Page 48 of This Earl of Mine

He followed her toward the large red brick building, smiling at her enthusiasm.

“I come here every month to look over the books and discuss things with my business manager, Edmund Shaw.”

“Can’t he just bring the books to you?”

She smiled up at him guilelessly, and he felt the familiar tug in his groin. Blasted woman. Why couldn’t she have been ugly? And dull. And unavailable.

“He could, I suppose, but I love coming here. It makes me feel closer to my father. And besides, I don’t have to hide how good I am at figures here, as I do when I’m in theton.” She shook her head with a sigh. “Mother and Juliet don’t understand. They have no interest in the business. They just want to go to parties and routs.”

“And what do you want?”

She wrinkled her nose. “When I was younger, all I ever wanted to do was jump aboard one of our ships and sail away to see the world. I wanted to visit the Mediterranean, India, the Americas. Father and Pieter were always catching me trying to stow away in the hold.” She laughed. “I vowed that as soon as I was a widow, I would go on a grand tour, just as the men do. Venice, Madrid, Vienna.” Her face clouded. “I doubt Mother or Juliet could be persuaded to leave London, though. And adventures are no fun unless you have someone to share them with.”

Benedict bit back his instinctive response—that such a trip should be a honeymoon, with him.Impossible.They were too different. He spent his time in seedy backstreets among thieves and drunkards, murderers and pimps. A world of sweat and ale, sawdust and spit, vomit, mud, and blood. She was Grosvenor Square—bright, sparkling silver, unchipped china, rugs that weren’t threadbare and faded by the sun, warm wood polished with beeswax.

There would be no honeymoon. After the wedding, they would go their separate ways.

He forced a casual shrug. “You could still go once we’re officially married. You could find a companion to go with you.”

Another woman, he added silently. The thought of her sharing it with another man made his blood boil. He wanted to be the one she turned to with a breathless smile to point out some crumbling old ruin.

She nodded, blissfully unaware of his seething thoughts. “Yes, that’s exactly what I need. A partner in crime. I suppose you’ve seen quite a lot of Europe during your time in the army?”

Benedict hid a grimace. He’s seen battlefields, mainly. His tour of the Spanish peninsula had consisted of the sieges of Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz, the battles ofSalamanca, Pamplona, and Valencia. Then it had been a slog through France and Belgium culminating in the bloody fights at Quatre Bras and Waterloo last year.

Perhaps it would do him good to go back and see the same places not covered in dead men and horses, to see how the land was healing. Or maybe it would just bring back memories too painful to reexamine. He still had nightmares, odd moments when a particular sound or scent would plunge him right back into some hellish time he’d rather forget.

He shook his head. If he ever revisited those places, he’d make it his mission to replace the bad memories with good ones. Georgie would love Salamanca—the hilltop fortress and the great cathedral. Andhe’dlove kissing her senseless up against the sun-warmed walls until she was soft and pliant in his arms. He’d make love to her by the window of some grandpension. She could admire the view before he made her lose her mind…

He bit back a groan as his body reacted predictably to his heated visions. From the corner of his eye, he could see the tempting curve of her neck, the smooth line of her jaw. The coils of shimmering hair that made his fingers itch to unpin it. A red lust clouded his vision and a slow heat rose in his limbs. His throat tightened. He imagined her hair spread around her in waves, her naked body lifting, arching up toward him, the sounds she would make—little breathless gasps—as he drove into her.

“Benedict?”

What had she asked him? Oh yes, his travels.

“Mmm,” he managed hoarsely. “Yes, I’ve seen quite a bit of France and Spain, I suppose.”

He was saved from elaborating when she nodded to the sentry guarding the entrance to the warehouse. The man doffed his hat at her in recognition.

“Hello, George. Is Mr. Shaw here?”

“Just popped over to the Royal Ensign to get some lunch.” The sentry pointed to the public house a little farther down the wharf. “He’ll be back in a bit.”

She nodded and entered the enormous building, drawing Benedict in her wake.

Chapter 25.

Georgie watched Benedict inspect the vast warehouse with a swell of pride at his obvious admiration. The sight never failed to impress her either.

“My God, how richareyou?” he breathed, taking in the row upon row of neatly stacked shelves.

She couldn’t hide her smile at his plain-spokenness. No one had ever asked her that outright, although she was sure everyone had wanted to. Trust Benedict to go straight to the point. She decided on equal candor. “Well, I suppose you could say I’m extremely rich. If one were being vulgar about it.”

His smile was slow and melting. “There’s a lot to be said for vulgarity.” He stepped into the first aisle and bent to inspect a newly opened crate of tea leaves, and Georgie stole an appreciative glance at the way his breeches clung to his long thighs and outlined his taut rear. He was right; being vulgar definitely had its advantages.

She inhaled deeply, loving the combined scents that filled the air. The warehouse always smelled so wonderful, of spices and perfumes, lumber and tea. Aromas so seductive they conjured up all kinds of intoxicating, romantic images. She thrust her hand into the tea crate and let a handful of the wizened black leaves trickle through her fingers.

“You smell that? It’s a special kind of black tea flavored with bergamot oil. We sell it exclusively to Jacksons of Piccadilly.” She brought her palm up to her nose and sniffed appreciatively. “The oil comes from a fruit, the bergamot orange, which grows in Italy.”

---