Page 10 of The Sound of Seduction (Miracles on Harley Street #4)

A n hour before they were supposed to leave for Silvercrest Manor for Alfie and Bea’s wedding, Wendy stood in the center of her chambers in the new townhouse.

Her fingers fumbled with the last few buttons of the gown.

She had to try it on again before she could muster the courage to face people in it.

And by people, she meant him , of course. Not that she’d ever admit that.

The rose-gold silk dress had arrived earlier that morning, carried in by the milliner’s assistant with so much care that she half expected it to waltz into the room on its own.

Now, it hung awkwardly from her shoulders, elegant in its design yet stubborn where it refused her reach.

Twisting to catch sight of her back in the small, spotted looking glass only made the situation worse.

She jerked forward, grabbing the back of the chair nearby to steady herself.

Her grip wasn’t enough. The chair tipped, her stockinged foot caught on the hem of the gown, and with a gasp, she landed in an undignified heap on the rug.

For half a heartbeat, she just lay there, the tight bodice of the gown pressing against her ribs, her pride bruised worse than any bone might have been.

The scent of dusty lavender sachets from the corner chest mixed with the sharp tang of floor polish, grounding her in the absurdity of the moment.

She wanted to laugh, but the sting of humiliation crept up faster, pooling hot behind her eyes.

Wendy bit her lip instead and pushed herself upright, brushing silk out of the way to inspect her ankle. Fine. At least she’d kept that intact.

The voices came faintly at first, muffled by the closed door but unmistakable in their urgency. Her heart lodged in her throat as footsteps thundered up the stairs.

“Wendy? Are you all right?” Pippa’s voice shot through the crack under the door, followed immediately by Nick’s deeper tone.

Before Wendy could respond, the knob turned.

She scrambled to her feet, the half-fastened gown slipping down one shoulder as the door burst open.

Pippa and Nick stood framed in the doorway, their expressions painted with concern that quickly turned quizzical.

She barely had the chance to tug the gown into place when another figure loomed behind them.

“Oh no,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else.

Andre’s unmistakable baritone was followed by a clipped phrase she didn’t catch, and then—there he was.

Prince Stan stepped into view, taller than she remembered and uncomfortably breathtaking in his easy elegance.

Why had he already come to pick Andre up and begin their journey to the country?

The room felt suddenly stifling, the scent of lavender overwhelming with the warmth of too many bodies in such a small space.

Wendy’s face burned hotter than the midday sun.

She folded her arms over the drooping neckline and dipped her eyes, erring on the side of fervent pleas that the floor might swallow her whole.

Wendy didn’t even reach the bed on her own terms. Andre’s insistent hand on her shoulder pushed her down until she sat perched on the edge, her skirts puffing awkwardly around her. Before she could regain any semblance of control, Pippa’s sharp gasp struck her like a slap.

“Oh no, is the gown torn?” Pippa’s horror was palpable, her hands flapping as if she could somehow smooth the fabric from across the room.

“I think the gown has survived,” Andre said, kneeling as if addressing some battlefield wound. “Her ankle is my concern. Did you see how she winced?”

“My ankle is fine!” Wendy blurted, her voice high-pitched and slightly wild, but it was already too late.

With infuriating efficiency, Andre flipped the hem of her dress up to her shin, exposing her bare ankle to the room. She hadn’t put the stockings on to try her dress on in the privacy of her own chambers.

Yes, a judgment error.

The cool air prickled along her skin, but the mortification burned hotter than anything she’d faced in years. Wendy’s hands shot to the fabric, trying to pull it back down. “Andre! Propriety?”

“She’s not fainting if she can still complain,” Nick quipped, lightly slapping Andre on the shoulder. “That’s a good sign.”

“I am sitting right here!” Wendy hissed, darting a glance at the prince.

Oh, he was looking—no, more staring —which was somehow worse.

His gaze wasn’t leering or even overtly inappropriate, but it was attentive, deliberate, and utterly unrelenting.

The intensity of it nearly sent her sliding off the bed, petticoats and all.

“Shh,” Andre said as if soothing a skittish horse. “If you keep wriggling, I won’t be able to check for a decreased range of motion.”

Pippa groaned, throwing her hands up. “And now she’s squirming! Wendy, if the bodice twists, I don’t think the modiste will forgive you.”

Andre ignored her protests entirely, one hand circling Wendy’s ankle with the effortless authority of someone who clearly thought decorum was optional. He prodded, tilted, and—oh heavens—pressed the tips of his fingers along the tendon in a way that made Wendy jump out of sheer indignation.

“That’s tender!” she snapped, the pitch of her voice climbing dangerously higher.

Andre seemed unbothered. “I didn’t say it wouldn’t be. No break, though. You’re lucky.”

“Lucky,” she repeated, the word strangled as her skirt slipped higher under Andre’s inspection. Only her petticoat shielded her from complete indecency, and even that felt woefully thin.

Nick crouched beside Andre, squinting at her ankle as if it might reveal some hidden truth. “Seems fine to me. No bruising yet, but you should keep off it.” His tone was firm, laced with concern he barely tried to hide.

“I told you, I’m fine,” Wendy snapped, yanking her foot back. The motion sent her skirt sliding dangerously high, and Nick’s face darkened as he muttered, “For crying out loud, Wendy,” yanking the fabric back down.

She flushed, opening her mouth for what promised to be a sharp retort, but yelped as Andre caught her heel mid-air, steadying it deftly. “Careful,” Andre said lightly, his grip secure but gentle as he glanced at Nick for approval.

Nick exhaled, a grudging nod acknowledging Andre’s effort. “Right. No sudden movements if you don’t want to make it worse—or take him down with you.” He gave Andre a pat on the shoulder, the gesture oddly fraternal, though his jaw remained tight.

From the corner of his eye, Nick seemed to have caught Stan watching.

The sheer casualness of the man’s gaze knotted something protective in Nick’s chest and Wendy could tell.

She knew what her brother was thinking even when he didn’t say It aloud.

When Nick shifted closer, subtly angling his body as a shield between Stan and Wendy, his hand hovered near her hem again, as if silently vowing there weren’t enough pairs of eyes in the world to justify leaving her vulnerable.

“You’ll twist it further,” Andre chastised, gripping her ankle firmly and pinning her in place. “For your own sake, Wendy, stop thrashing about like a trout out of water.”

“I’m not thrashing,” Wendy snapped, her cheeks burning anew. “And I’m perfectly fine! I don’t need your help.” Her voice wavered, and she swallowed hard, trying to steady it. But there it was—that awful lump rising in her throat as if her own body delighted in betraying her.

She sucked in a breath, determined to speak more forcefully, but the words tumbled out in a rush instead. “If I do twist my ankle, Andre, it won’t be because of this—it’ll be because I can’t dance at Alfie and Bea’s ball!”

“Why not?” Nick asked, his tone light, as if this entire spectacle wasn’t already unbearable enough.

“Can I dance? Have I ever learned how to dance any of the refined dances of nobility?” It had been one thing to skip and twirl to the merry strains of a fiddle at a rustic country gathering, but the ball would be another matter entirely.

Wendy flung her arms up in exasperation, the motion unrestrained and impulsive.

Dancing at a ball… and Prince Stan would be there to see her…

It wasn’t until the cool draft swept across her shoulders that she realized the full catastrophe of her outburst.

The gown—unfastened and hopelessly delicate—slid down her torso, pooling unceremoniously at her waist and leaving her clad in nothing but her chemise from the ribs up. A collective intake of breath filled the room, though Wendy’s own lungs appeared to stop functioning entirely.

For a horrible, frozen moment, she could do nothing but stare at the stunned faces around her.

Andre blinked at her, his focus mercifully shifting to the ceiling as his jaw tightened.

Nick, on the other hand, had the decency to whirl around so quickly he narrowly missed colliding with Pippa, who promptly shrieked, “The gown!”

The prince’s stare landed on her like a misplaced anvil, his brows rising high.

For one excruciating moment, his mouth hung ajar, a perfect picture of unpolished shock that turned her stomach into a knot.

She might as well have been a clumsy fawn, limbs askew, caught mid-somersault.

The realization struck her like a slap from a wet glove—this wasn’t a prince; this was just a man.

A very aware man. And she? She was now the embodiment of calamity, a spectacle he could neither unsee nor, apparently, look away.

Wendy’s senses returned in a rush, and she scrambled to snatch the dress back up, hauling the silk over her shoulders with shaking hands. Her fingers fumbled desperately to cover herself as she pressed the bodice tightly against her chest.

The silence that followed was deafening. Nick blinked at her, Andre hesitated mid-grip, and Pippa clamped a hand over her mouth, her eyes suspiciously bright as if stifling laughter.