The Millionaire Rogue Read Free Page A

and a suitably large castle to go with him. Having grown up in a family teetering on the edge of penury, Sophia desired stability, security, too, and a man like the marquess could provide her all that and more: the titles, the crests, the fortune and fame.
    She was not prepared, however, for just how difficult it would be to fulfill her ambitions. Nor did she anticipate how intimidating, how repellent, she would find a goodly majority of the gentlemen who belonged to said titles and crests.
    Her first season, in short, was turning out to be quite a disaster. Yes,
quite
.
    Sophia’s shoulders slumped.
    But even as the weight of that sobering truth bore down upon her heart, a flicker of anticipation pulsed there. Faint at first, it flamed hotter as the minutes passed. The hour of her departure from Almack’s drew near; which meant, of course, Sophia was that much closer to her
second
engagement of the evening.
    And this one, praise God, had nothing at all to do with sideburns or castles.
    Sophia shivered with anticipation when at last the family’s musty, creaking carriage jostled its occupants away from Almack’s door on King Street later that evening, making for the family’s ramshackle manse in Grosvenor Square.
    â€œYou’re smiling.” Violet eyed Sophia from across the carriage. “What’s wrong?”
    Sophia bit the inside of her lip, hoping to hide her grin of excitement. “Nothing out of the usual, Cousin. I very likely offended a marquess. Being the graceful swan that I am, I stepped on Lord Pealey’s feet—yes, both of them—during the minuet.”
    Violet shrugged. “That makes for a better turn at Almack’s than last week.”
    Lady Blaise said nothing as she swatted back Cousin Violet’s attempt at another swig from her flask.
    Violet tilted her head back and swigged anyway, draining every last drop.
    Sophia sighed and looked out the window.
One more hour. One more hour until my escape.
    *   *   *
    Grosvenor Square
    P ulling her hood over her nose, Sophia leaned against the crumbling brick of her uncle’s house and stepped into her boots, one stockinged foot at a time. She straightened and peered into the shadows, long and sinister in the flickering light of the gas lamps. Satisfied no one was about, she stole into the square, pressing to her breast the pages hidden in her cloak.
    The night was cool and clammy; there would be rain. Above, the stars hid behind a thin layer of gray cloud, while the light of the full moon shone through like a lone, opaque eye, following her as she moved through the dark.
    With each step her pulse quickened. The daring of it all, the risk—reputation, ruination, retribution—was immense. And exhilarating, all at once.
    Whatever this feeling was, it far outshone the anxiety, and the disappointment, she’d experienced while in the Marquess of Withington’s presence at Almack’s.
    It was not far to The Glossy. While Sophia had no occasion on which to dwell on such things, it had surprised her nonetheless that establishments such as La Reinette’s populated Mayfair as thickly as potbellied peers.
    Those potbellied peers, Sophia had quickly discovered, were possessed of wicked appetites in more ways than one.
    The Glossy occupied a stately spot between Viscount Pickering’s massive pile and the Earl of Sussex’s broad, tired-looking townhouse. Now Sophia understood why Sussex was such a jolly fellow, despite a succession of sour-faced wives.
    Its namesake shutters were lacquered deep blue, the slick paint glittering in the low light of lanterns on either side of the front door. Sophia slipped past The Glossy’s facade onto a narrow lane that descended along one side of the house. She stopped at a hedgerow—wait, yes, this was the one—and ducked into the boxwood’s firm grasp.
    For several heartbeats she scraped through the darkness, complete and sweet