Page 12 of The Sound of Seduction (Miracles on Harley Street #4)

Stan knew the coach was ready, and the others would follow soon. They were all bound for Alfie and Bea’s wedding in Kent. But in this moment, no one seemed in a rush to move. Even as they all prepared to leave, something about Wendy held Stan captivated—tied to her.

Stan glanced at Wendy, his brow furrowing as her lips pressed together, her eyes cast downward. The faintest flush crept across her neck. She didn’t meet Andre’s gaze, nor, Stan noted, anyone else’s.

“You truly look…” Andre continued, his voice softening. “Beautiful. Like a lady in every sense of the word.” For once, the usual edge of jest was gone from his tone, and Stan felt a pang of unease, though he couldn’t say why.

“Do stop, Andre,” Wendy murmured, her sharp wit softened into something reluctant, shy even. “I’m neither a duchess nor a lady. This is merely my new carriage dress and a new spencer. Bea insisted I not disgrace her wedding in road dust.” She waved a hand, dismissive. “Nothing special.”

Stan shifted his stance, clenching his hands behind his back. Nothing special? She couldn’t have been more wrong. She looked… well, he wasn’t sure he had the words. Sophisticated. Lovely. And entirely unaware of it. There was a tight pull in his chest at the thought.

“You’re wrong about that,” Andre said, his grin fading into something kinder, gentler. He reached for her hand, lifting it to his lips with a lightness foreign to his usual antics. “You’ll turn heads at the ball,” he murmured. A beat passed before he added, softer still, “All grown up.”

If Wendy was still flustered, she hid it behind a faint smile, though Stan caught the way her fingers trembled just slightly as Andre released her hand.

The sight stirred something within him—a need, perhaps, to shield her from the attention she wasn’t sure how to bear.

He cleared his throat, stepping forward at last as Andre glanced his way, amusement flickering in his expression.

“That’s true,” Stan said, his voice steady, though his eyes lingered on Wendy. “He’s right.”

Wendy blinked at him, an unspoken question in her gaze, but she said nothing, only twisting the edge of her glove between her fingers.

Stan held her gaze for an instant longer before glancing back at Andre.

The room had grown quieter, but not any more comfortable.

Stan clasped his hands behind his back again, willing the tension from his posture.

The wedding ball would be long enough without Andre putting ideas in anyone’s head to woo Wendy before he had the chance.

But Stan didn’t share any of the brotherly affection for Nurse Wendy that Andre did.

Oh no!

She was a woman all grown up, that was for sure. Fresh and ripe.

Must. Not. Pick. This. Flower.

From his seat at the table, Prince Stan lowered the edge of his paper, though he didn’t speak.

His dark eyes lingered on her a second longer than polite, sparking a rush of awareness that flickered in her eyes.

She parted her lips as if to say something—anything—but Stan, as though sensing her thoughts, promptly raised the paper again, dismissing her words before they could find air because they weren’t alone. Oh, how he longed to be alone with her!

“Wendy,” Andre said silently. “About earlier—”

“My ankle is fine,” she said. “Thank you.”

“Not that.” Andre rubbed his neck like a green boy.

Stan narrowed his eyes.

“I didn’t know you couldn’t dance properly.” Andre winced when he said it.

Wendy stiffened and seemed to avoid looking in Stan’s direction. Yet he saw her over the newspaper’s edge. “I… I meant to learn,” she stammered, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, “but there never seemed to be time.”

“I can teach you.” Andre kicked an imaginary pebble on the Persian rug. “I’ve had formal lessons with my own sister.”

“In Florence?” she asked, eyes wide.

“Yes. There will be a cotillion for certain.” Andre said as he bent down. No! He bowed deeply. “May I, Miss Folsham?”

Wendy chuckled and let Andre lead her to the center of the drawing room, her hands resting lightly against Andre’s as he explained the steps of the cotillion. Her pale cream frock, simple yet fetching, fluttered as she curtsied, earning a crisp nod of approval from Andre.

Stan hated every moment of watching her take a dance lesson from Andre—it should have been him.

Yet, seated at the table, Stan held the newspaper aloft, though the print was nothing more than a jumble of meaningless black on white.

His jaw clenched as he tried to concentrate on the words, but every laugh Wendy released cut through him like the sharpest of swords.

He dared another glance above the paper.

Andre had positioned himself next to her now, one hand at her waist, the other guiding her arm in an invisible arc.

Wendy stumbled over a step, giggling as Andre steadied her, and the sound—her sound—ignited a chain of envy so fierce that Stan bit the inside of his cheek in frustration.

He was the royal in the room and yet, found himself relegated to the sidelines, watching helplessly as another man gleaned her smiles. Crushing the pages of the newspaper a bit too tightly, he cleared his throat, though none looked his way.

“Perfect, just like that,” Andre murmured, stepping nimbly back before bowing in exaggerated courtly form.

Wendy’s laughter was musical, her curtsy playful as she replied, “If only it were that easy. You make it seem effortless.”

“I assure you, it wasn’t always the case,” Andre countered, bringing her back into position for another pass. “I had plenty of lessons myself—often with my sister, who was forever telling me I lacked elegance.”

“Did you?” Wendy teased, tilting her head as if mocking disbelief.

“To hear her tell it, I was hopeless,” he replied with a grin. “Hopeless until she conceded I’d surpassed even her expectations. She always claimed I danced with her only because no other lady would suffer my missteps.”

Wendy chuckled. “You don’t seem so hopeless now. I think you’re quite good.”

Stan lowered the newspaper with a deliberate thud. “Quite good,” he repeated, his tone laced with a shadow of something unreadable. “Except you seem to have overlooked the most important steps.”

Andre paused, eyebrows raised, his expression uncharacteristically blank. “Have I?”

Stan stood, peeking out from behind the newspaper with slow precision, his gaze pointedly catching Wendy’s just long enough to make her look away.

“The steps are different for any dance in three-four time,” Stan said.

“In a waltz,” Andre said flatly, the declaration hanging like a scandal in the air. “Surely you don’t mean to credit me with skipping over what is hardly a proper dance by certain accounts.”

Stan shrugged. “Call it what you will,” he replied evenly, his voice betraying nothing. “It’s the one worth remembering.” And with that, he held the paper up, leaving Wendy’s gaze lingering on him, sending a shiver down his back.

“Your Royal Highness… is your paper upside down?” Wendy asked.

Stan froze mid-turn of the page, his princely facade crumbling just enough for that betraying heat to rise to his collar. With agonizing precision, he set the paper down, his composure recovered in an instant.

“It’s an editorial trick to test the most astute of readers,” he quipped. He glanced at Wendy fleetingly, but his gaze lingered in the air between them, heavy with something unsaid.

“Why not show how it’s done then?” Andre said, stepping away with a bow to Wendy. “I’ll let you cut in.”

Stan tilted his head; his heart apparently had forgotten to beat. “I could, though perhaps advice from Andre would suffice.” He paused, and when he turned his focus fully to Wendy, the change was palpable—soft, searching, almost tender. “Unless you’d prefer otherwise?”