Page 5 of The Sound of Seduction (Miracles on Harley Street #4)

Wendy sighed, a quiet and sorrowful sound that softened the air.

Stan’s gaze lingered on her profile as she bit her lip as if carefully choosing her words.

A curl had slipped loose from the pins holding her hair up, brushing her cheek in a way that made Stan’s chest tighten.

“Look at me,” she said finally, her voice threaded with calm authority and a trace of playfulness.

“Thanks to this invention, you can walk. Your sister doesn’t understand that this is temporary.

Temporary means it won’t last forever, do you know that? ”

The boy sniffled audibly but shook his head, his small, freckled face peeking out from beneath the messy fringe of his red hair.

Wendy leaned in slightly, lowering her voice as though sharing a secret.

“Do you know what I think? I think your contraption is cleverer than Charlotte realizes. She doesn’t see what I see.

It’s like a magic trick.” A pause, brief but deliberate, pulling the boy’s attention away from his doubts.

“You step inside it now, and one day, you’ll step out stronger than you’ve ever been.

You’ll have straight legs, strong bones, and”—she smiled softly—“you’ll be the last to laugh, like my father always said. ”

The boy peered at her, his tears momentarily forgotten. “You really think so? It’s a magic trick?”

Wendy’s smile deepened, filling the air with her quiet confidence. “I know so. When the human body heals, it’s nothing short of a miracle! Magic, absolutely! And you can tell them you’re the only one clever enough to wear it to help that magic along.”

Stan’s throat tightened as he watched the boy’s shoulders relax at her gentle reassurance. The smallest blossom of hope flickered in the child’s tear-streaked face, and Wendy reached forward one last time, dabbing a stray tear away with her square of linen.

“Then Father must be right. He says that we’re both miracles, Charlotte and I. All the time.”

“And if your father says it,” Wendy replied, “I’d wager it must be true.”

Another pause, this one unbroken by the boy’s voice or Wendy’s.

Only the sound of her skirts as she shifted slightly, a curl of hair bouncing free as she moved with some unintentional grace that Stan found impossible not to notice.

She lifted her hand suddenly, as if remembering it was there, and tucked the rogue curl back into place behind her ear.

Then, she looked up.

Stan’s breath caught and he froze. Her gaze met his—wide, unguarded—and for a breathless moment, the quiet room, the boy’s splints, the entire world narrowed to just that look.

She saw him.

And worse—he sensed what it cost her to hold his gaze.

His chest tightened, not from nerves, but from knowing how fragile the moment was. This was the distance he was meant to keep.

Still, he stepped forward. His boots clicked softly against the polished floor, each stride a quiet betrayal of his caution. He met her eyes—steady, searching—even as every part of him warned that she could not remain untouched if he continued.

Her lips parted, just barely, as though she meant to ask something-or perhaps only caught her breath. Although her surprise lingered, what arrested him most was the way her expression softened, just faintly, not retreating but allowing him to be seen in turn.

And for Stan, that was it—the moment the lost pieces fell into place, like the shields of a Roman testudo snapping into perfect formation.

His mind, trained in the art of strategy, recognized the pattern instantly, each piece locking together with purpose, and defense was futile.

Whatever longing had clawed at him before felt sharper now, absolutely undeniable.

There was no running from Wendy, no strategy that ended with escape.

There was only her and him, rooted in the doorway, unable to prevent whatever came next.

This moment—Wendy in his arms, instinctively calm and focused even in the heat of intimacy—showed him something else too. She was not just the nurse who’d cared for him. She was someone who could stand steady at the helm of Cloverdale House, calm beneath pressure, bold without being reckless.

*

The corridor fell into a hush as Wendy gazed at Prince Stan standing in the doorway. For a moment, it was as if she’d forgotten to breathe—just her unsteady pulse filling the stillness. Then he shifted, bowing slightly, one hand pressed to his chest in that easy, regal way of his.

“My apologies, Miss Folsham,” he said in his smooth and rich voice. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Wendy’s heart thrummed—too fast, too loud—and she pressed her palm to the edge of the treatment bed to steady herself. Could he hear what he did to her heart?

“Can I assist you in any way, Your Royal Highness?” she asked, a touch breathless but managing the question with a small, composed smile.

Her little patient, Eddie, stopped sniffling long enough to squeak, “Royal Highness?” His wide, skeptical eyes darted to the doorway, studying the prince.

Wendy flicked her gaze toward Prince Stan, a silent prompt he instantly understood. He tipped his head slightly and, with a slow smile, stepped inside.

“Yes, my name is Prince Ferdinand Constantin Maximilian Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen,” Stan announced with gravity, bowing low once more. He was too good to be real, and yet, there he was, true nobility impersonated.

The boy gasped, eyes lighting up like lanterns. “Oh boy! A real prince?” His excitement bubbled over, and before either of them could stop him, he attempted a leap from the high treatment bed.

“Eddie, wait,” Wendy called, reaching for him—but the little boy’s legs slipped.

Stan’s movements were immediate and startling in their graceful precision.

He lunged forward, pivoting with ease to intercept the boy as he toppled toward the floor.

One arm swept beneath the boy’s knees while the other supported his back, catching him mid-air before his splints or his pride could take any damage.

The room seemed to exhale as Stan crouched low, lowering Eddie gently to a standing position. His hands steadied the child’s sides, just above his narrow hips, before he leaned back and knelt to meet him at eye level.

“See?” Stan smiled as if he didn’t have a care in the world—only patience and encouragement in his voice. “You’re standing!”

Eddie froze, blinking down at his legs as though the realization hadn’t fully registered. The splints gleamed faintly in the soft light of the room, supporting him as his feet pressed firmly against the floor.

“I am,” Eddie whispered with delight.

Wendy placed a steadying hand on the boy’s back, her fingers lightly brushing over his thin shoulders. Tears pricked behind her eyes, but she pushed them down, focusing instead on the moment unfolding before her.

“The splints are holding me!” Eddie exclaimed, turning his head to peek at Wendy with wide, amazed eyes. “Look, Nurse Wendy! I haven’t stood since Yuletide last winter!”

Her smile curved warmly as she glanced down at him. “You see? What did I tell you? Magic.”

Stan surveyed her then, and his gaze was like the brush of sunlight against her skin.

His smile deepened, sincere and dazzling.

Wendy tried desperately so to keep her composure, but her heart was having none of it.

It melted clean away as that breathtaking mixture of blue and green in his eyes pinned her in place.

“Magic indeed,” Stan murmured, more to her than to the boy.

Eddie bounced on the balls of his feet, testing the strength of the splints.

“Well, Eddie,” Stan nodded, “I’d say you’re already getting stronger wearing those splints. Like a knight preparing for battle in a full suit of armor.”

“Armor?” the boy asked eagerly, his face alight.

“Oh yes,” Stan said, nodding as though the idea had struck him only then. His expression turned mock-serious, lips pursed as though he were carefully considering his next words. Wendy couldn’t hold back a soft chuckle.

“I’ve seen many hopefuls come and go at Bran Castle,” Stan continued gravely, “in the Carpathian Mountains. Not every warrior has what it takes to carry heavy armor and protect what’s right.”

Eddie’s eyes went round as saucers, his breath hitching in awe. “I can carry armor. I can do it,” he said firmly.

“I think you can, too,” Stan said, straightening to his full height. He reached out a hand toward the boy. “You, Squire Eddie, strike me as the kind of knight who will finish training stronger than anyone expects.”

Eddie shook Stan’s hand solemnly, without hesitation. Wendy clutched her chest as if her heart could pop out with delight and break in two at the sight of Prince Stan towering like a sturdy oak above the boy, his smile both encouraging and kind.

And then Prince Stan looked at her again, his focus shifting entirely to her.

Wendy’s breath caught, the beginnings of a blush stealing over her cheeks at the depth of his gaze.

He didn’t need to say a word, not with that shimmer in his eyes—mischievous, yes, but also deeply understanding, as though he knew exactly what this moment meant for Eddie.

For her.

It wasn’t the smile itself that undid her, but the way it reached his eyes, softening the edges, wrapping her in a glow that could banish the cold forever.

Wendy clasped her hands tightly to still their tremor, but her heart?

That was another thing entirely.

Eddie’s parents arrived not long after, bustling into the treatment room with worried faces that quickly melted into gratitude at the sight of their boy standing tall.

Stan remained gracious, offering a steady nod before excusing himself, mentioning something about needing to speak with Alfie in the apothecary.

Wendy handed the child over with a few final words of instruction for the splints; her voice warm, but her thoughts distracted.