“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 inhischair, her bare feet planted brazenly onhisdesk, 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.”
“NotMr.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.”
