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Crying in front of him was unthinkable. The ultimate humiliation.

Sophronie still wore her bloodstained gown, although she’d tossed her soiled gloves and spencer into a corner. At some point, a diligent servant had removed the ruined items. Her bonnet and reticule lay on the chair near the door where she’d dropped them upon entry.

“Have ye eaten?” Waycross continued to linger.

“No.” She shook her head. Loose tendrils of hair swung near her right cheek. “I’m not hungry.”

“Ye’ll need yer strength to nurse yer father back to health, lass.” Those severe black eyebrows lashed together. “I’ll have a bowl of cock-a-leekie soup sent up.”

In the months she’d been acquainted with the duke, Sophronie had never known Waycross to take no for an answer. His highhandedness should’ve raised her ire, but her reserves were depleted. She didn’t have the strength to argue with him.

Instead, she said, “Cock-a-leekie soup?” The name sounded highly suspicious. “What’s in it?”

Cockroaches? Eels? Some other manner of awfulness?

Was this a mean trick, just when she’d started to let her guard down around him?

Waycross grinned, and the sight so flummoxed her, Sophronie stared, mouth slack. The transformation from gruff, hard-planed features into devastating masculine good looks left her speechless. And breathless, if she were wholly forthright.

No wonder he didn’t smile often. Every woman within view would turn into a cow-eyed nincompoop.

“It’s no’ but chicken soup.” He scratched his nose. “The best ye’ve ever eaten, I’ll wager.” Eyeing her stained gown, he asked, “Have ye been shown yer chamber yet?”

She shook her head. “No. I couldn’t leave my father.”

“Lass, I’ll sit with him. Ye go change. Ye’ll feel better for it.”

“No, I cannot—” How could he possibly think she could leave her father?

The duke held up his palm, silencing her protests. “It’s next door, on the right. I’ve had bathwater sent up. Go freshen yerself, change out of yer soiled garments, and don somethin’ comfortable. Afterward, I’ll have a meal brought up to ye here, and ye will eat. Ye need to keep yer strength up. I’ll no’ have ye becomin’ ill too. I dinna need two invalids to care for.”

His brogue had thickened into a tantalizing tenor, and she couldn’t be certain if a teasing lilt colored his last words or if his complaint was sincere.

Nevertheless, his grace was right, and she couldn’t begrudge him his justified concern. Papa was not the duke’s responsibility. He was hers. She’d do all within her means to stay well and care for her father. And pray he made a swift and complete recovery.

Sophronie glanced toward the door, uncertainty about being away from her father vying with the desire to be rid of her bloodstained gown.

Could she bathe and return within twenty minutes?

Mayhap less because she wouldn’t wash her hair, just plait it?

Yes. Yes, she could.

Slowly, she rose and reluctantly released her father’s hand.

She drew in a deep breath to steady the fluttering in her stomach and unease causing her heart to beat an irregular rhythm. Shadows filled the corners of the room, foretelling the sun’s setting.

Waycross sauntered to the fireplace and opened an embossed tin. He withdrew flint, steel, and tinder. After igniting a spark to light the spill, he touched the narrow twisted paper to a candle in a nearby sconce. Blowing out the spill, he lifted the candle from its gilded resting place then circled the chamber, lighting candles with the ease of someone accustomed to doing the task.

Sophronie had never taken him to be a coddled dandy, and he likely performed many menial tasks most gentlemen of the ton she’d been introduced to wouldn’t consider doing for themselves.

Never had she imagined she’d ever owe a debt of gratitude to the Duke of Waycross or that she’d be a guest in his home. A forced guest, but nevertheless, a guest. He’d proved much more charitable toward her than she deserved.

“You will send for me if he awakens or if there is any change?” She swept several strands of hair that had worked free of her chignon behind her ear.

“Aye.” Waycross nodded. “Bathe and change. I’ll let ye ken if yer father so much as snores.”

A hollow rendering of a smile bent her mouth. “I shall be back within the quarter hour.”

Just as she finished speaking, Doctor Dargavel bustled through the doorway. His astute gaze traveled to Waycross.

“Miss Slater is goin’ to bathe and change,” Waycross offered by way of an explanation.

“We have things well in hand, Miss Slater.” The doctor placed his battered bag on the foot of the bed. “Tend to yerself. Ye’re nae good to yer father if ye fall ill too.”

“So the duke has informed me.” With a final perusal of Papa, she swept from the room, anxious to return as hastily as feasible.

Would she and her father be returning to Virginia at the end of the month? Should she send word to someone in London? There were so many details to see to if they remained in Scotland longer than expected.

She gave herself a mental shake. All of those concerns could wait until Papa awakened.

Upon overhearing the doctor’s muffled voice filtering through the open doorway, she paused mid-stride.

“I dinna like the fact that he hasna awakened yet, Yer Grace. It doesna bode well.”

Looking over her shoulder, she met the duke’s sympathetic gaze before he firmly shut the door.