Page 16

Balston House Library

9 August 1810—nearly midnight

Sophronie ought to be exhausted after only sleeping fitfully in short increments and having stayed by her father’s bedside for two nights in a row. She was tired, but instead of slipping swiftly into the arms of Morpheus, her mind kept playing the humiliating scene at breakfast.

Did ye say Evan and Miss Slater have made a match? Why dinna anyone tell me there is to be a weddin’?

Unable to unwind and fall asleep, she’d decided a venture to the library in search of a book was just the thing. Something fusty, boring, and sure to make her drowsy. Perhaps an encyclopedia of agriculture maps and charts or a historical guide to bricklaying, stone masonry, and plastering.

Either was sure to have her dozing off within half an hour at most.

A book on animal husbandry, on the other hand, would keep her up again for a third sleepless night. That wouldn’t do at all. She needed her wits about her. Not only to speak with Papa about when they’d return to England to prepare for the trip home but also in case she had to cross words with his grace again.

It shouldn’t smart that the duke had been horrorstruck at the preposterous notion they were betrothed, but as pride had no gauge for sensibility, his undisguised shock did sting. Sophronie ordinarily didn’t give a sailor’s curse what others thought of her. She chalked her current sour mood and disgruntlement up to being overly tired, fretting about her father’s health, her head whirling with the issues their delay would cause, and being amid strangers.

The runner along the corridor muffled her bare feet as she sped along. She’d forgotten to pack her slippers and nightrobe but ironically not her breeches, riding boots, shirt, and jacket. For modesty’s sake, she’d thrown her coat over her nightgown, but she honestly didn’t expect to encounter anyone at this hour.

She shoved her loose hair over her shoulder. Rarely did she plait the waist-length strands before retiring. She didn’t like the ripples the braids left in her hair.

The castle had settled into slumber for the night. A comfortable contentedness and hominess filled the atmosphere. The sensation was unexpected in a structure as large and rambling as the keep.

The duke’s household kept country hours, and everyone appeared to be snuggled fast in their respective beds. No yellow light seeped from beneath the doors as, the candle holder held high, she maneuvered through the passages and stairway. She’d glimpsed the library on her hasty charge from the coach to Papa’s guest chamber that first day, else she’d not have known where it was in the labyrinth that was the Duke of Waycross’s home.

Rather than eerie or unnerving, she found the castle’s nocturnal creaks and groans oddly comforting. How many generations of Waycrosses had walked these passageways; grown up in these imposing rooms; laughed, cried, and celebrated on these impressive grounds?

What were their stories? Their loves? Their losses?

What was the story behind his grace’s aunts and grandmothers living with his family?

Sophronie was convinced there were intriguing tales there.

Her family history was a bit muddled and laid no claim to the aristocracy. Mama had been orphaned as an infant, and a kindly, childless couple had taken her in. Sophronie knew nothing about her mother’s family. Papa’s grandparents had immigrated from Germany to Virginia in 1717. They and his parents had died from yellow fever before Sophronie was born.

She’d like to have asked about the hunting course mentioned as she entered the dining room. Sophronie had competed in several races of that nature, but usually on her favorite horse, Cinnamon, in Virginia. If they were staying longer, she might be tempted to enter the contest and give the winnings to the duke’s family.

From what she’d overheard, the duchy’s finances weren’t entirely stable. She better understood Waycross not outbidding her for the mare at Tattersall’s now, and shame trotted her pointy heels across Sophronie’s shoulders. Once again, she’d misjudged the man whose burdens appeared to be weighty.

Upon reaching the library, she cast a slightly guilty look behind her. Thanks to a dose of laudanum, Papa had been sleeping soundly when she’d checked on him at ten. She might be overstepping her hosts’ hospitality by helping herself to a book, but no one had told her she couldn’t, either.

If she were caught, she would claim she wanted a book to read to her father. It was the truth. He’d already grown restless from his forced confinement, and a book might be just the distraction he needed to alleviate his boredom.

Aye, that is what Sophronie would do.

She’d pick out two books. No doubt Papa would enjoy her reading to him in the afternoons, though she prayed the doctor would give his permission for her father to travel in a day or two. Overstaying their welcome could become most uncomfortable.

Somehow, she didn’t think any of Waycross’s female relatives—heavens, there were ten of them—would begrudge her a tome even if she had excused herself from joining the family for the midday meal and dinner. After all, as she told them, Papa had needed her. As instinctive nurturers, women had a better understanding of such matters, and Sophronie was confident none of the women she’d met this morning begrudged her taking care of her father.

Or so she told herself, feeling yet again the heat of scorching mortification flaming her cheeks when she recalled this morning’s gaffe.

She and Waycross wedded, indeed.

Two more ill-suited people for matrimony had not walked the earth, in her opinion. What a colossal disaster such a union would be. The strife and contention would be intolerable.

The duke might very well take exception to her wandering his castle at night. Only, he’d been uncharacteristically polite these past two days. Rather than ease Sophronie’s mind, his benevolence made her wary. Or perhaps she’d so long been accustomed to disliking and distrusting the man, she didn’t know what to think when he wasn’t being troublesome and obnoxious.

Waycross’s interactions with his family were light, bantering, and astonishingly patient for the only male amongst a gaggle of energetic, slightly eccentric women. His grandmother’s mistaken assumption that she’d overheard Sophronie and the duke were betrothed had certainly brought conversations to a tumbling halt.

Not a sound echoed in the dining room for a full five beats of Sophronie’s hammering heart. Even the slack-jawed footman entering with fresh tea and the bug-eyed butler with a silver coffee pot in hand had gone still as Greek marble statues.