First Look: Sassy Excerpt from THE MILLIONAIRE ROGUE!

Since I shared a juicy tidbit from book #3, THE UNDERCOVER SCOUNDREL, thought I'd share some juicy bits from book #2, THE MILLIONAIRE ROGUE, as well.  Happy reading!

London, Spring 1812

Another sleepless night. Sophia tossed and turned, the darkness stifling as her thoughts drifted time and time again to Thomas and those deucedly beautiful eyes of his. Her body ached for him; it felt like an eternity since he’d put his hands on her last.

Sophia stumbled to the window, half hoping La Reinette would be waiting in the shadows below, and slid it open.

The night was warm and quiet.

Quiet, save for the strange rustling noise off a bit to the right.

Blinking, Sophia poked her head out the window just in time to see the Earl of Harclay launch headlong into cousin Violet’s window one down from her own.

Sophia blinked again, catching the tip of the Earl’s shiny Hessian boot before it disappeared into the house. She heard Violet whispering some curse or another before closing the window behind her midnight visitor.

Ducking into her chamber, Sophia listened as several telling thuds reverberated through the wall between her chamber and cousin Violet’s. Whatever Lord Harclay was doing, he was doing thoroughly.

Well then.

An interesting development, to be sure.

Sophia flung herself upon the bed and with a sigh of frustration tugged a pillow over her head, but to no avail; she still heard Violet’s fluttering sighs and Harclay’s groans of pleasure. It was a miracle their ardent – er, affections did not wake the whole house.

She should be scandalized, should knock on Violet’s door and warn her against fraternizing with the enemy. Then again, Sophia was guilty of walking a fine line herself; wasn’t she the one courting the attentions of a well-fortuned Marquess while dreaming at night of a different dark-haired gentleman with eager hands?

A gentleman she wished would climb through her window, and do to her whatever it was Harclay was doing to cousin Violet.

Clutching the pillow over her ears, Sophia closed her eyes. She and the Marquess were to attend Almack’s tomorrow; yes, she would think of that. They’d become friends, she and Withington. Even his notoriously sharp-tongued sisters had taken a liking to Sophia. All was going well, and could only get better.

Perhaps, perhaps he would propose by the end of the summer – or, at least, before she was outed as the author of La Reinette’s memoirs – and all her dreams would come true: the extravagant engagement ball, the envious tittering of the ton, the titles and the castle and the fortune. The things she’d dreamed of all these years would at last be hers.

Sophia closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep.

And woke that morning with a start when she realized she’d dreamt not at all of a glamorous turn at Almack’s on the arm of the Marquess of Withington.

No.

It had been Thomas Hope who’d taken captive her dream, whispering into her ear all the things he wanted to show her.

All the things he had yet to make her feel.