Page 25 of The Sound of Seduction (Miracles on Harley Street #4)

But when she saw how gently the princess laid her hand on Stan’s forehead, the raw concern of a sister for her brother—it warmed Wendy’s heart.

If it were Nick’s life in danger, she would also want to be with him and do anything in her power to help bring him back.

That was when the princess sat at the foot of Stan’s bed.

“When I was little, Stan was always the first to save me.” The princess wrung her hands.

“I once brought home what I though was a puppy. But Stan saw it was a wolf cub and returned it to the forest. And when I climbed a tall oak, he was the one to help me down the tree. And now… I ran away, and he was hurt because of me.” She heaved and wiped a tear from her cheek. “What can I do?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Wendy said, picking up the cloth again and continuing the cold compresses.

“But Andre… ahem… Dr. Fernando said the next hours will tell whether he shall live.” Concern was etched on the princess’s face, even though she spoke with the grace of a woman who had much training in dealing with bad news.

It was a rare and taxing skill Wendy knew all too well dealing with noble patients.

“I’m keeping him as cool as possible. May I propose that you rest in case he needs you in the morning?” Wendy said more as sister-to-sister than nurse-to-princess. “He spoke your name, he worries about you. Don’t give him a reason that could weaken his condition.”

The princess nodded and rose, the reluctance weighing her graceful movements down. “Will you call me if I can help, please?”

“Certainly,” Wendy said with a curtsy.

“Thank you, Nurse Wendy. Your work tonight is deeply appreciated. I shall forever be in your debt.” And with these words, the princess left.

Yet, Wendy couldn’t fathom being anywhere else. And there was nothing to repay her with, no debt, only Stan.

Oh, please be strong. Please live.

His face, normally so composed—even imperious—lay stripped of all dignity by the fever.

He didn’t look like the intimidating royal anymore.

Gone was the precise movement of his training as a soldier.

All that was left just seemed like a very young man, devoid of the boyish mischief and struggling with the inflammation in his body.

His eyes were shut, lids fluttering as if a struggle waged underneath.

He parted his lips in uneven rasps of harsh breath.

Once again, Wendy pressed the damp fabric to his brow, gentle but firm, and trailed another along the burning planes of his cheeks and neck.

He didn’t stir. He hadn’t stirred for hours now.

Not even when she’d carefully peeled back the corner of his soaked shirt earlier to inspect the infected wound that had brought him to this wretched state.

She’d had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep herself steady, for the ragged edges of the gash told the story of his pain more vividly than she could bear.

Not your prince, Wendy.

The thought struck her again as her hand smoothed the compress over his forehead, her cuff dragging slightly against the coarse stubble on his jaw.

Not your prince. Nursing was her duty, her calling—that was all.

And yet, the steady intensity of her care betrayed her heart, a heart she repeatedly chastised for yearning where it shouldn’t.

A noise at the door startled her. She turned, her hand stilling mid-motion, as Andre entered, his expression grim.

A leather bag hung from his arm, and behind him trailed a servant balancing a bucket filled with ice—the kind procured at an exorbitant expense, especially this time of year.

Wendy didn’t dare speak, but the quick glance she cast at the doctor’s furrowed brow told her what she already feared.

This wasn’t working.

“We’ll need more water. Tell them to bring it cold.” Andre gave his orders swiftly, his voice clipped in a tone that allowed no arguments. He shot a look at the already cooling compresses, though the reprimand in his gaze wasn’t for her. “The ice will help a little, but it’s not enough.”

The servant hurried out, and Andre moved quickly to the bed. He leaned close to inspect Stan, pressing deft fingers to the artery in his neck. Wendy saw the faint shake in his hand as he withdrew it but said nothing. He turned to her. “Has he woken at all?”

Wendy shook her head. She’d worked with Andre at the practice for years now, but this was new. The rehabilitation center at Cloverdale House was for intense care and she’d see her first patient before going back home to Harley Street.

I can’t believe my first patient here at Cloverdale House is my prince.

“Take the coverings off. He mustn’t trap the heat,” Andre said and pulled the covers off the prince.

Without hesitation, Wendy folded back the heavy blanket, her fingers nimble as she peeled the damp sheet that clung stubbornly to Stan’s chest. The saturated fabric dropped to the floor with a faint thud, but neither she nor Andre paid it any mind.

The doctor reached for his scissors and pressed them into Wendy’s hand.

“You’ll do it faster,” he said curtly. “Don’t lose time with the buttons.”

Wendy worked with a precision born of knowledge rather than instinct, the fabric of Stan’s shirt parting cleanly under the blades.

She peeled it away, leaving only his breeches in place, which were already rolled up over his knees—both for propriety and necessity.

His broad chest, glistening with sweat, rose and fell shallowly under the reddish flush that marked the fever’s relentless grip.

The stitched wound, angry and seeping, stood out against the heat-mottled skin, and Wendy noted it silently, her mind already planning its next steps.

Andre’s instructions were sharp. Together, they maneuvered Stan’s still form, lifting him just enough to place his feet into the ice-water bath.

He was alarmingly limp in their grasp, heavier than Wendy would have imagined in his unconscious state.

Somehow, she managed to keep her grip steady, her movements firm yet careful.

Andre, for all his briskness, softened slightly as the task came to completion, his trained efficiency revealing the smallest glint of hope.

“Perhaps this might bring relief,” he said.

But his unspoken fears pressed down on her as they adjusted the basin beneath the bed. It wasn’t just fever that hung in the air but something heavier, darker. Wendy had seen the coma claim others, and too often, it refused to give them back.

Andre poured the remaining ice alongside the water and leaned back as if to appraise the battlefield.

“If it lasts,” he muttered, half to himself, “it could shut everything down. Heart. Lungs. Brain.” His jaw tightened.

“And I’ll not have the prince die here. Not with his sister sleeping in the room above us. ”

Stan wasn’t just a prince, Wendy thought, irrational anger spiking beneath her worry.

He was a man—her prince, her treacherous heart whispered—but his life hung by a thread so fine, a spider might have as well spun it.

She adjusted another fresh compress to his forehead, her fingers brushing against his hairline.

He didn’t move, didn’t give any sign of life beyond the fragile rhythm of his chest.

“Am I missing anything?” Wendy asked, her voice low but steady as her fingers worked another damp cloth over the prince’s fevered brow. Despite the calm she projected, a knot twisted in her stomach. There was no room for error, not tonight. Hadn’t he suffered enough already?

Andre adjusted the basin of melted ice water by the bedside before straightening. His steady eyes turned to her, interpreting the strain in her question.

“No,” he said firmly, though there was a gentleness beneath the word. “You’re doing everything I would do.”

She hesitated, her hand stilling for a brief moment. “Were you there?” she asked finally, biting her bottom lip. “When he was injured?”

Andre exhaled a long breath, wiping his hands on a linen towel.

“Yes. It was madness,” he began, his voice quieter as he recalled the events.

“The attackers came out of nowhere. He fought them alone, drove them back until they ran. Brave as hell.” Andre’s lips twitched with something close to respect.

“One of them got lucky, sliced his shoulder with a filthy blade in the struggle. He never faltered. Just—” He paused, his jaw tightening briefly.

“His sister and her ward were in danger. He shoved them into my arms and ordered me to take them to safety.” A ghost of tension flickered across his face.

“It happened fast. Too fast. And through it all, he stayed on his feet. Didn’t so much as wince on the carriage journey back to London. ”

Wendy’s fingers pressed a cloth against Stan’s temple, her hands steady despite her pounding heart.

Andre’s recounting painted an agonizing picture.

She could almost see Stan—defiant, untiring even as blood soaked through his shirt, even as the hours passed before Andre could finally clean the wound and stitch him up. Her chest tightened.

“But now…” Andre’s voice snapped her attention back, and she realized with a start that he’d been studying her—noticing the way her hand had pressed too long in one spot.

“This battle,” he said softly, gesturing to Stan’s pale, sweat-slicked form, “is one he fights alone. No weapons in his hand this time.”

Wendy nodded, unable to speak. Her throat felt thick.

Admiration flared in her chest, unbidden and overwhelming.

His bravery, his strength—none of it surprised her.

He walked through fire for others when most would turn away—it was why he’d come to London to face Baron von List. She knew enough to understand the urgency.

Yet the thought of him here, defenseless against the sickness tearing through him, made her eyes burn.

She blinked rapidly, brushing another fresh compress over his brow.

No tears. Not now, not tonight, not when her hands were his only armor.

Andre must have seen her falter because his voice broke through her thoughts. “We keep him cold. Keep the fever from baking him alive,” he said, and then, softer, “You’re doing well. I’ll come back to look after him or should I take over for a while now?”

“No.” He’s my prince.

Andre nodded as he left but she didn’t need the reassurance, though there was some strange comfort in it.

She’d learned to steel herself against the worst in her years of her training, practiced keeping a trembling hand steady while her brother operated on patients far worse off than this.

But here, with Stan burning under her care, every touch, every decision struck deeper than she’d admit.

Swallowing hard, Wendy wrung out another compress and placed it methodically over his brow.

She gently smoothed it as her lips tightened into a firm line.

No, not her prince. But tonight, she would be his guardian for every drop of sweat she wiped, for every furious whisper of fever she soothed, for every icy measure purposed to cool him.

Whether he lived or died, she would not falter.

Not once. And if her hands trembled when they finally stilled, that was no one’s concern but her own.

Then something happened.

The sudden rigidity in his body froze Wendy in place.

His muscles tensed as if an invisible force had seized him, his head jerking sideways on the damp pillow.

Her hand hovered over his chest before trembling fingers sought his brow.

It was still burning. Still perilously hot.

Yet this movement—this spark of life—was unexpected.

If he was dreaming, she thought wildly, wasn’t that proof it wasn’t a coma after all? Or was he waking up?

Her throat tightened. “Stan?” she whispered, her voice trembling as she gently replaced the compress on his temple with a fresh one.

The cool fabric brushed his flushed skin, and she thought she saw his head shift slightly toward it.

He moved again, faint but deliberate, his lips parting with a dry, chapped smack.

“Stan, it’s Wendy,” she tried again, leaning closer. “Can you hear me?”

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of her own shallow breaths and the faint trickling of the water as she wrung the compress.

Then his lips moved again—a low murmur at first, unintelligible and drowned in fever.

She bent lower, her ear just above his mouth, the scent of sweat and heat filling the space between them.

“…One… two… three…” The words came in fits, broken by uneven breaths. “…Follow… me.”

Wendy froze, her heart catching mid-beat. She clutched the compress, pressing it too tightly to his skin as gooseflesh raced up her arms. Her stomach churned at the words’ familiarity and the unmistakable strain in his tone.

“That…” she breathed, blinking rapidly. “That’s what you said.

At the ball.” Her voice caught at the memory, vivid despite the weeks that had passed.

The way he had spun her with such purposeful grace, the warmth of his arms around her, the way he had whispered that very line.

But this time it wasn’t a flirtation. This time it sounded like a plea. Was he calling for help?

His eyelids fluttered briefly, a glimmer of his lashes catching the candlelight before they fell still.

“Stan,” Wendy urged, her free hand brushing a damp curl from his forehead.

A lump rose in her throat. Sometimes, patients needed to be called back, needed a tether to hold on to as they climbed out of the haze.

“Stan, please,” she pleaded, her voice soft but firmer now. “Don’t leave me. Fight. You are stronger than this.”

But there was no reply, no movement, nor the faintest flicker of recognition.

He had slipped back into the depths, his breathing shallow, as if retreating further from her reach.

Tears pricked her eyes, but she clawed them back before they could fall.

This wasn’t her pain to carry—it was his fight, his battle, and all she could do was keep his body cool and his time short for as long as fate allowed.

Still, as she wrung the compress one more time, her trembling lips bent close to his ear, her voice raw and small. “Don’t leave me, Stan,” she whispered again, though she wasn’t sure whether the words were meant for him or herself.