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 of Salamanca, 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. And he’d love 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 grand pension. 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.”