Page 44 of The Sound of Seduction (Miracles on Harley Street #4)

B irds chirped and there was noise coming from the street.

Wendy blinked against the pale gray morning light filtering through the worn lace curtains.

Her mind was sluggish, heavy with the lingering fog of sleep.

She squinted toward the window and noticed condensation on the glass, a faint trail where cold air kissed its surface.

A shiver ran down her spine, and she instinctively tugged at the covers, comforted by their weight as she buried herself within them.

Then, she froze.

There was a sound—voices, faint but distinct, traveling up from downstairs. Her heart stuttered. Something about it rang familiar. She scanned the room quickly, each object settling into place as recognition dawned with startling speed. The dresser. The quilt. The faint scratch above the doorframe.

This wasn’t just any room. This was her old room.

Her eyes widened, the realization sending her bolt upright. The covers slipped slightly, exposing her bare shoulders to the cool air, and her startled gaze landed on the form beside her.

Stan.

He was sprawled on his side, unmoving save for the steady rise and fall of his chest. His face was perfectly calm, a boyish serenity softening the strong line of his jaw. There was an innocence in his expression, so at odds with the wickedly consuming man he’d been the night before.

Oh. The memory slammed into her, vivid and clear, making her skin flush hot despite the chill in the room.

“When did I fall asleep?” she whispered to no one in particular, tugging the end of the blanket higher. Her movements must have stirred him. He groaned softly, his voice rough with sleep as he shifted and rolled closer.

“Stan!” she hissed, attempting to tug the blanket away from him without dislodging it further from herself.

He mumbled incoherently and reached for her, his arm looping around her waist with a lazy confidence. Then he pulled her in, his warmth enveloping her like a furnace. That’s when Wendy noticed—became painfully aware, actually—that she was completely, utterly, and irrevocably naked.

Her entire body tensed.

And she realized a soreness in her middle. That was new.

Meanwhile, Stan remained blissfully oblivious, tucked under her blanket, her only shield of modesty. He, on the other hand, was fully clothed—or nearly so. He lay on top of the quilt, his broad chest brushing hers, radiating warmth like a furnace.

“Stan, wake up!” she demanded, keeping her voice low but sharp as her embarrassment spiked.

He groaned again. “Hmm?” Barely coherent, his grip tightened, and his face burrowed against her as though he had every right to remain in a world where nothing else mattered but holding her.

“Wake. Up,” she tried again, her voice a hurried mix of urgency and exasperation.

“If you insist,” he muttered, sleepily grinning against her skin before slowly pulling himself upright.

The blanket twisted with his movements, threatening to betray her further.

Her mortification deepened when his shirt budged, revealing a glimpse of his deeply tanned chest—a chest that would put any carved marble sculpture to shame.

She shook her head firmly. Not now. This was no time to admire him!

Wendy nearly giggled at the stray thought, but another sound caught her attention. She froze again, then scrambled out of bed, clutching the blanket, and dragging it around her like a makeshift cloak. Her bare feet hit the wooden floor, chilly against her skin, and she padded quickly to the window.

Peering out, she saw movement below.

Oh no!

Nick and Alfie were directing a carriage, their arms waving wildly as they attempted to guide the driver closer to the house. Just behind them, she noticed Andre hoisting a trunk over one shoulder with casual ease. The realization struck her just as a startled gasp caught in her throat.

“Stan! They’re moving supplies to Cloverdale!” she exclaimed, whipping her head toward him.

His response was sluggish at best. He sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and muttered groggily, “Good morning, my beautiful love.” His voice—low and unrefined—sent an involuntary shiver through her.

She might have melted at the sound of it—if her heart weren’t already tangled in dread.

Because now that the night was over, reality was here, and it had sharp teeth.

What if this moment unraveled everything she’d fought to build?

What if one whispered truth, overheard or guessed, cost them both everything?

“Stan!” she barked, refusing to be distracted by his tousled hair and endearing sleepiness, or the thrill of hearing him call her “my love.”

He stretched lazily, cocking one eyebrow as if amused by her frantic state. “Wendy, what time is it?”

“Look!” She waved frantically toward the window, willing him to catch up with the gravity of the situation. Stan’s shirt and much of her clothes lay on a pile on the floor.

At last, Stan dragged himself to his feet. Standing there in nothing but his crumpled breeches, he looked far too smug for her liking. He wandered closer, raking a hand through his already messy hair, and leaned casually against the window frame, completely unconcerned by the commotion below.

“They’re moving medical supplies,” Wendy hissed, stalking back toward him. The blanket trailed behind her like the world’s most awkward train. “To Cloverdale. They’re all here! Awake!”

Stan only grinned wider and crossed his arms, his casual composure as frustrating as it was unshakably charming.

It was going to be a very long morning.

*

Stan’s head shot up, his heart slamming into his ribs at the distant sound of voices wafting up from downstairs. For a moment, his mind blanked before realization struck him like a cold slap. Nick was here. Oh no, Nick.

No, no, no!

He ran a hand through his already messy hair and scrambled for his shirt, the wooden floorboards cold beneath his bare feet as he began pacing. “I can’t get out unseen,” he hissed, glancing back toward Wendy, who was clutching a blanket so tightly to her chest that she looked ready to fuse with it.

“Yes!” she replied, not helpfully, her eyes wide and filled with an emotion he was pretty sure mirrored his own. Panic. Great, all-consuming panic.

They froze for a moment, listening. The muffled murmur of voices faded slightly, replaced by the heavy creak of wagon wheels and the clatter of boots. From the sound of it, one carriage had been loaded and left.

“Perhaps they’re waiting for the next one,” Wendy whispered, hovering by the window now, her toe sneaking out from under the blanket to lightly tap the floor. Her voice wavered, betraying an optimism even she didn’t believe. “They’re probably inside now.”

He wasn’t willing to bet on “probably.” Stan peered past her, glancing out the window and noting the distance to the ground below. Not insurmountable. His gaze moved to the horizon, where his rented carriage was parked beyond the turn of the street, looking abandoned.

“I’m going out the window,” he declared, moving with purpose toward it. He’ll kill me just as I would a man who touched my sister.

Stan suppressed an inward smirk. But that touching, oh that was so good.

“Stan!” Wendy’s voice pitched higher, equal parts disbelief and exasperation.

“Look,” he said, swinging the window open and sticking his head out into the bracing morning air. The crisp breeze bit into him, but he waved it off. “My carriage is just around the corner. My driver must have fallen asleep. I’ll get his attention.”

She folded her arms, the blanket slipping precariously low on one shoulder, though she seemed not to notice. “Do you have much practice sneaking out of women’s rooms in the morning?”

He glanced over his shoulder with a cocked brow. “No, but I have climbed down from Bran Castle, which is perched on a mountain. This?” He gestured at the modest drop to the ground below, “is child’s play.”

Wendy opened her mouth—probably to argue—but he didn’t give her the chance. He swung his legs through the window frame. The slight groan of the wooden sill beneath him was the only hesitation he allowed himself. “One story up,” he muttered under his breath. “I can drop onto the horse. Probably.”

“Probably?!” Wendy’s disbelief followed him as he carefully maneuvered to the ledge, his fingers gripping the edge tightly.

But just as he adjusted his stance, a new voice reached his ears—soft but insistent. “I’m going with you.”

He craned his neck, blinking up at her in utter confusion. “What? Why?”

Her cheeks flushed, though she kept her chin high.

“Because if I’m found here, it won’t matter what excuse I give.

Do you think anyone will believe I came to your room to discuss the weather?

Or that I simply got lost on my way to the library?

” She sighed. “And I don’t want Nick to find out like this. I want to tell him about us properly.”

Stan opened his mouth, then closed it again. She had a point. “All right, fine,” he muttered quickly, now more concerned with the quickly collapsing timeline than with logic itself. “Wait until I bring the horse closer. I’ll catch you.”

Before she could counter with another protest, he dropped down, landing with a dull thud that shot up his knees but didn’t quite dampen his pride. He stood, brushing his hands off against his breeches as he scanned the area.

And then he froze.

Around the corner, stepping out into full, damning view, were four men. Felix. Alfie. André. And Nick.

Each of them stared directly at him, their expressions ranging from wide-eyed shock to pointed disapproval. Nick, in particular, looked less surprised and more sharply annoyed in a protective, big-brother sort of way.

Stan swallowed hard.

There it was—the look. That look. The one that said: You’ve taken what you shouldn’t have. And now you’ll answer for it. Not with swords, but with silence. With exile. With the cold severing of trust from a man who had always kept Wendy safe—Nick—and might now decide Stan couldn’t.

He cursed under his breath. He’d been caught.

For a moment that stretched a little too long, no one moved. Even the morning seemed to pause, holding its breath for what would come next.

“Good morning,” Stan said, his voice forced into a feigned and utterly unconvincing calm. He gave the smallest, most awkward of nods, which went unreturned.

Nick’s eyes narrowed. Alfie smirked. André crossed his arms and cleared his throat. Felix adjusted his gloves, looking like he was ready to start sharpening knives.

And then—another sound. The faint scuffle of feet above. Wendy.

Stan’s head jerked upward just in time to see her climbing out the window, the blanket still tangled around her. He stepped forward instinctively. “Careful!”

Her hair tumbled into her face, the blanket slipping lower than was proper. Her face went white, then red, then white again as she looked down.

“Oh no!” Wendy said faintly from above.

Silence. Four very male, very judgmental stares.

Nick’s gaze moved from Stan to Wendy dangling from the open window above them. Then back again. Slowly. “You have thirty seconds to explain,” he said, his voice quiet. Which was worse than shouting. So much worse.

Wendy’s voice cracked as she tried to summon words. “It’s not—it’s not what it looks like.”

Stan, standing half in front of her now, glanced sideways at her, then back at Nick. “No,” he said quietly. “It’s exactly what it looks like.”

Nothing could possibly go right with this.

Absolutely nothing.