The Millionaire Rogue by Jessica Peterson

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.
    â€œVery 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.
    *   *   *
    â€œB 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?
    â€œThere. 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?”
    Sophia blinked, the pleasant reverie of Hope’s voice and his lips and the rain dropping from the tip of his nose disappearing in the space of half a heartbeat.
    â€œYou know his name, Violet.” She sighed. “Withington
is
handsome, isn’t he?”
    Violet wrinkled her nose. “If fops are your type, then yes, he’s very handsome indeed. You always were ambitious, cousin.”
    â€œIt’s no surprise, considering I was raised on Debrett’s.” She scoffed, but in the mirror her eyes were serious. “I understand that marrying a marquess with ten thousand a year isn’t the only dream there is. But my world is very small, Violet.
Our
world is small. What else am I to do? How else can I improve my lot, raise myself, than to marry a man like the marquess? I couldn’t very well start a bank, or run a business, like Th—like Mr. Hope. There
is
no other dream for a girl like me, poor and nameless, than to seek a title and live in a great house. A house that doesn’t leak when it rains.”
    Violet rolled her eyes.
    â€œWhat?”