Page 6 of The Sound of Seduction (Miracles on Harley Street #4)

She smoothed a hand over her apron, the linen coarse beneath her fingertips.

Stan’s gaze wandered across the treatment room and lingered on Andre’s diploma, sunlight glancing over its bold Latin text.

Universitas Vindobonensis, Scientiae Medicinae Doctor, it read, University of Vienna, Doctor of Medical Science.

Stan’s brow furrowed as he tilted his head to study the frame.

“Andre’s diploma,” he noted. “He’s fluent in German and Latin, I wager.

” He paused and cast a glance toward Wendy, his voice colored with a curious lilt.

“Where did you hang your certifications as a nurse? I see each of the doctors has their own on the wall.”

The question landed like a wet cloth splashing her face.

Wendy hesitated, her heartbeat quickening.

The mortar and stone walls, so much less forgiving than the village cottages she’d grown up in, offered her no escape from the question.

She clasped her hands in front of her to keep them still, though her fingertips pressed into her palm, betraying her unease.

“I don’t have one,” she admitted, her voice soft but steady.

Even so, heat prickled up her neck, blooming across her cheeks.

She risked a glance at him, already preparing herself for the flicker of disappointment.

Or worse—pity. There it was again —the chasm between their worlds, deepened by paper and privilege.

“Oh,” Stan said, the single syllable hanging awkwardly in the air between them. His gaze flicked away as if unsure where to land, and Wendy’s stomach tightened.

She glanced back at him reluctantly, carrying the silence with her like a too-heavy burden. His brows drew together briefly, but then, just as quickly, his expression softened.

“My sister didn’t attend university either,” he said, leaning forward, his voice low in the quiet of the room.

“Unlike my brothers and me. But truth be told, she’s smarter without a degree than all of us together with our collection of papers covering walls.

” Wendy blinked, surprised enough to meet his gaze directly.

His tone was warm, unassuming, and carried a thread of admiration she hadn’t expected.

“She’s the one who sees what we miss entirely,” Stan continued.

His lips curved, just faintly, into a smile that felt meant for her alone.

“I suppose you’re like that, the axis that keeps things spinning.

Without you, nothing works as smoothly here in the practice. ”

Wendy’s throat tightened—not from shame, but from something rarer: recognition.

Could he really see her? Not as a nurse, not as Nick’s sister, but as someone worthy?

She didn’t speak, not at first, because she couldn’t quite trust herself to.

Her fingers, still knotted together, loosened slowly.

Why did a compliment from the prince mean more to her than a degree on the wall would?

Stan shifted again, seemingly at ease with the confession he had shared. “I imagine it’s the same here,” he added simply, almost as though clarifying to himself. “You don’t need a piece of paper when it’s already clear how brilliant you are.”

The words hung in the air, bright and solid, and for once, Wendy did not rush to chase them away. Instead, she nodded slightly, her lips curving in a brief but genuine smile. “Thank you,” she murmured, the heat in her face softening into something less painful, something more like pride.

Stan returned that small smile, and for the first time in what felt like ages, the room wasn’t weighted by pretenses or unspoken apologies but simply comfortable.

Stan left when Eddie did. Wendy felt the tug the moment the door closed behind the patient and his parents.

The urge. She should clean up the treatment room.

She knew that, but her feet itched to move before her mind could second-guess.

She slipped into the hall, barely bothering to smooth her apron or adjust her bonnet.

There was no time; cleaning would wait. She hurried past the gilded mirror that hung just outside the waiting room, pausing only for a fraction of a second.

Her reflection offered nothing particularly reassuring, but she decided it didn’t matter.

If her bonnet sat slightly askew, well, so be it.

She wasn’t sure what to expect from this impulse, only that she wanted—no, needed—to see him again.

The apothecary door stood partway ajar, and her heart gave a traitorous leap when she peered inside. There he was.

Stan stood at the counter, one hand resting lightly on its edge as he leaned in to speak with Alfie. His frame was purposeful even in repose, his voice low but carrying the faint cadence of dry humor.

“—List lurking with his plan for vengeance—nonsensical, naturally, but it seems alarmingly well-organized.”

Alfie muttered something in response, but Wendy missed it entirely because Stan shifted then, just slightly. Her eyes drifted downward, unbidden. Oh dear.

His beige breeches, sharply tailored to perfection, framed his shapely behind, and Wendy’s cheeks burned.

This wasn’t just shapely—it was everything in harmony.

The cut of his breeches, along with the positioning of the seams in the most flattering places, complemented the serious lines of his tailcoat, yet couldn’t hide the firm, lean strength she imagined underneath.

A symphony of masculinity and strength, with the right measure of youth and a dash of refinement, made her forget how to speak.

But then Stan turned toward her, stealing her breath anew. His sideburns—trimmed to impeccable precision—framed a face poised with charm. And, oh, that slow smile. It wasn’t loud or broad, more subtle than she’d expected, but it felt deliberate. Reserved for her.

“Wendy!” Alfie chirped, snapping her out of her spiraling thoughts. Stan turned fully toward her, his gaze steady, and she felt her throat tighten.

“Th-thank you,” she croaked, then immediately flushed harder.

Alfie tilted his head. “For what?”

“She means me,” Stan said with an arched brow.

Even that was perfection.

“Erm,” Wendy blurted hastily. She cleared her throat, dipping into a slightly stiff curtsy as she addressed Stan. “Your Royal Highness, I mean—thank you for your help with my patient.”

The curtsy was instinctive, yet it felt awkward when paired with her faintly trembling voice. Oh, if Pippa and Bea saw this, they’d probably send her to finishing school—she needed finishing, regardless of the full waiting room, waiting for her every morning.

“You helped her with a patient?” Alfie leaned back, his grin turning sly as his arms crossed over his chest. “Do tell, Stan.”

“It was nothing, really,” Stan said, brushing it off with a wave of his hand. “A boy who needed a little encouragement, that’s all.”

“That wasn’t nothing,” Wendy interjected quietly, drawing his gaze to hers once more. “It was awfully nice.”

The corner of his mouth tilted up again—not quite a smirk, not quite a grin. Something softer. The warmth in it reached to his eyes, and she couldn’t help the way her stomach fluttered like leaves caught in the wind.

Stan returned his focus to Alfie, but Wendy hardly noticed as the sensations washed over her. It wasn’t just the princely ease with which he held himself, the quick wit, or the gentle manner with the boy. It was something more. Deeper.

She’d read too many bedtime stories to count as a child, tales of noble heroes who soared in to save the day.

But Stan was different. He didn’t sweep in with showy gestures or grandiose promises.

He stood firm, steady, real. He made the fantastic seem tangible, as if the divide between dream and flesh could bridge two opposites with one glance.

And perhaps that was why she felt so rooted to the spot, heart thrumming and cheeks glowing. Not because he embodied the ideals of a prince from any story she’d known, but because he surpassed them. A man of action over pretense, conviction over performance.

Better than a fairytale.

Real.

That thought settled low within her, solid and undeniable, just as Stan caught her gaze once more. This time, she didn’t look away.