Page 59 of The Sound of Seduction (Miracles on Harley Street #4)

One week later…

T he door to his bedchamber closed with a quiet finality, the soft click resonating against the intimate glow of the oil lamp.

Stan stood just inside the threshold, the scent of the room—a mix of fresh beeswax polish and the faint tang of linen—grounding him.

Here, the burden of diplomacy and royal expectations loosened its vice grip.

Tonight, it felt different. Tonight, it held Wendy.

“Please read this letter from my father,” Stan said and handed it to her.

Stan,

Your appointment to ambassador is a solemn trust, requiring steadfast loyalty, prudence, and wisdom, all of which you have proven to possess in abundance.

Consider this not only a duty but a privilege; to serve our people and uphold the honor of our House on foreign soil is among the noblest of callings.

Be assured that, as you fulfill this charge, my faith in your judgment and character is unwavering. May your efforts abroad bring distinction to our name and strength to our ties with England. You make me proud, son.

Prince Ferdinand

She moved further into the space, her skirts brushing against the polished wood floor with a faint rustle.

Stan couldn’t take his eyes off her as her eyes jumped and her brow furrowed.

The glow of the lamp softened her, lighting the edges of her golden blonde hair and casting gentle shadows along the form of her neck.

The chamber was too bland for her, yet she transformed it just by being here.

“You’re staying in London?” she nearly croaked, swallowing visibly.

“Yes.”

For a moment, she remained silent and so many expressions washed over her face that Stan thought he couldn’t possibly follow the thoughts she had. But then, she smiled. It was one of those illuminating Wendy-smiles that could brighten the depths of the universe with her lovely glow alone.

“I imagined your bed differently,” she said, eyeing the large four-post bed.

“How so?” He tried to keep his voice steady but felt it almost cracking from the nerves. Like a green boy. The urge to touch her, to keep her within reach, stirred with aching persistence.

“Smaller.” She wrinkled her nose most adorably and looked around. “The walls are just white. The furniture is elegant but it’s all so… practical.”

“Clinical?”

“Yes!”

“And why is that a bad thing, Nurse Wendy? Clinical is your métier.”

“Because this is your home. Your private space. It should be cozy.” She crossed her arms and hugged herself.

“It’s still new. I only moved in this week.” Stan closed the distance to her. “I’m hoping you’ll put your feminine touch on the room. You can choose any wallpaper, any lamp shades, anything you like as long you’ll agree to make this cozy with me .”

She paused. “But it’s your home.”

“I was hoping it would be ours. Our bedchamber. Our house.”

“At the new embassy?”

“Yes, I’m the ambassador. It’s mine.” She furrowed her brows, but he didn’t want to talk about the embassy this evening. “Wendy,” he murmured, his voice catching slightly before he managed to steady it. “It’ll be ours.”

She turned, her gaze sweeping the understated elegance of his sanctuary one last time before it settled on him.

Her lips parted, her cheeks pinkened—not with embarrassment but something unspoken that made his chest constrict.

Slowly, he crossed the space between them, his boots sounding faintly against the floorboards until he stood mere inches away.

Lifting his hands, he curved them around her waist, marveling for the hundredth time at how perfectly she fit there.

Her softness pressed into his palms, and when he gazed down at her, she was already looking up, her eyes brighter than any lamplight.

“You’re looking at me like that again,” she said. Her words were quiet, yet the way she spoke unmoored him entirely.

“How do I look at you, Wendy?” he asked, his voice low, savoring the shape of her name as it lingered in the space between them.

“Like you’re trying to memorize me,” she replied earnestly, her pink lips curling in the faintest smile. She inclined her head, her auburn lashes dark against her skin.

“I am,” he admitted without hesitation. He moved a step closer, feeling the warmth of her body through the folds of her gown. “I want to remember everything about us.”

Her gasp beckoned him closer. He lowered his head, brushing his lips to hers in a kiss so tentative that her sigh felt like a reward.

She welcomed him and the kiss deepened slowly, each movement reverent, a prayer pressed across her mouth. When her fingers slid up to touch the lapels of his coat, he dipped his head further, coaxing her closer against him as the sweetness of her scent clouded his senses.

Her hands did something to him. They were timid yet deliberate, gripping the edge of his coat before sliding the heavy fabric down his shoulders.

It pooled at his feet, unheeded. His fingers worked on their own, finding the lace and buttons at the back of her gown, loosening each until the garment shifted, giving way under his touch.

With each layer he removed, her breathing quickened—a soft, rhythmic reminder that she trusted him.

When the last piece fell away, revealing her in nothing more than her simple chemise, he thought he might lose all his carefully tended composure.

Tonight would be special. It would set the tone for their future together.

Stan stepped back just a little, toeing off his Hessian boots as he straightened to meet her gaze once more.

For the briefest moment, he hesitated, but one look at her—her flushed cheeks, the way her gaze trailed him shyly—was all the reassurance he needed.

With deliberate precision, he pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it onto the growing pile of discarded clothes.

Her gasp filled the small room, and he felt a tightening satisfaction in his gut. She touched his arm and nudged him to turn around. He felt her gaze flickered to the scar on his shoulder, the pronounced mark cutting through his skin.

Slowly, she stepped around him, her bare toes whispering against the wooden floor.

When her cool fingers brushed the scar, Stan froze, his breath halting.

Her touch was gentle, even hesitant, but it reached deep into the parts of himself he had long thought impervious—except to her.

Then, without warning, she leaned in and pressed her lips to the jagged line.

This was not what a nurse did to a patient.

They were just a man and a woman.

He closed his eyes, her slow kiss on his shoulder almost overwhelming him with its unexpected tenderness.

“It’s healing well,” she murmured, her voice soft against his skin. “Next, the redness will fade. All that’ll be left will be a faint white line.”

He swallowed, emotions too raw to disguise. “I’m alive because of you,” he said, the words unfiltered and true.

She frowned slightly, and with that familiar independence, she shook her head. “You’re young and strong. You could’ve recovered without me.”

“No,” he said, cupping her face so she had no choice but to look at him. “I know men who lost to fever. I’ve seen what it does—this slow, merciless assault on the body. I nearly succumbed, Wendy. I felt the darkness taking me. But your touch, your voice—you called me back.”

Her throat worked as she swallowed, her eyes searching his. “It probably wasn’t me.” Modesty suited her, but it was misplaced in Stan’s eyes as she continued, “Science surely has an explanation. There’s so much I don’t know. The human body is a marvel.”

“There’s much medicine can’t explain, yes,” he replied, his thumbs brushing her cheeks. “But there’s much we do understand, too. And tonight, I want to show you some of the marvels we can be for each other.”

The moment stretched as Stan’s hands slid down her sides, settling firmly yet tenderly at her waist. Her gown’s fabric was soft beneath his fingers, whisper-light compared to the warmth emanating from her body.

Without a word, he lifted her, and placed her on the edge of the bed, her chemise brushing briefly against his thighs as she moved.

The mattress dipped gently beneath her weight, and in the quiet, the faint creak of the wood seemed intimate, almost conspiratorial.

He leaned in, his lips capturing hers in a kiss that melted the air between them.

His mouth moved slowly, deliberately, savoring her taste as if it were his last indulgence.

Her lips, pliant and trembling, molded to his, and though her breathing hitched, her shoulders eased under the coaxing pressure of his hands.

Stan fumbled with the ties of her chemise, the intricate knots proving stubborn in his haste.

He forced himself to slow down, to savor the moment instead of rushing past it.

The delicate material eventually gave way, parting to reveal the soft slope of her shoulder.

He paused to look at her, the glow of the oil lamp gilding her skin in shades of gold.

She trembled beneath his hands, and as the chemise slipped further, his heart surged at the sight of her—bare, unguarded, divine.

Each inch of her revealed sent a deeper, insistent heat sparking through him, yet it was her shyness, her quiet submission, that undid him entirely.

Here, poised on the corner of the mattress, she was strong but also fragile, a contradiction he wanted to spend the rest of his life unraveling.

So, he leaned in again, his arms on either side of her. She didn’t lie down but put a hand on his chest, still cool.

She must be nervous.

Her voice finally broke the charged silence. “You’re so much… larger than me,” she murmured, the uncertainty quivering in each syllable.