“The list was never meant to prove anything to anyone but myself. These aremygoals. I have worked for them, and I mean to see them all accomplished.” His gaze cut to each of them in turn, hard and unyielding.
The urge to glance down at the familiar script tugged at him, but he needed no reminder. He knew every item by heart. And though he would never admit it aloud, he took a measure of satisfaction in knowing at least one task was done—secure the dukedom.
With his title secured, he needed only to stabilize the finances, assume his seat in the House of Lords, and find a worthy wife to provide him with an heir. Coupled with a strict regimen of discipline and duty, he might see every goal fulfilled by thirty-five at the latest.
The prospect pleased him. Order, accomplishment, and control were not mere ambitions but the very foundation of his life. Obstacles might rise before him, but they would not turn him aside.
“I have my goals,” Benedict said, his voice low and unwavering. “And I will allow nothing—andno one—to stand in my way.”
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.”
“Atortoise? 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 crushedbeneath 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.”
