Page 11 of How to Win a Duke’s Heart

“Wake up, Papa. Please wake up.”

Her voice broke, and she swallowed hard against her grief and fear.

She couldn’t fathom life without her father—what it would be like to be totally alone in the world. No. No. I shan’t countenance it. She refused to consider he might not awaken and fully recover. She had no one else. He must get well.

“How is he, lass?”

Startled, for she hadn’t heard the duke’s approach, Sophronie gasped and turned her head in his direction.

Waycross stood silhouetted in the doorframe. His large form nearly filled the entry. Running a hand through his black hair, he wandered farther into the chamber. Generally, his presence agitated her, but at this moment, he brought with him an unexpected sense of comfort.

“Unchanged, I fear,” she said, wishing with all of her being she could say otherwise.

“I’m sorrier than I can say.”

Such genuineness underscored his words that Sophronie didn’t doubt his sincerity. Papa and Waycross had always got on. She was the one the duke couldn’t tolerate. After laying her father’s hand down and smoothing the sheet across his chest, she lifted a shoulder.

“It’s in no way your fault, Your Grace. In truth, I am solely to blame.”

She swallowed against the fresh tightness closing her throat. Pain scissored her heart as guilt burrowed around in her chest. She was to blame.

If she hadn’t gone off half-cocked, if she’d considered her actions before responding, if she’d listened to his calls to stop, Papa wouldn’t be lying here. He wouldn’t have been in the path of the frightened horse, and he wouldn’t have been trampled by the frenzied animal.

Waycross didn’t dispute her self-castigation, and that made Sophronie feel all the more guilty. Unfortunately, hind-sighted remorse was wholly unhelpful.

“Thank you for rescuing me, Your Grace. I shudder to think what would’ve happened if you hadn’t.”

He’d been all hard, sinewy muscles and masculine power when, in one svelte movement, he’d scooped her into his iron-like arms as if she weighed no more than a newborn lamb and pelted away from the firework.

She studied his face, taken aback at the angry red welts on his left jaw, cheek, and ear.

“You were burned,” she whispered, dismayed that another person had also been hurt because of her headstrongness.

He lifted his broad shoulders, causing the fabric encompassing them to pull taut. “Och, ’tis nothin’. I’ve experienced worse from a Guy Fawkes bonfire.”

“I’m truly sorry.” Remorse and chagrin kicked a vicious, unrelenting staccato against the wall of her chest.

Hands behind his back, the duke stood on the opposite side of the bed, commanding but not intimidating. He’d changed into a casual fawn-colored jacket like those the villagers wore.

“My mother, grandmothers, and sisters are all prayin’ for his recovery. Ye’ll find they are a prayin’ lot. There’s a chapel in one of the other wings. If ye wish to visit, ye have only to ask, and someone will show ye the way.” A tinge of a smile bracketed his mouth. “Grandmother Gordonstone also regularly calls the Almighty’s wrath and Odin’s curses down upon those who vex her.”

Did he jest?

Sophronie would like to meet this feisty woman.

As if he’d read her mind, Waycross cut a wry glance to the open door. “She boasts Norse ancestors —Viking to be precise.”

Sophronie hadn’t been introduced to Waycross’s family yet. They must think her an uncouth, ungrateful, ill-mannered colonial for following the men carrying her father straight up the stairs without so much as a hello.

“Please express my gratitude for all they have done and my apologies for not having introduced myself.”

She met the duke’s eyes.

For once, they weren’t blue-gray tumult, shooting angry daggers at her. If she didn’t know better, she might’ve believed compassion and empathy shimmered in their depths. It must be the afternoon lighting playing tricks on her eyesight. His grace had never regarded her with anything but condescension and disparagement.

“I know I should thank them myself,” she said, placing her hand upon her father’s. “But I cannot bear to leave my father. I’m afraid that if I do…”

Emotion clogged her throat and choked her words. Words she couldn’t bear to speak lest saying them aloud somehow would make what she most feared a reality. Her lower lip quivered, and she clamped it between her teeth to stop the tremors.