Page 8 of The Sound of Seduction (Miracles on Harley Street #4)

Later that afternoon on Regent Street…

M adame Duchon’s fine shop exuded elegance from every corner.

The walls were painted a soft cream, punctuated by gilded mirrors that reflected light from the store windows as well as the lights inside.

Bolts of luxurious fabric spilled from cabinets, their textures and hues tantalizing even to Wendy, who had never worn the finest styles she saw coming in and out of Harley Street.

Ladies flitted across the room like butterflies, their voices blending with Madame Duchon’s low, brisk French commands.

Wendy felt entirely out of place. She stood stiffly on a slightly raised platform in the back room, her plain shoes peeking out apologetically from beneath the hem of her gown.

To her left, Pippa was reclining in a spindly chair, her perfectly coiffed blonde hair catching the light.

Beside her sat Bea, a vision in her plum morning gown, adjusting the lace gloves on her delicate hands.

They seemed effortlessly regal, every inch the noblewomen they were, and their ease only heightened Wendy’s discomfort.

“Stand still, Miss Folsham.” Madame Duchon fluttered toward her, scissors in hand, her sharp gaze as calculating as a surgeon’s. “You mustn’t twitch, or I’ll ruin the hem.”

Wendy obeyed, resisting the urge to fidget as one of the assistants adjusted the shoulder seam of the gown she now wore.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the nearby mirror and blinked, hardly recognizing the young woman staring back.

The dress— a deep hue of rose gold that shimmered with golden threads in the light—fitted her like a second skin.

It draped fluidly over her frame, the skirts pooling into soft folds that swayed delicately when she dared to move.

Wendy’s curly blonde hair, hastily tied into a simple braid that morning, had somehow begun to suit the richness of the gown, the lighter strands picking up the warm tones in the fabric.

She liked what she saw even though it felt strange and out of place. Who didn’t want to be like a princess if given the chance?

But giving in to the idea—even imagining it—was going to be trouble. And Wendy knew it.

“Turn, won’t you?” Bea’s voice broke through her daze as soon as the modiste refrained from fussing and stood back.

Obediently, Wendy pivoted, her cheeks burning. She felt as if every eye in the shop was on her, dissecting the way the gown hugged her waist and flared at her hips.

Bea’s sharp inhale was the first sound to break the silence. “You’re… radiant,” she said, her warm eyes widening. “Doesn’t she look radiant, Pippa?”

“She does,” Pippa answered easily, leaning forward with a smile that could charm the entire room if she wanted while she pushed her spectacles up her nose with a discerning gaze—as if she knew the fine fabric of the dress.

Her tone carried the smooth confidence of someone born to be admired.

“Rose blush and gold suits you perfectly. And the shimmering shot silk—it catches the light just so. Doesn’t it, Bea? ”

“Changeant, we call it,” Madam Duchon mumbled. “Two colored threads are woven in different directions, blushing pink and gold, to catch all the light in a dazzling ballroom.”

Bea nodded eagerly. “Oh, it does. It’s positively dazzling. Wendy, you’ll outshine half the girls at the ball.”

Wendy’s fingers curled into the folds of her skirts.

“I hardly think that’s likely with you as the bride,” she murmured.

The words came out quieter than she’d intended, but they were sincere.

She wasn’t dazzling. Not like Bea, with her lush strawberry-blonde hair that gleamed with coppery hues and the poised confidence of a woman well-versed in Society; nor like Pippa,—but rather, the commanding presence they both carried at a ball.

Her own hair, a tumble of wild golden curls that caught the light unevenly, seemed a rebellious imposter beside Bea’s sleek shine—a reckless scribble on the page where Bea was the artist’s deliberate stroke.

Wendy thought her existence had always been practical, not ornamental—surgeons didn’t care how prettily a bandage was tied; they cared that it held.

“I’m not certain this suits me. It’s too much. ”

“Nonsense,” Pippa said, dismissing her in the same tone she used when scolding Nick for eating too many biscuits. “You’ll walk into that ballroom, and no one will suspect you haven’t always dressed like this.”

“They will when I trip over my own skirts.” Wendy frowned. “It is so silky, I am afraid to tear it.”

“Then we will be there to lend a hand. I assure you, I’m the reigning queen of mishaps at balls, and I won’t let you earn the title on my watch,” Pippa said with a wink.

She was so kind, Pippa, her new sister-in-law. Wendy wished she didn’t like Pippa so much, but she did, even though Pippa competed with Wendy for Nick’s protection—or was it his attention rather?

“If only you could see yourself,” Bea added gently, sensing her unease. “You look…” She paused, searching for the right words. “Like a dream. Truly.”

Wendy glanced down, unable to meet their warm gazes. “Well, it’s not every day I look like this. Or wear anything like this,” she admitted. “I don’t suppose I’ll fool anyone for long.”

“Don’t be silly,” Pippa chimed in briskly. “You’ll be perfect. I’ll make sure of it. You’ve already survived our wedding. This will be easy.”

But Wendy couldn’t shake the tension coiling beneath her ribcage.

Nick’s wedding had been different. She had been the groom’s sister, unobtrusively tucked into conversations or helping direct wandering children after the celebratory breakfast. No one had minded that she hadn’t danced; in fact, hardly anyone had noticed.

But now, she’d be stepping into a ballroom filled with England’s elite, where partners would stretch out their hands and expect her to know steps she’d never been taught.

And then there’d be him to witness her embarrassment.

Her breath hitched slightly at the thought. A prince. He’d be there. The prince.

The man who managed to stride through rooms as if he belonged everywhere, and yet had those damnably mischievous eyes that hinted otherwise.

Wendy forced herself to take a calming breath. She’d kept to fairytales for precisely this reason—they were harmless stories, but when their elements crept into reality, the line between wonder and apprehension easily blurred.

“Fairytales aren’t for women like me,” she muttered under her breath— not ones who stitch wounds and disappear.

“What was that?” Pippa asked, raising a brow.

“Nothing,” Wendy lied nervously. “Just reminding myself not to step on anyone’s toes if I’m forced to dance.”

“The dances will begin by rank,” Pippa shrugged as if it were nothing but common knowledge.

“Since Violet is pregnant, I don’t suppose the Earl and Countess of Langley will follow the bride and groom, will they?” Bea asked.

“Not if Prince Stan will be there,” Pippa said. “He outranks them all, even though he’s not English.”

“Oh, the villagers will speak of the balls at Silvercrest Manor for months!” Bea said excitedly.

“We’re certainly bringing some of London’s finest to our grandparent’s old country estate,” Pippa added with an arched brow.

“It’s been made for elegance, and we’ve let it slumber far too long.” Bea blinked in Wendy’s direction.

Pippa laughed, but it was Bea who stood and placed a hand on Wendy’s arm. “You’ll be splendid, Wendy. Even if you do step on someone’s toes—they’ll still thank you for it.”

The sincerity in Bea’s smile was disarming, no wonder Alfie was so smitten with her. And for a moment, Wendy felt a flicker of comfort break through the nerves twisting inside her.

“Turn again, Miss Folsham!” Madame Duchon’s voice commanded from the far side of the room. “I must see the back.”

Wendy sighed and obeyed, the muslin skirts brushing softly against her legs.

The lightness of the gown felt foreign compared to the ones Wendy usually wore to work.

But it’s sheen and the brightness seemed oddly grounding, like armor for the evening to come.

She squared her shoulders, glancing nervously at her reflection one more time.

This was a gown to catch the eye, not allowing her to blend into the background.

The empire waistline, adorned with a creamy-rose satin ribbon, drew the eye upward, while the low square neckline—modestly daring—framed the décolletage without overstepping propriety.

Fine embroidery, like frost on a winter pane, traced the hem and bodice, catching the light in hushed, glittering whispers.

The sleeves, mere wisps ending just below the shoulders, lent cherubic purity to the audacious elegance that made Wendy weigh the words she’d use to describe her reflection. It was elegant. Refined. Splendid.

Except somewhere in the depths of her mind, “splendid” sounded awfully close to “terrifying.”

*

Meanwhile, in another part of London, Stan adjusted his gloves and watched from the shadowed alcove as the Langleys, servants bustling around them, issued crisp instructions for the upcoming trip.

By now, every corner of the grand townhouse was filled with the sounds of trunks being hefted, feet hurriedly scuffling across polished wooden floors, and the occasional sharp call from the steward ensuring not a single satchel would be left behind.

And Stan didn’t want to cast a shadow over the excitement before the journey to Alfie’s and Bea’s wedding in Kent, even though his mother’s letter was pressing down on him.

My Dearest Son,