The fact that he found her competency arousing was barely worth mentioning. He seemed to find everything about her—from her expressive grey eyes to the sly curl of her lip when she thought something was funny—arousing. Just being near her was an exercise in restraint.

He glared across the river at the barren, boggy opposite shore known as the Isle of Dogs in an attempt to ignore the pull of her. The air was foggy, the weak sun filtering through the clouds. He’d forgotten the damp chill of England in March. It was such a contrast to the searing heat of Spain, the harsh glare. He missed the warmth, but not the bullets flying at him. It was infinitely preferable to be standing here with this woman on his arm, chilled or not.

His overstimulated brain dutifully provided a hundred different ways in which he could warm her up. Very few of them required clothes.

She tugged on his arm. “My offices are in that building there, above the warehouse. Come on.”

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 the ton.” 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.