Chapter 3
“Who is in the way?” Benedict snapped as the carriage jolted to a halt. “What the devil is the delay?”
The journey north had been long and tedious, and he was already behind the schedule he had set for himself, thanks to one of the horses being lamed on a loose cobblestone in London. He had no desire to experience another delay in arriving at his destination.
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” the driver called down, hesitant, “but there is… a lady in the road.”
“A lady? What sort of lady would be wandering about on a country road?” Benedict glowered at the watch he pulled from his waistcoat. It was already five minutes past eight, and his scowl deepened.
He had intended to arrive at Frostmore at eight o’clock precisely. He despised being late, even if he was the only one counting the minutes. He tucked the watch back into his pocket and leaned out the window to address the driver. “What is the lady doing? Does she need assistance?”
The driver hesitated, his voice subdued, almost incredulous. “Pardon, Your Grace, but… she appears to be assisting… a tortoise.”
“A tortoise? You cannot be serious.” Benedict snorted in disbelief, thrusting open the carriage door and dismounting to see for himself.
Sure enough, a young woman crouched in the center of the road, her skirts gathered neatly as she coaxed along the slowest of creatures.
She was smaller than he, with soft brown hair and striking green eyes, her full lips set in a determined pout.
Attractive certainly—but whatever flicker of appreciation stirred was swiftly extinguished by irritation.
“What are you doing, Miss?”
“As your driver said, I am helping the tortoise across. You will have to be patient.”
Benedict was mildly surprised to hear her speak in the soft, cultured tones of a noble lady. He had thought her a well-dressed commoner from the way she crouched in the road beside the tortoise in question.
Benedict’s brow furrowed. “You are aware that you are obstructing the road? Hindering travelers who have far better things to do, and places they must be?”
He had expected the low growl of his voice to cause her to shrink away, perhaps lower her head in contrition as she vacated the path. Instead, she merely arched a brow, her lips curving in the faintest of smiles.
“As it happens, sir, I am quite aware. But the tortoise cannot be hurried, poor thing. I cannot abandon him to be crushed beneath carriage wheels, nor to be trampled by a careless horse. Therefore, you will have to be patient.”
Benedict let out a sharp huff. “It is a tortoise.”
“Indeed.” Her smile widened, cool and edged with mockery. “Tortoises are said to live for centuries. Imagine surviving a hundred years only to meet one’s end beneath a carriage wheel. What a humiliating epitaph.”
Benedict’s jaw tightened; he caught himself grinding his teeth and forced his expression into a mask of composure. “I am already five minutes late for my destination. I have no wish to be detained further.”
“Are you now?” Her tone was mild, but her eyes gleamed with provocation. His fingers twitched with the urge to seize her by the arm—or shake some proper respect into her, which was quite unusual for his typically composed self.
“Yes. In fact, I intended to arrive at precisely eight o’clock,” he ground out.
“And it is already five past. So you will not arrive by eight in any case, and five minutes more or less can make no difference.”
“I do not like being made tardy. To be hindered by a mere animal is intolerable.”
“You will survive, good sir.”
The plain address, so baldly dismissive, struck him almost as sharply as her words.
The retort landed so squarely that Benedict very nearly choked on his indignation.
There was no reply he could give that would not make him appear a greater fool.
With a sharp huff of frustration, Benedict turned on his heel and strode back to his carriage.
“Driver,” he said curtly as he climbed inside, “proceed the moment the way is clear.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Benedict sank back against the seat, his jaw tight.
It was another fifteen minutes before the wheels creaked into motion once more. By then, thunder was already muttering on the horizon, the first cold drops of rain striking against the carriage roof.
“God’s blood, this is the most frustrating, tiresome debacle… two hours late…” Benedict bit back another curse as he stumbled out of the carriage and narrowly avoided a muddy puddle in the courtyard of Frostmore Manor. The time on his pocket watch read twelve minutes past ten. It was intolerable.
What an impression on my first day as the Duke of Frostmore! If my uncle were still alive, he would have called it a failure of discipline, not circumstance.
Benedict’s jaw tightened. He did not need the man’s voice in his ear to know the verdict.
He might have liked to lay the blame squarely on the wild woman with the tortoise, but honesty compelled him to admit the weather was the greater culprit.
The rain had washed out part of the road, forcing a detour; twice the wheels had sunk so deeply into muck they had nearly been lost altogether.
Even now, though the worst of the storm had passed, a thin drizzle still hung in the air, dampening his coat and slicking the cobblestones beneath his boots.
At least he had finally arrived. Benedict strode toward the door, only for his mood to sour further when he realized no one stood waiting to receive him. Surely the sound of carriage wheels on stone had been heard.
He was almost to the door when a series of high-pitched yipping sounds broke the quiet. Benedict turned just as two small, fluffy, brown, and white blurs barreled around the corner of the house, directly toward him.
A second later, the blurs resolved into two Pomeranians, teeth bared in snarls that might have looked ferocious if the dogs themselves had not been both tiny and well-groomed. Benedict huffed in exasperation. His uncle’s third wife had always been fond of the little dogs. “Foolish beasts…”
His muttering turned into a growl as the first dog, then the second, fastened onto his ankles. “Get off! Cease at once! Release me. Sit, I say!”
The dogs continued to nip and claw at his ankles. Benedict swore and hurried up the steps, shaking them loose just as the great door swung open to reveal the butler.
“Your Grace!” the butler exclaimed, aghast. “I am so terribly sorry.”
“Don’t just stand there. Remove these beasts from my boots at once.”
Between them, his driver, the butler, and the accompanying footman at last managed to pry the dogs from his ankles.
The footman scooped both yapping creatures into his arms and bore them off, no doubt to return them to their mistress.
Benedict glanced down at the fresh gouges in the leather of his boots, his jaw tightening, before he leveled his scowl upon the butler.
“What is the meaning of this madness? First, no one is at hand to receive the master of the house. Then I am set upon by a pair of ill-bred animals that ought to have been properly leashed.”
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace.” The butler was actually perspiring, his expression disconsolate.
“We had not expected you so late. We feared you had stopped on the road for the night. As for the dogs, Her Grace has always permitted them the run of the place. None imagined they might… well, that they might mistake Your Grace for an intruder.”
“Utterly unacceptable.” Benedict’s voice was clipped, the words like steel. “This is my household now, and I will not tolerate such chaos.”
“Yes, of course, Your Grace.” The butler bobbed his head anxiously. “It will not happen again.”
“Very well.” Benedict exhaled through his nose, his irritation scarcely dimmed. “See that my luggage is brought up to my quarters. For the present, show me to my study and have a proper repast sent there. I shall refresh myself before speaking with the dowager.”
“As you wish, Your Grace.” The butler bowed and hurried to lead the way.
The study was on the second floor, in the private family wing of Frostmore. The butler bowed to him at the door, then turned and made his way back downstairs, presumably to collect a tray from the kitchens. Benedict watched him go with a frown.
He would have preferred Matthias at his side—his London butler’s competence was never in doubt—but Matthias remained behind to oversee his town estate. This one would either rise to the same standard or be replaced.
With that settled in his mind, Benedict turned the doorknob and stepped into his study, prepared at last to assume the duties of Frostmore.
Then he stopped short.
Incredulous shock swept through him at the sight before him: a woman lounged in his chair, her bare feet planted brazenly on his desk, a book open in her lap.
“You again.” His voice was cold as steel. “What are you doing here?”
“Me?” She looked up, entirely unbothered, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I live here. And you are…?”
“I am Benedict Straton, the new Duke of Frostmore.” His gaze swept over her with cutting disdain. “No one thought to warn me I would find a half-wild woman nesting in my study.”
“Ah, Mr. Straton,” she said sweetly, closing the book with a snap. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Not Mr. Straton.” He strode forward, every inch of him rigid with authority. “Your Grace. You will use my proper title, as respect requires. I have not given you leave to dispense with it.”
Her brows arched, her smirk deepening. “Whoever you are, Your Grace, you look rather less than graceful. You look so bedraggled that one might mistake you for a servant caught in the rain. A gardener, perhaps.”
The urge to snarl at her was almost uncontrollable. Benedict mastered his anger with significant effort. “I cannot imagine what you would look like were you caught in the rain and assaulted by a pair of yapping, vicious little mongrels, as I was.”