at the princess. “The French Blue went missing some twenty years ago in Paris. Some believed it lost forever to the wars that followed. How did you find it?”

The princess blinked and looked away, her smile small and knowing. “Your twenty thousand only goes so far, Mr. Hope. Suffice it to say I came into possession of the French Blue through channels that shall forever remain unknown to history.”

Hope swallowed his curiosity. They were so close—so very close to getting what they'd come for. He knew that if he pushed Princess Caroline any further she might renege on the deal.

Still. Something told him that the story of how Caroline came to own the diamond was an intriguing one, a missing piece of the puzzle he'd been trying to solve for years.

Beside him, Sophia squeezed his hand. He met her eyes.
Let's go
, she pleaded,
before she changes her mind
.

Hope looked back at the princess. It bothered him, this glaring gap in the jewel's history—what if she'd stolen the diamond? Bought if off a French spy? Was
working
as a French spy?—but he knew there would be time to unravel it later.

He smiled so wide it hurt. “It's perfect. Wouldn't you say, darling?”

Sophia demurred, her cheeks a convincing shade of pink. “You are too generous, Thomas. I shall have my wedding gown made to match it, though it's too large for a ring. Shall I wear it as a necklace or a brooch?”

“Oh, a necklace, definitely a necklace. You shall look ravishing, my dear.” The princess closed the box and handed it to Hope. She picked up the note, and without looking at it folded it twice lengthwise and tucked it into the puckered crease between her breasts.

Mr. Hope's pulse skittered as he held the box in his hands.
The French Blue
. Here, right now, in his very hands. Hands that began to shake. He squeezed the box, willing them to be still.

“Thank you, Majesty, you have made a dream come true this night. You may contact me at the bank tomorrow to arrange the transfer of funds.”

“I am sorry to see it go, but as you can see, my husband keeps me in penury.” The princess flapped a hand at her surroundings. “Your note brings me comfort of mind and of purse, and for that I must thank you. Perhaps you shall name your firstborn after me? Oh, lovers.”

The princess beamed at them. Hope shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his jaw beginning to ache from smiling.

“Well, your Highness,” he began, “it's been a pleas—”

“Aren't you going to kiss?” Caroline asked, looking from Hope to Sophia. “It is no small gift, the French Blue, wouldn't you say, Miss Blaise?”

Hope laughed nervously and glanced at Sophia. Her cheeks had gone from pink to persimmon, but her hazel eyes slanted invitingly, sparking with something akin to curiosity.

This was trouble.

“Kiss?” Hope said. “Well. That would hardly be proper, given the circumstances—”

“Not proper? Why, there were never more proper circumstances for a kiss in the history of mankind! Now go on.
Kiss!
”

Hope swallowed for what felt like the hundredth time that night. He turned his head to Sophia and met those warm, inviting eyes of hers. His heart raced, his blood wild.

It's only a kiss, he reminded himself. King and country, saving lives, for England, Harry, and St. George—he could kiss Sophia for all those reasons.

But kissing her for
his
reasons—reasons that now danced in that wild blood of his—that was another matter entirely. He'd already broken a promise he'd made to himself by joining Lake in this wild goose chase. Hope wouldn't—couldn't—break another by seducing Miss Sophia Blaise.

And yet here she was, those eyes and those lips. Oh, those lips, they just begged to be kissed. His groin tightened as he remembered her working that bottom lip earlier that evening. How he'd longed to work it himself, the top lip, too, and—

Again the twist of desire between his legs.

The urge rolled over him as swift and sure as the tide. He couldn't say no, not when she looked at him like that, confident and terrified and curious all at once.

Thomas set the box in his lap and reached out and cradled her face in his palm, his thumb gently holding her chin in place. His eyes never leaving hers, he leaned forward, wondering vaguely if he even remembered how to do it, and do it well.

T
homas knew how to kiss very well indeed.

Not that Sophia had any experience with things like kisses.

But God
above
it was a special sort of heaven, the firm but sensual press of his lips to hers, the obvious care he took in applying just enough pressure but never too much.

It had all happened so quickly. She watched with bated breath as he'd leaned forward, his blue eyes suddenly serious and clouded. Something about the lean slant of his neck as he tilted his head, just so, made her entire being pulse with longing. Mr. Hope—Thomas—was deucedly handsome. Devilishly, deucedly handsome.

When he drew too close, and she could no longer bear the anticipation, her eyes fluttered shut. And then his breath was soft and sweet upon her face, and she felt herself leaning into him.

And then.

And
then
.

Their lips met. The kiss was tender; the warmth of it surprised her, the intimacy of it terrifying. She had to resist the impulse to pull away, and yet her body yearned for more.

Hope's thumb grazed the line of her jaw, and suddenly the kiss deepened, so much so that Sophia could feel it all the way in her knees. Pleasure coursed through her when his lips moved against hers, slowly, skillfully, and she felt herself falling into the kiss, moving her mouth in time to his.

The assault was endless, and Sophia reveled in the sensation of being captured by him, her blood pounding as Thomas arched over her. With each stroke of his lips he turned his head, and with his hand turned her face so that that she matched his movements. For a moment the kiss slowed, and Hope's hand slipped further toward her. She shivered as his fingers brushed the skin of her neck, his thumb tugging at her earlobe; and then those fingers were tangled in her hair, and he was taking her bottom lip between his own.

All the while moving slowly, with great intent and concentration. His touch was sure but soft. She drank deeply, her belly turning over at his passion; hers, too.

Being kissed was wholly different, and God above so much better, than she'd imagined it would be. But even Sophia in her ignorance knew this was no mere kiss, not the kind a debutante would share with a beau. This kiss was too honest and bold. It spoke of forbidden things. Attraction. Desire. A curiosity to push further, and know more.

Through the pounding of her heart and lips, Sophia heard Princess Caroline making an odd, high-pitched sound. Her blood leapt in dismay at the realization her kiss with Thomas would end.

He slid his hand back to cup her jaw. He tugged at her lips one last time, his teeth lingering on her bottom lip before he pulled away altogether.

Sophia opened her eyes, chest heaving in an attempt to catch her breath. Thomas was looking at her, his blue eyes probing and full of concern.

As if he had anything to be concerned about. The kiss—
his
kiss—it was so deucedly good it left her all but shaking.

For a moment she was overcome by a sense of wonder. Where had Mr. Hope learned such sensual skill? And how did she get so lucky as to experience it?

Regardless, Sophia knew one thing for certain.

She was ruined. Not the kind of ruin that got everyone in the upper ten thousand, her mother especially, so excited. No.

She was ruined for whichever poor marquess or earl's son whom she (hopefully) married. For there was no way on God's green earth that anyone could possibly kiss as well as Mr. Thomas Hope, that any man could thrill her with his lips alone as he had done.

She wanted to throttle him for giving her a taste of something that could never be hers.

Looking into his eyes, she also wanted to beg him to do it again, right here in front of the princess, that diamond be damned. Beg him to kiss her again, and show her everything that came after.

She blinked, a small smile creeping to her lips.

Thomas let out a sigh of relief and returned her smile, the creases at the edges of his eyes deepening with laughter.

Why had Sophia never noticed how handsome he was until now?

Together they turned to face Princess Caroline, who was weeping noisily into the bowl of her hands.

Sophia handed Her Majesty the handkerchief Hope had given her moments earlier.

Caroline took it and blew her nose into it, making a very unladylike honking sound as she did so. Sophia bit her lip to keep from laughing.

“Oh, lovers, don't mind me.” The princess waved the sodden handkerchief at no one in particular. “That kiss, God save me! I can see the love you bear one another. It is a—a”—here her voice faltered—“a beautiful thing!”

She collapsed into sobs. Mr. Hope wasted no time. He stood and patted the princess on the shoulder, whispering assurances in her ear—something about love, and life's journey, and the prince regent coming around.

Caroline gazed upon him with a watery smile, and thanked him for his kind words. She looked to Sophia, blotting her red eyes with the handkerchief, and sniffled.

“How lucky you are, dear girl, to be loved by a man like Hope,” she said. She paused to blow her nose again. “In this world romance is all but dead. But in his eyes, I see it is alive. Oh, lovers!”

Again the sobs; again, Mr. Hope whispering kind words in her ear. The princess wiped at her eyes, smudging one of her eyebrows so that it appeared a slightly askew comma, hung high in the middle of her forehead.

Mr. Hope met Sophia's gaze over the princess's head as he patted her gently on the shoulder. He shrugged, and mouthed
I'm sorry
with a roll of his eyes. He tried, and failed, to repress the boyish grin twitching at the sides of his mouth.

Sophia looked into her lap and held back her own smile. How many times she'd smiled this evening—well, considering the circumstances, diamond and deception and all that, more than was proper, surely.

It was all Hope's fault. He made her feel giddy, and alive, and safe, as if nothing she did or said would be the
wrong
thing. And what a relief that was.

At last, when the princess cried her eyes to slits, she called for her maids to put her to bed. Bowing his thanks, Mr. Hope held out his hand to Sophia and helped her rise from the settee, the box containing the French Blue tucked into the crook of his arm.

They left the princess with Gunter and Frederick in the puce-colored room, keeping their steps slow and even lest they be consumed by a newborn eagerness to know what, exactly,
did
come after the kiss they shared.

*   *   *

S
ophia had known Mr. Hope for years now—in a professional capacity, of course. Most, if not all, of her family's meager fortune was invested in Hope & Co. stock; Mr. Hope had come to their shabby house in Grosvenor Square once a week to meet with Cousin Violet and discuss—well, Sophia didn't quite know what they discussed, though she was relatively certain it wasn't nearly as interesting as the conversations she'd had with Mr. Hope tonight.

But now that Sophia knew him on more
intimate
terms, she suddenly found it difficult to meet his eyes, training her own on her feet. They sat opposite each other in the swaying coach, the French Blue in its shiny box on the seat beside Mr. Hope.

While they both burst into laughter the moment the coach pulled away from Montague House, after they wiped their eyes a charged silence settled between them. Outside, the night was still and humid, holding its breath for the rain that would come at any moment.

Sophia bit her lip to keep from squirming, the lip that was still tingling from Mr. Hope's ardent attentions. In her chest her heart was giddy, her every sense aware of his presence an arm's length away. Her eyes traveled from his boots, dull from tonight's adventures, up the length of his long, shapely legs, to his square knees, set just apart. His thighs were impossibly long and well muscled, filling his fine breeches to great effect.

Really, she must've been blind all these years not to see what a very fine specimen Mr. Hope was. Very fine indeed.

Of its own volition her gaze kept moving up, passing over a suspicious bulge protruding from the place where his legs met his hips; up past the narrow waist to land on his broad, finely wrought chest, rising and falling in long, steady strokes.

She swallowed. It was more than a little impolite to stare as she was, but
my God
Sophia felt as if she were living in one of La Reinette's thrilling tales. And if this was her only chance to know, even for a night, romance and adventure and dangerous, good-looking men, then manners be damned, she was going to know them, and know them thoroughly.

Her gaze traveled up his neck to his face. Her breath caught in her throat when she caught him looking at her, and she burned beneath the intensity of his stare.

“Awful quiet in there! Any casualties?”

Mr. Lake's jolly, muffled voice startled Sophia and Hope into motion, Sophia jolting forward in her seat, and Mr. Hope jolting forward in his to catch her.

Hope groaned and rolled his eyes. “That man is a plague,” he muttered. He reached up and pounded the ceiling with his fist. “No casualties!”

Mr. Lake chuckled. “We'll see about that, you devil.”

Holding Sophia's elbows in his palms, Mr. Hope shook his head. “Some cheek that man has, calling
me
the devil.”

Sophia smiled, doing her best to ignore the heat that pulsed through her at Hope's touch. “I think he means it as a compliment, Mr. Hope.”

“Mr. Hope?” He cocked his head to the side, eyes sparking with mischief. “Sounds like a stodgy fellow, old and boring, doesn't he?”

“Thomas.” Sophia's smile grew. “I suppose having shared a closet and a kiss, we are to be friends now.”

“Friends, yes.” Mr. Hope slid his palms down the length of her forearms to clasp her hands. He looked down at her fingers and ran his thumb along the edge of her palm.

That touch.

A shiver of anticipation sparked up her spine.

“I hope you'll forgive me—” He paused, as if deciding what to say next. At last he looked up. His eyes, very blue, seemed to glow in the darkness, earnest with an edge of daring. He scoffed. “There's no decent way to phrase this, I'm afraid. And what I'm about to say—I mean it as a compliment, I do, so I hope you will take no offense. But you are not at all what—whom—I expected. Where has Sophia been hiding all these years? Under Miss Blaise's bed?”

It was Sophia's turn to scoff. She looked down at their clasped hands, trying in vain to ignore the skittish pounding of her pulse. After a moment she looked up and smiled. “And what of Thomas? Does Mr. Hope stash him in the brandy board of his study?”

“Nowhere else to keep a scoundrel like Thomas. The fellow's liable to drink me out of house and home before summer's out. He's got dashedly expensive taste, you know.”

Sophia nodded at the box on the seat beside Hope. “So I'm learning.”

“But Sophia,” Thomas said, leaning closer. “Sophia, I rather like.”

Again she looked down at their hands, only to realize that she, too, leaned close to Thomas, so close the tops of their heads nearly touched. “Me, too. But I'm afraid the
ton
would disagree. And my mother—I daresay Sophia would send her into a fit of apoplexy. I can hear her now: ‘The
horror,
oh, the
horror
! How my daughter doth deceive me! Jesus, I am ready, take me now!'

“No,” she sighed. “Sophia will not do. She may be an adventurer—”

“And quite the actress, might I add.”

Sophia grinned, a bittersweet thing that faded as quickly as it appeared. “Flatterer. Any debutante worth her salt knows how to make a scene. I've yet to master the swoon, but I can wail with the best of them.”

He lightly squeezed her hands, imploring her to meet his eyes. They were narrowed, his head cocked to the side in curiosity. He was looking at her in that way again, his handsome face glowing with unabashed interest. Sophia didn't know what she'd done, exactly, to garner such attention; there had been none of the batting eyelashes or forced laughter or meaningless flattery she usually employed at Almack's.

Not that such things had proven effective in snaring suitors, anyway.

But still. Sophia did nothing to earn Hope's attention, save tear through the night at his side with giddy abandon.

And any debutante worth her salt knew giddy abandon was not the sort of sentiment that attracted a well-connected viscount or duke's son.

“Besides.” Sophia made to drop Thomas's hands, but he held her fast. “No man in his right mind would risk life and limb on an attachment to an adventurer and an actress.”

“The
horror
!” Thomas grinned, shaking his head. “No, Sophia, I must disagree. Men and their right minds aside—really, are we even in possession of such things?—some of us prefer adventurers far and away to debutantes.”

Sophia looked away, face burning even before she said the words. “Not the sort of gentleman I hope to marry. That I need to marry.”