Page 29 of The Sound of Seduction (Miracles on Harley Street #4)

S tan stood by the window, feeling almost—almost—himself again. Two more days had passed since that wretched night had left him battered, bones weary, and spirit shaken. The haze from the ordeal had begun to clear. it was her—that quiet certainty—he remembered everything about her.

Wendy.

Clear as crystal. The brisk, cool press of her fingers against his fevered skin.

The focus in her eyes that stayed just as steady while he thrashed helplessly, as it did when she paused to dab sweat from his brow.

He closed his eyes, and there she was, hovering in his mind as vividly as if she were still standing at his bedside.

Those wispy blonde curls framing her face, combined with the intelligent and discerning look in her eyes, made his insides melt—but not from a fever this time.

A sharp knock at the door snapped him from his reverie.

“Come in,” Stan called, voice still hoarse but stronger than it had been in days.

The door opened with a creak, and Andre strode in first, his bottle-green coat flaring sharply around his knees. Wendy followed closely behind, holding a metal tray with bandages, a jar of ointment, and scissors.

Andre spoke first, his tone clipped and professional.

“Stan,” he greeted without flourish, eyeing him like one sizes up a patient who is entirely too stubborn for their own good. Andre gestured lightly toward Wendy. “You’re up again?”

“I can’t lie in bed all day, Andre. Nothing will be resolved that way,” Stan quipped.

“Well, I’m here to assess whether you’ve undone all the mending from the past two days.”

“Hmm,” came Wendy’s soft, thoughtful hum.

She stepped closer than Andre, near enough for Stan to catch the faint hint of her lavender soap underlined with something warmer—clove or anise perhaps?

Certainly, one of the scents from the practice at 87 Harley Street.

Her head tilted slightly, assessing him like an artist gauging the flaws in a newly stretched canvas.

Her gaze settled on him—deliberate, steady, and so thoroughly scrutinizing that for a moment, the room stilled.

He felt flayed open, laid bare beneath her eyes—not from pain, but from how intimately she seemed to see him.

His neck prickled beneath her critical eye, the sensation spreading across his skin like the warm fizz of ?uic? , the Romanian plum brandy, rolling down one’s throat.

Something flickered in her features, unreadable as always, but Andre’s voice sliced cleanly through the room before he could find his footing with words.

“It’s von List that worries me.” Andre glanced pointedly back at Wendy for some unspoken exchange before he turned sharply to Stan. “He’s not someone to be left unattended. His men could have—”

“I know. They had Thea twice.” Stan’s resolved hardened to confront List. Whatever came next was harder for Stan to hold on to.

Andre’s matter-of-fact tone shifted each word into static, each syllable tumbling into the buzz of thought suddenly coursing through him.

Von List. He had enough information about him now thanks to the truth serum Alfie had made.

With the right angle, there should be a way to send List back to where he came from.

He felt the prick of anxiety drill low in his stomach, but Wendy’s stare lingered even as Andre finished speaking. Without waiting for a response, Andre pressed a hand briefly to Stan’s shoulder, a physician’s touch of finality.

“I’ll look in again later,” Andre said over his shoulder from the doorway, already departing briskly. “Don’t be this difficult a patient when she changes your bandages.”

The latch clicked softly behind him, leaving Stan alone with her.

Silence stretched before Stan finally wore it down. His voice met the air without apology. “I must go after him. Von List.”

It sounded solid when he spoke the villain’s name aloud. Certain.

“Not today.” Wendy’s voice danced past him, light yet firm.

“Today, tomorrow—it doesn’t make a difference.” His jaw tightened slightly as his words pressed against her reason. “It’s Wednesday. He lingers at White’s after lunch. Civil as places go—I’ll find him there.”

Wendy exhaled faintly, a flash of disbelief flickering across her features. A pause, a shift, before she folded her arms across her middle with a small shake of her head.

“You think they’ll take you seriously like that?” Her eyes swept him again—leveled at him, unwavering, edged by challenge.

“This?” He gestured toward his day-old linens and the unruly fall of his hair. He scoffed faintly. “My valet—”

“Will do a perfunctory job,” she cut in, lips curving into something faintly mischievous. “He wouldn’t dare show actual initiative.”

“And why is that?” Stan asked.

“Because he’s intimidated by your title.”

“And you’re not?” He raised a brow, nearly giddy for her sly retort. Truth be told, he loved the fact that she didn’t mind formalities. And when she did, she erred. Perfect. These days, honesty was rare to come by, especially as a royal fourth son.

“This—” she drew an imaginary circle around his head, “needs work.”

His brow lifted faintly, his own challenge lighting his tone. “So, you think you can do better?”

Wendy stood perfectly still for a moment, her gaze holding his like a hand brushing the surface of a flame.

That spark between them caught again—quiet, electric, impossible to ignore.

Then, as though the idea required no particular weight of thought, she turned just enough to glance over her shoulder.

Her words came lightly, lazily hedged in amusement, yet they landed with startling precision.

“Absolutely. As soon as I change your bandage.”

*

Wendy bent to place the bowl of water on the table near his chair, her movements deliberate yet unhurried.

The light in the room was muted, softened by the overcast sky outside Stan’s chamber.

Her gaze flicked to him—dark brown waves unruly as they fell across his forehead and curled at his crown and nape.

Longer than a prince’s hair ought to be, certainly, but there was something else beneath the untamed locks, something far more captivating.

He was still recovering, yes, but even that couldn’t disguise the pull she felt. His presence had an undeniable gravity that drew her in.

She had seen him at his most vulnerable.

Sweat-soaked and feverish, an injured warrior’s body—a man—battling his demons.

And now, to see him upright, even flirtatious, an undercurrent of strength animated every movement he made.

That strength drew her in until even breathing felt magnetic and it was so hard to fight the attraction.

“Don’t tell me nurses are in the habit of cutting hair,” he said, the lilt in his tone as teasing as the amused arch of his brow.

Wendy allowed him only the shadow of a smile. “I can’t speak for most nurses, but I’ve had very comprehensive training. A brother who’s an eye surgeon ensured I could learn everything he could teach me.”

Stan crossed his arms, leaning back slightly, an inquisitive tilt softening his usual royal demeanor. “You cut Nick’s hair, then? Your mysterious skill has nothing to do with being a nurse.”

Oh, he was sharp. The way his lips slightly curved pulled the words from him like silk from a spool, making mischief simmer beneath the room’s quiet lull. Wendy pressed her lips together and looked away before her smile betrayed her amusement.

“You know,” he continued, with a faintly conspiratorial edge, “I have a sister too. You can’t fool me.”

She breathed softly, steadying. Fooling him wasn’t what she wanted. Touching him, though… well, that was a different matter entirely. Her fingers tingled at the thought.

“Please pull your shirt down. I’ll change your bandage,” she said evenly, concealing those betraying impulses.

His hesitation was brief, just a fraction of a second before his hands reached up to untie the collar and, with a practiced tug, pulled free the fastening at his shirt.

He crossed his arms and pulled the hem of his shirt first and then over his head to reveal…

well… his entire torso in all its muscular glory.

Wendy did not mean to look. Truly, she did not. But her gaze couldn’t seem to obey her better judgment, drawn, as if by its own will, to the sight before her.

His shirt, discarded in a casual heap, left every inch of him on display.

The planes of his torso were defined, each muscle standing out as if carved, the faintest shadow tracing beneath each line.

His shoulders were broad, strong, and purposeful, tapering down to a chest that suggested strength held firmly in control.

Beneath his skin, the sinew shifted with every small movement he made—a turn of his head, the subtle stretch of his arm—each motion revealing the seamless coordination of form and function.

The perfection was almost unsettling. He resembled the ideal proportions Wendy had once seen sketched in a reproduction of a Leonardo da Vinci sketch belonging to her brother, though Prince Stan felt more vivid, more alive than any preserved parchment could capture.

Her breath shallowed, though she quickly pressed her lips together—anything to stop herself from making a sound.

The wound.

Tend to the bandage.

With the small scissors from her tray, she cut the muslin and peeled it off carefully.

Wendy frowned slightly as she leaned in, examining the healing gash. The deep cut was closed now, the angry flush faded, and the swelling in the area greatly reduced.

“You’re healing well,” she said as she discarded the old bandage with the faint yellow crusted edges. It assured her that nature was taking her due course, and her prince was recovering.

Not. Your. Prince.