Page 30 of The Sound of Seduction (Miracles on Harley Street #4)

Her hands worked carefully, deft fingers unwinding the older muslin before reaching for fresh strips.

She didn’t rush. The muslin lay smooth between her fingers as she carefully folded it, her touch deliberate as she spread the chamomile and calendula salve over the wound.

Why, she hadn’t even the grace to glance away!

The warmth of his skin met the cool balm—almost intimately, almost tenderly.

And just like the balm melted, so did the distance between them.

There was power there—real, tangible power—as if his body had been forged for more than courtly pursuits. Wendy wondered whether that explained the ease in his movements or the slightest air of command that came with him, even half-clad in the morning.

Somewhere—between her work and the tranquility of the room—came a sound she wasn’t prepared for.

Low and rich, the quiet groan he emitted reverberated down his back, through his ribs, vibrating beneath her steady hand.

A manly sound, it burrowed deep, too personal for reason.

Wendy’s breath hitched imperceptibly as warmth spread low in her own chest. The sound of seduction, surely, though it might have been unintentional.

“Your recovery is remarkable,” she managed finally, desperate for any words to anchor her composure.

Carefully, she pressed the edges of the fresh muslin to his skin, securing it with nimble precision before her hand, traitorous, lingered.

She suspected she could map every muscle beneath her palm if given the opportunity.

His build was something more reminiscent of a soldier than sheer royalty.

The inherent strength in his frame, tempered with a heart she suspected was capable of rare tenderness, made the injury seem cruel.

It was some cosmic injustice that she couldn’t name.

She allowed herself one more indulgent moment, tracing along his back—just a whisper of touch, the curve of her thumb following where muscle met bone.

Stan’s voice interrupted the hazy thought forming in her head. “I shouldn’t have been injured in the first place. It cost me too much time.”

“It nearly cost you all your time. You could have died.”

“I know. List is dangerous.” His tone dipped lower, carrying the weight she imagined he saved for the gravest of matters.

“He already proved what he was capable of when he captured my sister,” he went on, words tight now, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “Still, I should’ve seen it coming.”

“Surely,” she began tentatively, “you could appeal to the English royal family. Or… perhaps your own family? Isn’t that what they’re for in matters as critical as this?”

Stan turned toward her, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his expression before his lips curved into a faint wry smile.

His dark eyes, keen and steady, rested on her, though there was no mirth in his tone.

“You think too highly of royal families, Wendy. My title is courtesy, not authority.”

She frowned, her confusion deepening. “But you are of nobility, are you not? Surely your bloodline must still carry some influence?”

He gave a slight shake of his head, his voice quiet but firm.

“Not the kind you’re imagining. I am not of a reigning monarchy, nor do I hold a throne to summon aid from lofty courts.

My title is ancestral, a relic of the past. Decorative at best.” A pause lingered as he studied her, his gaze softening.

“It’s me, Wendy. I’m what Transylvania has in England, for better or worse. ”

Still, she pressed on. “There must be someone else. Surely, you cannot bear this alone.”

His smile turned faintly indulgent, though his eyes held steady. “It’s not a choice, Wendy. It’s my responsibility, my fight to take up. I’ve called on my brother for what help he can give, but this rests with me. That’s why I’m here.”

Wendy swallowed hard, her heart tightening.

She wanted to argue, to insist it wasn’t fair, but the quiet determination in his tone silenced her.

All she could do was hold his gaze and pray he understood the unspoken words in her heart.

“I see,” she said at last, though the words felt feeble in the face of his resolve.

What she saw, most of all, was that he stood alone, and something about that filled her with an ache she couldn’t name.

“Until I stop List, the responsibility lies with me—I’m the only one here.”

There it was, a sharp pang inside her chest, accompanied by a dreadful thought. When the time came, he would leave. For how could his integrity of such admirable magnitude remain bound in any one place when his country demanded him back?

Her hesitation filled the gap between her confession of worry and her desire to console. Her hand moved again, trailing over the landscape of his back—a brave trespass, guided by the quiet confession trailing her thoughts. Here he was, too resolute for his own good.

Stan shifted abruptly, interrupting her near-reverie. His pivoting brought his eyes square to hers, and Wendy’s hand froze mid-motion at the nape of his neck.

Caught.

She drew in a sharp breath and, as though to cover the unspoken folly of the moment, her fingers lightly scraped at the longer strands of brown curling at the back of his neck.

“Are you finished?” His words were laced with curiosity, hovering at the edge of amusement.

Wendy’s lips parted faintly before recovering. “You tell me,” she replied, feigning all the calm her pounding heart refused her.

Then he picked up the small scissors she’d set aside after cutting off his bandage. He handed them to her, holding the blades in his hand and offering her the finger loops. Stan had her gaze a moment longer before nodding, settling back in the chair as though offering her free rein.

And yet, the depth of his stare lingered, heavy with unspoken intent, leaving Wendy to wonder if she had just been handed freedom—or something far more perilous.