The Millionaire Rogue by Jessica Peterson Page A

contact me at the bank tomorrow to arrange the transfer of funds.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œWell, your Highness,” he began, “it’s been a pleas—”
    â€œAren’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.
    â€œKiss?” Hope said. “Well. That would hardly be proper, given the circumstances—”
    â€œNot 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.

Six

    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