Page 16 of The Sound of Seduction (Miracles on Harley Street #4)

S tan had seen beauty before—countless painted, powdered, and polished women dressed impeccably, each parading their graces as if vying for a crown. Yet none of them had prepared him for this. Wendy. The woman in his arms with her dazzling smile and rosy cheeks. She was… breathtaking.

She wasn’t like the rest of them, the ladies who prattled about ribbons and coiffures while they polished their nails to perfection, or those who danced mindlessly, unaware of the wars that raged outside their gilded walls.

Wendy was different, unspoiled by the frivolity of such trappings.

Her hands had saved lives, steady and sure as she tended to the broken and ill on Harley Street.

She didn’t polish herself for praise—she trained her hands for healing.

And to Stan, that made her more graceful than any duchess in diamonds.

And she was utterly, devastatingly beautiful.

Stan’s chest tightened as he stared down at her, the dimples at the apex of her softly curved shoulders peeking out just enough to disarm him entirely.

Her cheeks, already flushed from dancing, held a bloom that no amount of rouge could replicate, while her lashes framed wide, earnest eyes that made fools out of men like him.

He lost his grip—on himself, on the dance, on whatever soldierly instincts usually kept him protected.

His mind faltered.

Sweet and oblivious, Wendy moved instinctively, stepping forward when he should have led her to step back.

He blinked, momentarily stunned as she unknowingly took the lead.

Her glove brushed his hand lightly, her movements uncertain but determined—it made something almost painful curl inside his chest.

He tightened his hold deliberately, grounding her as much as himself. “I’m leading,” he murmured, his voice deeper than he intended.

Her eyes darted up to him, a flicker of confusion softening at the edges.

But before she could speak or laugh nervously, he guided her back into the rhythm of the waltz.

One firm step forward, coaxing her into step with him.

The violins sang their soft strain, the room around them swaying, but Stan was singularly focused on the woman in his arms.

Her breath hitched as he turned them in a wide circle, her skirts brushing against his calf.

Her hand at his shoulder tightened reflexively as he easily pulled her into his orbit, silently urging her to trust his lead.

She was pliant now, yielding to him entirely, and Stan felt a quiet triumph at the way her body moved to follow his.

She exhaled softly, and he was sure he felt it—like the faintest whisper against his jaw.

He shouldn’t feel this way. She wasn’t meant for him; this grounded woman with real hands and real skills that mattered in ways Stan never could.

He wasn’t made for women like her. Uprooting her, transplanting her into the fine halls of his world, filled with egos and politics, would destroy her.

She’d wilt. He couldn’t do that—he wouldn’t pluck her from the soil that nurtured her vibrance—the practice that gave her purpose.

But at this moment, with her heart drumming so close to his, Stan couldn’t stop himself.

His fingers tightened at her back, pulling her impossibly closer as the waltz quickened. Her breath tangled with his own, her head tilting slightly toward him, and for one maddening moment, he thought of leaning down, whispering something reckless against her ear.

The music slowed, the last gentle notes stretching across the room. And then it stilled entirely, leaving the crowd to break into soft murmurs of approval. The spell shattered too, though Stan’s reluctance to release her grew.

He pulled back just an inch, his gloved fingers loosening their hold on her waist.

“Thank you for the immense honor of this dance, Miss Folsham,” he said, though the words felt too small for what had just transpired between them.

Wendy’s lips trembled faintly before she offered a sheepish smile. “It’s I who should thank you,” she replied softly.

But Stan didn’t want to just thank her. He longed to hold her tighter, pull her away from the gawking members of the Ton, and kiss her until she forgot they existed altogether. Instead, he gave her his arm, his grip steady and certain as he led her toward her brother.

Nick turned toward them before they fully reached him, his expression unreadable for a moment before a faint smirk betrayed his thoughts.

He looked at Wendy first, his usual protective pride gleaming in his eyes, before directing a pointed, knowing look at Stan.

Was it that obvious something had happened between them?

“She’s in one piece, then,” Nick quipped, offering Wendy his hand.

More than I can say for myself, Stan thought when cold air took the place where Wendy’s hand had just lingered. If a dance with her had this effect, what would a kiss do to him?

Stan forced himself not to clutch at the void her absence left on his arm. Instead, he bowed slightly.

“Your sister is a remarkable dancer,” he said to Nick, though his words were meant entirely for her.

Wendy blushed immediately, and her hand fluttered at her side. “You flatter me, Your Royal Highness.”

“Not nearly as much as you deserve,” he replied, his tone lower than he intended.

Then he caught it—a cold stare piercing through the gathered guests. Stan turned his head slightly, focusing on the back corner of the ballroom. There stood von List, his expression unreadable but his intent unmistakable. He was watching.

Stan’s pleasure drained like spilled wine. The moment—sweet and fleeting—was over. He straightened, gloves crisp again.

Duty called.