Stop.
Benedict could not let it go on. He had to focus on the task at hand.
“That is all for now,” he declared, slamming the last of his ledgers shut. “You may leave. Furnish me with a copy so that I will have one at my London residence.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
The steward’s relief was obvious. He let out a quiet sigh and left the room. As soon as the door shut behind him, Benedict leaned back to stare at the ceiling. It was not the kind of activity he enjoyed since he thrived on productivity. He should always see results. He must always be in control. However, these days, he allowed Miss Dawson to infect him with her chaos. He could not forget when—
Never mind.
He took his list out of his coat pocket and carefully unwrapped it. He went over his neat list of goals, muttering the words until he felt calm again. But this time, reading them was filled with doubt, something that had never happened before.
There is a first time for everything.
Assume the dukedom and restore its finances.He had accomplished this and was working on improving Frostmore, and there seemed to be progress. Still, he was not completely satisfied, especially because he could not claim his inheritance until a well-known vixen was married and out of his life.
Secure a suitable marriage to a woman of rank and reason.He had not really worked on this. If he had to make a list of the women he was considering, he might never marry. Rank and reason rarely came together, as far as he had seen.
Produce a legitimate heir.This was not possible at all, given that the previous goal was yet to be crossed off the list.
Gain an active seat in the House of Lords.He wanted it not for power. Not really. What he was really after was control and security. All right. Who was he fooling? He wanted it because his uncle had wanted it from him.
Create a written will and succession plan.
Maintain strict personal discipline—body, mind, routine.He supposed that he was doing well here. He was disciplined, but sometimes, it could be exhausting.
Never let a woman make me lose my composure.
A long, furious silence followed that one. He reread the words to torture himself, for they were a brutal lie. Anastasia Dawson had not just made him lose his composure more times than he could count, but she had dismantled him. He needed to forget about her and find a life partner who possessed rank and reason, before all he could pick up about himself were pieces.
