Page 27 of The Sound of Seduction (Miracles on Harley Street #4)

M orning light slipped through the parted curtains, warming the deep amber hues of the polished wood.

Yet Stan still winced, his shoulder throbbing as his gaze lingered on the bowl of fresh water glinting on the side table.

Andre had already made his final checks, his calm yet satisfied expression declaring to anyone who might care that the fever had, at last, broken and Stan was on the way to betterment.

Then why didn’t that heaviness in his chest lift?

Stan adjusted himself carefully against the pillows, his body still sore and his shoulder throbbing faintly under its fresh bandage. He was raw—both physically and in some unspoken way he couldn’t quite explain—but alive. That counted for something.

The creak of the door drew his attention, and when he lifted his gaze, Wendy was there. She hesitated as if she weren’t certain she should enter, her fingers wound tightly around the edge of the doorframe.

He took her in, the dark shadows under her eyes painting a picture of how her night had been—worn down, worried beyond reason, but undeniably lovely. She seemed to glow even through her exhaustion, and the sight stirred something deep in his chest that had little to do with his injuries.

“It’s only seven in the morning,” he said rough from disuse but warm with curiosity. He tried for a half smile; it hurt a little less than he expected.

She nodded, stepping further into the room, and her soft-soled shoes barely made a sound as she crossed the space. “I was—” Her words faltered, and she exhaled quietly before starting again. “I was waiting for Andre’s report… Needless to say, we’re relieved.”

“Relieved,” he murmured, letting the word stretch lazily from his tongue. His gaze searched hers. “Is that all?”

Her faint laugh fluttered in the room, and she lowered her eyes. She blushed so easily.

“What happened last night?” he asked after another moment, his tone turning serious. “Andre didn’t say much, and I remember nothing… yet, I think I owe you my life.”

Her eyes darted to his, startled at his abrupt sincerity.

“You shouldn’t speak like this, Your Royal Highness,” she fumbled for words before gathering her thoughts.

“You were feverish. We didn’t think you’d wake.

But I…” Her cheeks pinked again, and she tightened her hands in front of her. “I did what I could.”

What. She. Could.

Stan’s throat tightened, and he lowered his gaze briefly to take in her small, weary frame. “Then it seems I owe you more than I can say,” he murmured, tipping his head slightly.

She waved his gratitude off, looking embarrassed. “I only followed orders. You would have done the same for anyone in need of care.”

“Perhaps,” he replied, his voice dropping slyly to a murmur, “but I doubt I would have looked so radiant doing it.”

She froze, unsure how to respond, but his grin deepened. It was fun, seeing her flustered like that—a delightful distraction from the ache in his shoulder.

“Can I get you anything, Your Royal Highness?” she asked suddenly, as if working around his teasing to find solid ground again.

“Just Stan, please. I owe you everything and hate the distance of formalities between us.” He pushed himself carefully upward, propping himself higher on the pillows.

The movement was slow but deliberate. “I only need to sit up,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward her as pain flickered through his arm.

“Yes, of course—here,” she replied, rushing forward to help. Her hands came gently under his arm, and she stepped closer, leaning in to steady him. He stopped mid-motion. It was only then that he noticed.

No shirt.

His stomach tightened faintly in shock—or was it something else entirely? He glanced down at his bare chest, his bandaged shoulder, and felt the faintest flush rise beneath the scruff on his jaw. Then his eyes darted up to catch hers, just as quick.

“And where, pray tell, might my clothes have gone?” His smile curved lazily now, a fox’s grin despite the moment’s heaviness.

Her reaction was immediate and delicious.

Her eyes widened just a fraction, cheeks blooming with crimson as she stepped back reflexively, her hand suddenly hesitant where it had supported him.

“I—I had to cut it. It was—it was in the way, and we had to act quickly,” she stammered, clearly mortified.

“Did you now?” His mouth lifted further, and there was no denying the amusement gleaming in his eyes.

She turned her head abruptly, her gaze fixed on the low stool in the corner—on what remained of his shirt, tucked unceremoniously over the back of it.

“I’m sorry.” Her words sounded unconvincing.

Stan laughed softly, which hurt his chest more than he’d admit, but oh, it was worth it. “A tragedy,” his voice low and teasing. “But if it had the privilege of being in your capable hands, I’ll forgive its demise.” His grin flickered wider.

You can tear my clothes off any time you like.

Wendy frowned at him, her lips pressed tight, but the redness in her cheeks betrayed her. She busied herself smoothing the blanket at his waist.

“What can I do for you?” she asked suddenly, almost like a challenge, her words crisp but also concerned.

He quirked an eyebrow at that, admiring the determination radiating off her. “I don’t think you can help,” he said honestly.

But she stiffened at his reply, her gaze snapping to him with a spark of defiance. “I’m your nurse. If there’s something you need, tell me.”

“That’s so?” His grin widened as he shifted slightly, testing the warmth in his limbs before gesturing vaguely upward. “What I need, my dear nurse, is a bath. Could you ring for my valet?”

Wendy blinked at him, repeating his words without saying them out loud, and then squared her shoulders as if preparing for an argument. He made a faint move to rise, but the second his weight shifted, dizziness gripped him. He fell back onto the pillows with a sharp inhale, grimacing.

“I gave him time off. You need a nurse.” Wendy reacted quickly, leaning into him again, her hands coming to his shoulder and back to steady him before he fell outright.

“Perhaps it’s too soon for a bath,” she said breathlessly, adjusting her grip to be sure he was secure.

“After a fever, the body may not adjust to temperatures readily. And water might cool you down too quickly.”

He doubted that even an ice bath would cool him in her presence, and then it became worse.

She met his gaze—level, steady. “But a sponge bath? Partial, perhaps?”

Stan froze, startled by the very idea of it—this beautiful woman who had most likely saved his life offering to stay by his side, a nurse in name but so much more to him in every other way. Her suggestion hung in the air, equal parts logical and utterly enticing.

“Let me make sure I understand this correctly: You gave my valet time off so you can give me a sponge bath?”

She furrowed her brow and was so sweet that he wanted to reach out and pull her close.

“No, Your Royal Highness.” She turned beet red.

So terribly sweet.

“As I said, please call me Stan. I owe you my life. Forget the formalities.” He swallowed hard, wondering if it was the fever that still had a hold of him or just her presence that made his pulse leap.

“So, a sponge bath? Madness,” he murmured, more to himself than her biting away a grin.

When she tilted her head in confusion, he added with a soft smirk, “It’s madness to think I’d want to subject such fine company to that. ”

She rolled her eyes faintly, fighting a wry smile. “I nearly did it already,” she replied, nodding toward the cool basin beside the bed. “All those hours with the cold compresses…”

Her words trailed off, and an odd silence lingered between them. Unspoken tension bubbled just beneath the surface, and in her dark, tired eyes, he thought he saw it—that flicker of acknowledgment from the night before.

His flirtation softened for just a moment as he reached with his free hand to lightly graze her wrist. Her gaze snapped back to his, startled at the contact.

“Even though the fever broke, your road to full recovery is long,” she said.

“I’m beginning to think,” he murmured softly, his voice low and intimate in the quiet space between them, “I might just keep you as my private nurse for a very long time.”

Her blush deepened, the pink spreading to her throat. But just like at the ball, she stayed where she was, her breath catching faintly over his.

And just like at the ball, something unspoken flared between them—tenderness wound so tightly around attraction that it ached.

She should have looked away. She should have moved. But instead, Wendy remained frozen in place, her fingers still brushing his wrist.

It was enough for now. Just enough to know she didn’t run. Not from him.

*

The room was quiet except for the faint water splashing as Wendy wrung a soft cloth over the basin.

The morning sunlight streamed in through the lace curtains, painting the chamber in hues of gold but nothing compared to the royal figure making her fingers twitch.

She could hear her own heartbeat—a persistent thrum she willed to calm.

In the center of the room, Stan sat on a chair with a towel on his lap, bare-chested, watching her with an intensity that made her breath hitch.

“I can’t imagine how you convinced me to agree to this,” he murmured, his deep voice laced with equal parts amusement and… something else she couldn’t quite name.

She glanced at him and frowned faintly, trying to focus on the task at hand. “It isn’t as though you’re in any condition to argue with a nurse,” she replied lightly, though her cheeks burned as she stepped closer with the damp cloth.

Her gaze flickered, despite herself, to the broad expanse of his chest. Her hand paused mid-air as she took in the way the hard planes of muscle shifted with the rise and fall of his breathing. His skin was slightly bronzed, faint scars marking his body like a story waiting to be read.