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 rich are you?” 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.”

Her heart twisted painfully. Father had always smelled of tea leaves and sandalwood, like fragrant pencil shavings. Being subtle about it, she leaned closer to Benedict and took a surreptitious sniff. He smelled gorgeous. Of the sea, the sun, the earth. Like she imagined the breeze from a Mediterranean island might smell as it wafted over the sea, a clean, masculine version of rosemary and pine, with a delicious salty tang of skin beneath. She groaned silently as her knees turned to jelly.

“This place always reminds me of that children’s rhyme,” she said. “You know, the one that goes: ‘Sugar and spice and all things nice. That’s what little girls are made of.’”

He nodded. “I know it. Little boys are made of slugs and snails and puppy dogs’ tails. Hardly flattering. There’s a second verse too. ‘Ribbons and laces and sweet pretty faces, that’s what young women are made of.’”