Page 10 of How to Win a Duke’s Heart

Outside Glasgow, Scotland

Balston House—six hours later

Please, God. Please don’t let Papa die.

Sophronie sat on the edge of her father’s oversized bed. Picking up his limp hand, she fought back the hot tears smarting her eyes. Crying would change nothing and leave her gritty-eyed, woolly-headed, and more wretched than she already felt.

Her strong, healthy father lay motionless and as pale as the stark white bandages encircling his head. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth to stifle the animalistic cry clawing its way up her throat.

Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the leaded-glass windows, bathing the well-appointed room in a myriad of miniature rainbows. Typically, such a beautiful sight would’ve delighted Sophronie. Just now, she couldn’t summon the tiniest smile or even appreciate the Duke of Waycross’s magnificent castle.

She glanced around, taking in the twelve-foot-high ceiling, the egg-and-dart crown molding, and the luxurious, if outdated, heavy mahogany furnishings.

This was no house, despite the structure’s unpretentious name. Always fascinated with the past, she typically would’ve questioned Waycross about the keep’s history and construction, his ancestors, whether the castle was haunted, if battles had been fought upon his lands, and so much more.

But she’d barely spared him a word since her arrival, so concerned was she for her father.

George Slater hadn’t stirred at all.

Not when the Duke of Waycross’s men had carried him to the coach. Not on the agonizingly slow journey to the duke’s home. Not when Waycross’s footmen removed his clothing in exchange for a nightshirt—likely the duke’s—or even when the spry doctor examined him and tended Papa’s wounds.

Upon seeing Papa insensate on the ground, the duke had taken immediate command of the situation. He’d sent one of his men to fetch the physician, another to Balston House with orders for them to make rooms ready for Sophronie and her father, and…

She pressed two fingers to the bridge of her nose.

What else?

Sophronie’s mind was a complete muddle—a hazy fog shrouded her brain. She pressed her palm to her forehead and squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t clearly remember the rest of what had happened.

However, for the first time, she was eternally grateful for the duke’s imperiousness. He’d even thought to send a footman to the hotel where she and Papa had stayed last night in Glasgow to fetch their belongings. With his kindness and consideration, he’d ruined her illusion of him as an unbearable brute.

At least temporarily. No doubt Waycross would say or do something shortly to reinstate her opinion of him as a cantankerous dunderhead.

After Waycross had eased her down and they’d both rushed to her father’s side, her mind had gone oddly numb. There’d been so much blood. Papa’s blood. How could a person survive after losing that much blood? Even now, the memory made her want to retch, and she broke into a cold sweat as a wave of nausea tumbled her stomach over.

The next thing Sophronie knew, she’d been inside her father’s coach, pressing a neckcloth to his wound—the duke’s neckcloth. She didn’t recall Waycross untying the starched strip and stuffing it into her shaking hands.

Scrunching her nose, she sorted through what she did remember.

Someone said the firework explosion had startled nearby horses, and they’d bolted. One animal, wild with fear, had plowed into Papa and then accidentally stepped on him in the ensuing mayhem. In addition to the laceration on the left side of his head, Papa suffered cracked ribs, a bruised sternum and spleen, and a broken hand.

The kindhearted physician, Norton Dargavel, had taken her aside and gently explained, “I dinna ken if yer father has other internal injuries, Miss Slater. I canna detect any, but in cases such as this, one can never be certain. Hopefully, he awakens soon, and I can question him.” He skimmed his professional gaze over her father. “Undetected internal bleeding concerns me the most.”

He didn’t need to say such a scenario could be fatal. It was there, in his compassionate gaze and the gentling of his brogue.

Running her loving gaze over her father from his bandaged head to his feet tucked beneath a forest green and gold counterpane, Sophronie had puzzled her forehead.

“What should I do if he awakens, Doctor?”

She’d assumed the white-haired physician—with eyes so icy blue it was like looking into the brightest summer sky—would return to Glasgow.

He’d patted her shoulder in a grandfatherly fashion.

“Dinna fash yerself, lass. I’ll stay the night and look in on him every couple of hours.” He winked and closed his leather bag. “Nae one makes better Scotch pies than Mrs. Barnes. Pastry so flaky, ye’d swear ye’d gone to heaven.” He patted his paunchy belly. “And her marmalade would make a saint cry. It truly would.”

Sophronie angled her head to see the small brass clock atop the other nightstand. Had two hours passed since Doctor Dargavel had left her?

He’d be back soon then.