Chapter Twenty-Two

Ellie parted her thighs, and the weight of him slid down to settle between them. The smooth buckskin of his breeches was a delicious tease, and then she felt the slick head of his cock pressing at the entrance to her body.

They both stilled. Harry lifted himself up onto his elbows, relieving her of some of his weight, and she stared into his eyes—one blue, one green-brown—so close that she could make out the individual flecks of color that gave him such a unique look.

Her heart was pounding in her throat at the momentous step she was about to take, and for the briefest moment she was seized by an incredulous and utterly inappropriate desire to laugh.

She didn't even know his real name! This was madness, utter madness.

And yet, inexplicably, she knew him. Knew his essence, his soul. He was a reckless, wicked, wily scoundrel, and she wanted him, by whatever name he chose to use.

He raised his brows at her in silent question, as if checking that she wanted him to continue, and she lifted her hips in answer. Satisfied, he leaned down and caught her lower lip between his teeth, tugging gently, at the same moment as he pressed forward and slid into her.

Ellie gasped against his mouth as her body resisted the unaccustomed invasion. He kissed her, deeply, hungrily, and she forgot about the slight discomfort as his fingers tightened on her hip. He withdrew, then pressed again, and her inner muscles yielded to the pressure, welcoming him inside.

So this was what ruination felt like. A sweet, deep ache. Two bodies as close as they could possibly be.

She lifted her leg, wrapping it around the back of his thigh, and the change in angle made the sensations even better. This time, when he slid in, he stroked the spot inside her that his fingers had found before, and she bucked against him, eager to recapture that delicious feeling.

He increased the rhythm, sliding in and out with the perfect amount of friction, and Ellie closed her eyes as her head began to spin. Pleasure built, ratcheting higher and higher, and she clutched at his muscled back as she sought relief.

"Take your pleasure," he ground out hoarsely. "Steal it from me. That's it, beautiful girl. Take it. Now, Ellie. Come ."

Her body obeyed his command. Her inner muscles clenched down hard, and pleasure burst over her. It was overwhelming in the best possible way, as if she were being tumbled by a huge, unstoppable wave, and she let out a sob of relief.

With one last thrust, he withdrew from her body. Dazed, still bleary-eyed with her own climax, she watched him kneel between her legs and fist his cock. He pumped, his expression almost pained, and then with a groan he reached his own crisis. Hot, thick ropes of his seed lashed across her belly as he bent over her, supporting himself on one arm as his back bowed in ecstasy.

Ellie could barely move. Every limb felt like it weighed a hundred tons, as if she could sink down through the mattress, through the earth, but her skin was alive and glowing. She'd never felt better in her life.

Harry let out a long, satisfied sigh, and sat back between her legs. He pushed his hair back from his forehead, and his eyes roved over her naked body as if he were memorizing her curves for a future heist. He grabbed his shirt from the edge of the bed, and used the expensive material to wipe the evidence of his climax from her skin.

Ellie's stomach clenched at his gentle ministrations, and at the possessive, satisfied look on his face. She felt marked, somehow, as if what they'd done had left a permanent etching on her soul, an invisible version of the inked tattoos that sailors sometimes bore.

She shook her head to dispel the foolish notion. Her brain was too befuddled by the unexpected pleasure to think straight.

Harry slid off the bed and pulled back the sheets. "Get in. Unless you'd like to use the privy?"

She nodded, grateful for his consideration, and when she looked around for something to cover herself with, suddenly shy, he tossed her the coverlet that had been spread on the bed. The silky cashmere was as soft as a whisper, and he smiled as she wrapped it around her body.

"I suppose this is made from mermaid hair, or butterfly wings?" she teased.

"Why settle for second best?"

She collected her chemise from where he'd tossed it onto the floor, then went to investigate the adjoining bathing room. When she returned, feeling slightly less self-conscious in the chemise, he was lying in bed, the covers pooled at his waist. He looked thoroughly wicked and satisfied, and she slipped in beside him with a little shiver of delight.

His long fingers played with her curls, then stroked her cheek. " Now do you feel sleepy?"

Ellie yawned, perfectly on cue, and when he smiled, she had to resist the urge to reach up and trace those outrageous dimples.

"A little bit," she admitted. "Your plan to tire me out has worked."

He lay down and turned to face her on the pillows, and she shook her head with a rueful smile. "I don't even know your real name."

"‘What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.'"

"Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet ," she said, identifying the quote. "That's an easy one."

He traced her eyebrow with the tip of his finger. "Do you know, some scholars argue that even Shakespeare was a fraud. He stole ideas from other sources. A few even claim another playwright wrote his works—or maybe a whole group of people."

His finger moved to her nose, running the length of it and back up. "But does it matter? Those plays have given audiences pleasure for hundreds of years. They entertain. They console. If the name of the man—or woman—who created them is wrong, who cares?"

"I know what you're doing," she said sleepily. His lazy touch was making her drowsy. "But names are important, especially in the ton . They show connections and relationships with other people. They prove how well we know a person, how formal we are with them. Addressing someone by their title is very different to using their surname. And using their Christian name, or a nickname, shows a closeness, a familiarity. I can be Miss Law, or Eleanor, or Ellie, depending on who I'm with."

"I work with Miss Law." He traced her top lip and she wrinkled her nose. "She's a formidable specimen. An excellent investigator."

"And Eleanor?"

"Ah. Eleanor is wallflower with a stubborn streak. I met her the night of the Chessingtons' ball. She needs to learn to live a little."

"And what about Ellie?"

His dimples made an appearance. "Ellie's my partner in crime. A wicked siren, impossible to resist."

She shook her head, denying the description, even as it secretly warmed her heart.

"Knowing someone's name feels like you have a little bit of them, somehow. Do you know, the ancient Greeks thought a person could achieve a kind of immortality by having their name spoken aloud, long after they were dead."

He caught her hand and placed it flat on his chest. His heart thumped, strong and steady, beneath her palm.

"The heart that beats in this body is the same, whether you call me Harry, or Henri, Enrico, or Charles King."

She shook her head, amused by his logic, but too tired to think of a counter-argument. "You were wrong about people living up to their names. Willingham's wife is called Cassandra. If she was named after the oracle in Greek mythology, she should have been able to predict the theft of her diamonds."

His lips curved. "I didn't say it was a perfect system. Only a general rule."

"Speaking of rules, do you really have your own set for thieving?"

"I do. Rule number one I've mentioned before. It's never steal something from a man that he cannot afford to buy back . Rule number two is never rob an honest man ."

"A thief with morals?" she snorted. "Isn't that a little contradictory?"

"Life's contradictory."

"Fair enough. Tell me the others."

"Hugo mentioned rules three and four at Willingham's. Rule number three is never go anywhere without a weapon ."

"And rule number four is never mix theft with seduction ." She smiled. "I remember that one."

"Which is closely related to rule number five," he continued. " When it comes to women, jobs, and duels—one at a time."

"You told me rule number six yesterday," she said. " Always talk to the servants. "

He tapped her playfully on the nose. "Very good, Miss Law. You've been paying attention. Rule number seven is if it looks too good to be true, it probably is. And the final rule, rule number eight, is what you take, you sell. What you're given, you keep ."

Ellie yawned again. She was losing the battle against sleep, despite wanting to stay awake and talk.

"Those all sound very sensible. Can you add to the list, if you want?"

"Of course. It's an ongoing project."

He pulled the coverlet up over her shoulder and gathered her into his arms. Ellie tensed for a moment, unused to being held in such a way. She hadn't slept in a bed with another person since she, Daisy, and Tess had snuggled up together beneath the blankets at Hollyfield as girls, giggling and whispering beneath the covers.

No, that was wrong, she remembered sleepily. She and Ellie had kept Tess company at Wansford Hall two years ago, on the fateful night the old duke, Tess's first husband, had died on their wedding night and left Tess a wealthy, virginal widow.

This was a far more pleasant occasion.

The heat of Harry's naked body warmed her, and she slowly relaxed into his embrace, pressing her nose into his shoulder and inhaling the intoxicating musky scent of his skin.

A thousand thoughts jostled for attention in her brain. She was a virgin no more, technically ruined in social terms, but she couldn't seem to dredge up an ounce of regret. Even if she never married, never found another man to share such intimacies with, she'd always have this one, perfect night to remember.

Her eyes fluttered closed, but as she drifted off, she was sure she heard Harry whisper, " What you're given, you keep. "