Page 41 of This Earl of Mine

“Plans.”

“For what?”

He tried to ignore the heady scent of her perfume as she came closer. “Plans for a submarine,” he said, his throat suddenly dry.

Her eyes widened. “Really? Let me see.”

She placed her hands flat on the desk and leaned over to get a better look, unwittingly providing him with a magnificent view of her cleavage.

A gentleman would have politely averted his gaze, but Benedict rarely behaved like a gentleman these days. He bit back a moan and tried to forget those wonderful moments of madness in O’Meara’s library, when he’d put his mouth to those pert little mounds. He’d beensoclose to—

She turned the paper to study it the right way up, and her nose wrinkled in concentration. Ben leaned back in his chair and watched her.

Since the war, he’d developed a new appreciation of such simple pleasures. On the boat back from Belgium, after Waterloo, he’d made a promise to himself that he would seize as many moments of happiness as he could. He’d never take them for granted again. In a strange way,it was his memorial to all those who’d lost their lives. He owed it to them to do all the things that they could not. To enjoy life to the utmost, to taste it. Toliveit.

The feel of the sun on his face was all the sweeter now for having been hard-won; he’d come so close to never seeing another sunrise. He appreciated the grey drizzle, the astonishing greenness of the fields, the relentless bustling optimism of the metropolis, everyone so intent on their lives, the thrust of commerce, the urgent yells of the street vendors. He savored the first sip of his morning coffee, the yeasty taste of fresh bread.

And he savored the woman in front of him.

He’d endured months of abstinence during the war, eons without the soft touch of a female. He’d rarely accepted the dubious attentions of the camp followers; he’d feared infection more than he’d craved the momentary release, so he’d made do with his own hand and his imagination. Since his return to England, he’d spent a few evenings with women, but while they’d satisfied his physical demands, they’d left his heart and mind untouched.

But here was a beautiful, infuriating woman, in his rooms. In his life. It was springtime, a time of hope and renewal, and the world was coming alive again.Hewas coming alive again, as if the emotions that had been deadened during the war were being coaxed forth by her presence.

A profound sense of gratitude swept through him. He wanted to get on his knees and glory in the miracle of having survived. He wanted to carry her through into his bedroom, throw her down on his bed, and show her just how wonderful it was to be lusty, healthy, and alive. His body throbbed in definite agreement, and he found himself calculating the number of steps to the bedroom. Mentally unbuttoning and unhooking.

Georgiana Caversteed Wylde, however, was completely oblivious to the heated direction of his thoughts. She was far too engrossed in the hand-drawn cross section in front of her. Benedict bit back a wry smile. No doubt she’d grasp the technicalities of it far better than he could. She presumably knew her way around all manner of seafaring vessels, what with owning her own shipping line.

He suppressed a sigh and willed the ache in his groin to subside. Work before pleasure. His mantra.

“The Admiralty have intercepted several plans to rescue Bonaparte since he was placed on St. Helena,” he said. “Some of ’em more harebrained than others. One included the crew of a notorious privateer named theTrue Blooded Yankeeinvading the island from Brazil. Cockburn believes Bonaparte plans to travel to the United States, where his brother Joseph now lives, should a rescue attempt be successful.”

Georgie’s captivating grey eyes met his, and he fought to keep track of the conversation in the face of the distracting length of her eyelashes. This close, he noticed she had two little freckles on the bridge of her nose.

“How extraordinary,” she said.

Concentrate, Wylde,he reminded himself. He tapped the plans in front of her. “This suggests our friend O’Meara is involved in something similar.”

Chapter 22.

Georgie studied the technical drawings in front of her and shook her head in amazement. “These are incredible.”

The plans they had stolen from O’Meara showed the design for a boat—or rather, a submersible vessel—of about twenty feet in length. The hull was divided into three chambers, with a central section for the operator and controls, and two end sections that could be filled with water or air as ballast to sink or rise. Despite her extensive knowledge of ships, she’d never seen anything quite like it. The revolutionary concept made her heart beat faster.

“Who designed this? And what did Admiral Cockburn say when you showed him?”

Wylde smiled at her evident enthusiasm. “He wasn’t best pleased, as it happens because he’s seen these plans before. They were stolen from the Admiralty about a year ago.”

Georgie blinked. “The Admiralty is developing a submarine?”

“Theywere, when we were at war with France.”

He indicated the seat behind her, and Georgie sat, then leaned forward, eager to hear the story.

“Around fifteen years ago, France paid an American inventor named Robert Fulton to develop a submarine to use against us,” he said. “He did so, but the Treaty of Amiens in 1802 put an end to the war. When hostilities resumed a year later, the French had lost interest in the project, but our own Admiralty had taken note. The government was terrified Napoleon would invade, and they thought Fulton’s innovations could help derail that, so they brought him over to our side.”

Georgie raised her brows. “Very sneaky.”

“All’s fair in love and war. Fulton moved to London and signed a contract with Prime Minister Pitt and Lord Melville, First Lord of the Admiralty, to attack fleets using his ‘submarine bombs.’ By October 1805, he’d actually succeeded in blowing up a brig with this ‘torpedo’ system.”

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