Page 14 of The Sound of Seduction (Miracles on Harley Street #4)

Silvercrest Manor in Kent. One day later, at Alfie and Bea’s ball in honor of their wedding…

T he ballroom was a marvel of light and sound.

Coffered ceilings adorned with chandeliers dripped with crystal, casting a kaleidoscope of brilliance over the parquet floor as the string quartet began its lively waltz.

Every detail, from the sweeping drapery to the polished silver trays in the hands of the quick-footed footmen, was exquisite.

It was a scene straight out of a fairytale, one Wendy felt she had absolutely no business being in.

She stood at the edge of the crowd, a fixed smile plastered on her face that she hoped appeared pleasant rather than pained.

Her rose quartz gown shimmered under the gold-tinged light, the golden threads in the fabric catching every angle just as the modiste had predicted, making her stand out more boldly than she expected—or desired.

The truth was, she felt like a pink cake—overly sweet, overly seen, and waiting to be devoured by aristocratic stares.

Her gloved fingers toyed nervously with the fabric of her skirt as Alfie, dashing in his evening wear, led a radiant Bea onto the dance floor.

Alfie’s hand rested confidently at his bride’s waist, and Bea, in her summer-sky blue silk gown, was the picture of grace as they began their first dance.

Around the room, delighted whispers and approving smiles followed their steps.

A circle of guests formed to admire the pair, champagne glasses clinking softly as onlookers leaned in for a better view.

Wendy shifted uncomfortably. The music swelled, spiraling higher, and her stomach twisted matching its rhythm. This was the moment she usually avoided. She would normally excuse herself discreetly, dodging the peacock parade of silk and shot silk before anyone could notice her absence.

But tonight, escape wasn’t so simple.

Pippa, hosting the happy couple for the evening, soon followed Bea onto the dance floor, her champagne-colored gown glittering with every step.

She moved with her usual elegance, arm-in-arm with Nick, whose sharp black coat and tailored trousers made him look like he’d wandered off the pages of a painting.

Wendy had often relied on Nick for an exit strategy at these grand events, but there he was, spinning across the parquet with his new wife—a vision so polished, they seemed to belong to another realm entirely.

Although Wendy’s own gown shimmered in the candlelight, every facet catching the grandeur around her, the brilliance only made her feel more exposed.

If she could vanish into the gilded walls, she would.

But when her heel caught on the hem of her gown, she swayed—too visible, too exposed.

She stayed rooted, not by choice, but by the sheer impossibility of escape.

The crowd around her had tightened, the guests whispering and shifting closer to see the spectacle of Bea and Alfie opening the ball.

She couldn’t move. Glancing around helplessly, Wendy clasped and unclasped her hands as she tried to find a place to disappear quietly.

Nick’s gaze found hers from across the room.

He tilted his chin faintly, giving her a slight nod.

At first, Wendy thought it was one of Nick’s reassuring smiles, checking on his little sister.

But then Alfie did the same from the ballroom, which was a little odd, wasn’t it? Why would he, the groom, look to her during his first dance with his bride?

Then Bea—smiling mid-spin—caught her eye and tilted her head in the same direction.

What did they mean? Why were they nodding at her?

The dances will begin by rank.

Wasn’t that what Pippa had said at the shop?

Wendy looked for the Earl and Countess of Langley but couldn’t see them.

A low wave of whispers resonated through the crowd of guests, but Wendy couldn’t make out what they were saying as the music soared around her.

She blinked, and then her heart lurched.

The crowd began to part. Like ripples spreading outward in restless water, the space between the guests widened suddenly, leaving a clear path through the throng. A gasp caught in her throat as she recognized the man moving toward her.

It was him.

Her knees locked in place as Prince Stan stepped forward, the curling tails of his black evening coat swaying behind him.

His cravat, pressed and folded with military precision, was as crisp and white as the snow-capped peaks in Alpine paintings.

His dark hair, smooth and neatly combed back, gleamed under the brilliance of the chandeliers.

Yet it was his eyes—those impossible, intense eyes—that struck her hardest. They locked onto hers as though no one else existed in the entire ballroom.

Wendy’s pulse jolted painfully. It couldn’t be. Surely, she was mistaken.

But then he came straight toward her, no hesitation in his stride, his tall frame commanding the sea of silk and diamonds that rippled away to make room for him.

Her heart stumbled over itself as the crowd around her began to murmur, and then he stood still.

Right in front of her.

Wendy’s lips parted in a rush of breath she’d forgotten she’d been holding. She stared at him as the gasps and faint whispers quieted around them. The air between them felt charged as if something unseen—something pressed by the curiosity in the room—demanded recognition.

And then he moved.

Prince Stan, the man who had eclipsed the splendor of even this ballroom, bowed. Deep and deliberate, the motion was perfectly executed, yet it sent a stark shock up Wendy’s spine.

Every thought swirled in her head. How could this be happening to her?

Would someone pinch her and let her scurry around the practice with a pile of clean towels any moment?

Or, surely, someone would tap her shoulder any time now and inform her that this was a misstep, a wrong turn in the orchestra of events, and they were expecting someone else entirely.

But his eyes stayed on hers as he straightened, the look in them unyielding, focused.

Gentle, she’d say, with a tinge of vulnerability that woke her from her stupor.

“Miss Gwendolyn Folsham,” he began in a deep, even tone that made her break out in goosebumps.

Her heart, already thundering, skipped so violently she feared it might leap entirely out of her chest. One word—the simplest greetings—and her carefully constructed walls began to tip.

Reality twisted uncomfortably close to the whimsical fairytales she had once adored. It couldn’t be that simple.

And yet, here he was.

*

Just a minute earlier…

Stan stood tall, his eyes scanning the room with practiced precision.

A ballroom like this—bright with countless lights casting their brilliance on gilded trim and gleaming parquet floors—should have been a sanctuary of celebration, not a stage for tension.

And yet, here he was, every nerve honed and attuned to threats as though he were on a battlefield instead of a polished dance floor.

The crowd was alive with chatter and laughter, the swirl of ladies’ gowns creating a palette of color as if a painter had swirled his brush too vigorously.

Stan’s gaze swept past diplomats engaged in polite conversation, their laughter too hollow to be genuine.

He noted the presence of Langley and Violet, who stood near the far wall, their attention caught by a French emissary’s animated gesticulations.

Violet looked serene in her ivory gown, though Stan knew Langley’s hand resting at her elbow wasn’t for effect.

She leaned on her husband just enough to betray her delicate condition, though only someone looking closely—as Stan always did—would notice.

His gaze shifted, and there they were—Baron von List, leaning back with unsettling ease, and his wife, a portrait of poise on his arm.

She tilted her head towards her husband as he murmured something in her ear, her expression unreadable.

Her eyes, dark as ink but cold as ice, cut sharply across the room, a predator’s gaze wrapped in civility.

Stan tensed. Criminals always adopted masks in polite society, but with the Lists, it wasn’t a question of deception.

It was an inevitability. They weren’t watching the ball. They were watching him .

The music swelled, and the crowd shifted around the dance floor’s edge, creating a wide circle as Alfie led Bea out for the first waltz.

The newlyweds stepped into the light, their hands joined, Bea radiant in her gown and Alfie’s confidence a match for his bride’s loveliness.

Stan’s lips twitched faintly with approval.

If anyone deserved a reprieve from danger, it was the pair of them.

I’ll stand guard for you.

He scanned the room again, intent on keeping the Lists and other suspicious figures in sight.

But the forming sea of murmuring guests created a wall of colored silk and black tailcoats, limiting his vision.

Awful crowds. Height helped, but nothing fixed limited sightlines when bodies jostled, and heat gathered like fog rising on a battlefield.

His instincts were screaming. Something didn’t seem right.

He couldn’t place it, but his stomach knotted tighter with every measure of the waltz.

“Stan.” Andre’s voice at his side caught his attention. Stan turned, noting his friend’s calm but intent expression.

“You see them?” Stan asked, nodding slightly toward the Lists.

“I do,” Andre confirmed briefly. His words were measured, and his tone was low to avoid attention. “But we need to focus elsewhere tonight.”

Stan raised a brow. “You don’t say.”

“This isn’t up for debate. You’re the next highest-ranking guest in attendance,” Andre added with a subtle tilt toward the dance floor. His meaning was as clear as daylight.

Stan frowned. “You’re telling me to waltz while the Lists watch us like prowling wolves?”