Page 15 of The Sound of Seduction (Miracles on Harley Street #4)

“I’m telling you to do what’s expected,” Andre replied before shifting his gaze. “And to keep her safe in your arms. I would, but you outrank me by far.”

Stan’s eyes followed Andre’s line of sight until they found her—Wendy.

She hovered near the far edge of the floor, her posture impossibly still.

Her rose-colored gown shimmered faintly as the light teased the golden threads woven through the fabric, but her expression was what caught him.

Fear. Not alarm or panic like that borne of battle, but the kind that softened into dread, the unmistakable look of someone seeking an escape they couldn’t find. Had List delivered a threat?

Oh, if he as much as breathed in Wendy’s direction, Stan would… oh, he would do his worst with bare hands.

Andre clasped Stan’s shoulder briefly, his message delivered. “Your duty lies there,” he said softly before stepping away.

Stan exhaled slowly, his thoughts a storm of responsibility and instinct.

Traditionally, etiquette dictated that he’d dance with the highest-ranking aristocratic lady in the room, but there was no contest in his mind.

None outranked Wendy—not in his eyes. The Lists would not take her.

Not if he could shield Wendy with his body.

Oh, the thought alone made him hard, his body over hers… but this wasn’t the moment.

Nor was it allowed. His world was dangerous, and he couldn’t ever approach her as he’d wished.

Except that Andre had given him one chance: a dance with the woman of his heart.

The music played on, blending seamlessly with soft laughter and murmured conversation as he approached her.

Step by deliberate step, he charted a course across the polished parquet, weaving past the observing crowd.

He moved purposefully but not too quickly, giving her enough time to notice him.

Enough to steel his thrumming heart—the rest of him was harder than diamonds when he saw her.

Her head lifted when he was nearly there, her wide eyes locking onto his.

Something about that look—the uncertainty mixed with undeniable recognition—felt like a stitch pulling tight in his chest. Her reaction wasn’t that of a court debutante eager for glory.

She wasn’t one of them. And yet, she stood there like a vision, unassuming but breathtaking, wearing the trappings of elegance as though they were borrowed rather than her due.

She was so very much herself, unmolded by this glimmering crowd.

At last, he reached her, his chest tightening further when she dipped her gaze, a blush warming her cheeks. Her hands curled tightly into the folds of her gown, and for a moment, he thought she might take a half-step backward. But she stayed.

“Miss Gwendolyn Folsham,” he began, his voice balancing formal and intent, “would you do me the honor of this dance?”

She blinked up at him, her pink lips parting slightly in surprise. Her hesitation was brief but palpable. Then, as if buoyed by some strength he hadn’t expected, her gloved hand unfurled and reached tentatively for his; he took it gently in his own, his fingers steadying hers as much as leading.

The room around them shifted faintly, and guests turned to notice the prince leading someone onto the floor who surprised them. Yet, Stan ignored them all. For now, the Lists, their dangers, and the room’s edges blurred and faded entirely as he led Wendy to the center of the parquet.

*

Wendy’s hand in his felt warm and steady, as if it belonged there.

It was absurd. She had no place stepping into the light, not alongside him.

But Stan’s unwavering grasp made escape virtually impossible, and so she followed him, her pulse racing as if trying to outmatch the soaring melody of the string quartet.

She had grown up in rooms that smelled faintly of clove oil and belladonna, where her father’s unwavering focus was on his patients’ wellness and her family rarely entertained grandeur.

She was educated, certainly, and her work as a nurse at the practice made her useful in ways that mattered.

But none of that belonged here, amidst crystalline chandeliers and gilded splendor.

The sister of a doctor, the daughter of a dead one— what claim did she have to this polished world where a prince as dazzling as Stan commanded attention with little effort?

Her gaze darted to the faces in the crowd, noting the murmurs and stolen glances from familiar patients.

They knew who she was. Just a nurse. That truth pressed down harder than the glittering silk of her gown.

And not even Wendy dared mustering an explanation of why the prince had chosen her.

The shimmering skirts of her gown flowed over the petticoat that brushed against her ankles with every step.

Around them, the ballroom hushed slightly, the collective hum of curiosity buzzing in the air.

Wendy scarcely registered the stares, the barely concealed whispers, as Stan guided her to the center of the parquet.

She could only focus on the firm, confident hand at her back, anchoring her as the crowd softened into blurred shapes and colors at the edge of her vision.

Ahead, Nick spun Pippa elegantly across the floor, his expression a mixture of pride and joy as his wife laughed softly at something he murmured.

Wendy caught his eye briefly, and the look he gave her interrupted her mid-breath—the brotherly kind of glance that spoke without words.

Approval, encouragement, and something infuriatingly protective.

He didn’t seem surprised to see her escorted by a prince.

Wendy envied that certainty in him, as if he believed she had any right to be there.

She dragged her gaze back to Stan and stumbled slightly as he turned to face her at the center of the dance floor.

Now that they were still, she felt every stare upon her.

Her throat tightened. She wasn’t built for waltzing under gilded chandeliers or dazzling members of the Ton.

Her place was quieter, simpler, away from the polished scrutiny of ballrooms. But she was here.

Stan’s deep voice reached her over the low hum of the string quartet as he stepped closer. “Is something the matter?”

His question was soft, yet it grounded her. His dark eyes held hers, steady and intent, pulling her from the haze of growing panic. She nodded faintly, but her lips parted, and the confession escaped before she could stop it.

“I shouldn’t say,” she mumbled, feigning a smile for the onlookers.

“If you don’t tell me, I can’t help you,” the prince said.

It was absurd but also terribly sweet.

Under normal circumstances, it was her offering help and service.

How often she’d said this exact phrase to patients, she couldn’t even count.

And it was true; he couldn’t offer a cure unless she told him her symptoms. And the only cure for standing still on the parquet at a ball with what felt like a thousand eyes on her would be the one thing she didn’t know how to do.

“I still can’t really dance.” Her voice was a whisper, barely audible amid the sweet swell of violins, but Stan heard it, his brow lifting in faint surprise before his expression softened.

He didn’t scoff. He didn’t falter. Instead, he stepped back slightly, his movements deliberately measured as if addressing a far greater concern than an untrained waltz partner.

“You can,” he said simply, his tone kind but firm, leaving no room for doubt.

“I… no,” Wendy stammered, shaking her head. “I truly can’t.”

His hand tightened gently at her back, his other resting lightly on her gloved fingers. “Just follow me like you did in London. That’s all you have to do.”

His calm was maddening, yet it worked through her jittered nerves. Follow him. Surely, it couldn’t be that simple.

*

Stan realized that being with Wendy was as simple as breathing.

Essential.

Instinctual.

And now that he felt her in his arms—her warmth molding to him softly, her lace-gloved hand resting so delicately in his own—he didn’t know how he’d survived for a whole day without her presence.

He inhaled deeply, his chest expanding as her subtle scent wrapped around him.

Roses and apricots mingled with the clean, straightforward simplicity of soap.

It was intoxicating in its purity. Briefly, he closed his eyes, committing every detail to memory as though he needed this moment to sustain him.

Something profound had happened, and it had taken him completely off guard.

Stan, raised to master strategy and diplomacy, found himself disarmed—not by war or intrigue—but by the quiet courage of a nurse who didn’t belong in this world, yet had shaken his to its core.

He hadn’t seen this coming—not when his eyes were fixed on Baron von List, nor when his thoughts were tangled in Transylvania’s impending doom at List’s hand.

But all that fell away. Now, holding Wendy and swaying to the waltz’s tender rhythm, Stan knew he was experiencing something immeasurable.

Not glory from his rank nor from the accolades he had received in battles or ballrooms. No, this was an entirely different honor—Wendy Folsham had given him the privilege of her first dance at a ball.

“Put your hand like this,” he instructed gently, guiding her trembling fingers to settle against his shoulder.

Her touch was feather-light at first, as though she feared overstepping, but she followed him, trust evident in her wide-eyed gaze.

And—he sighed—her innocence gutted him. Not innocence born of naivety but of unspoiled simplicity.

That rare kind, tinged with strength. She was a woman who knew who she was and carried herself gravely, though she wasn’t hardened by life.

And yet, she was inexperienced in all the things he’d gladly teach her—if only she’d be safe by his side.

Stan would guide her wherever she allowed him. Tonight held danger, duty, and the responsibility pressing on his shoulders. But for this moment, he only wanted to hold her, to cherish this fleeting dance with her—the woman who stirred something raw and primal in his chest.

He pulled her a little closer, cherishing her warmth seeping through the layers of fabric between them. “Count with me,” he said, voice low. “One, two, three.”

Her lips parted, her pretty head tilting back as she looked up at him.

A nervous laugh bubbled from her throat and spilled out between them, and he couldn’t stop his grin from spreading.

Of all the things to paralyze him—her laughter.

Light and musical, it softened the air and eclipsed every harsh murmur of his mind.

“Did you make that rhyme for me on purpose?” she asked, her voice teasing, her white smile radiant.

“Perhaps,” Stan replied, a low chuckle rumbling through him. He tightened his arm slightly at her back, drawing her closer to his control.

“Why am I not surprised, Your Royal Highness,” she quipped, but there was no malice in her tone, only warmth.

“Feel my steps,” he instructed, keeping his voice firm but soft enough to coax her. “And trust me. You’re safe in my arms.”

She dropped her gaze briefly, hesitating. He felt her knee brushing his leg, her wide eyes met his again, and his breath hitched. She nodded, her fingers curling lightly against his shoulder, holding a bit firmer.

“One,” he began, stepping smoothly into the waltz.

She moved with him, awkward for a heartbeat, until he guided her hips with the subtle shift of his frame.

“Two,” he continued, tone low and steady, counting softly against the hum of the orchestra.

She stuttered only momentarily until her body began to follow his instinctively.

“Three,” he said, adding the faintest pressure to her waist to guide the next turn, his hand at her back firm but gentle, tethering her to him.

Her body adjusted, falling into a rhythm—not with the music, but with him. His steps, his lead.

There was a shift in her frame now—the moment when her movements softened and became intuitive. She didn’t move like someone being led awkwardly across foreign terrain. No, Wendy glided now, her body learning the language of his guidance with astonishing grace.

Wendy’s shoulders dropped as she exhaled deeply, visibly relaxing even as her nervous laugh returned. “You make it seem so easy,” she said, her lips curving into a shy smile.

“It is,” he replied against her ear. “When you trust the partner who’s leading you.”

Her lashes fluttered briefly as she swallowed, and he couldn’t resist tightening his grip just the slightest, propriety and boundaries be damned.

“See?” he murmured, his breath brushing her temple as they turned smoothly. “You’re practically a natural.”

“Don’t jinx it,” she teased, though her voice carried a tremor that didn’t match her playful words.

Stan angled his head slightly to see her face better. Her cheeks were flushed, the delicate pink matching the gleaming fabric of her gown. Yet her expression truly struck him—not shyness, or embarrassment, but something else entirely.

She wasn’t surrendering—she was choosing. Him. Here. Now.

In front of the assembled Ton.

And List.

They turned once more, their joined movements seamless, and for those few moments, nothing else existed. Not the gilded chandeliers blazing overhead nor the crowd’s murmurs of surprise and curiosity. Not even von List, with his sharp, calculating stares from the rim of the ballroom.

It was just him and Wendy.

One, two, three.

Trust in me.