Page 15 of The Sound of Seduction
Wendy’s senses returned in a rush, and she scrambled to snatch the dress back up, hauling the silk over her shoulders with shaking hands. Her fingers fumbled desperately to cover herself as she pressed the bodice tightly against her chest.
The silence that followed was deafening. Nick blinked at her, Andre hesitated mid-grip, and Pippa clamped a hand over her mouth, her eyes suspiciously bright as if stifling laughter.
And then there was Prince Stan. Wendy dared a fleeting glance in his direction only to find his expression utterly indecipherable; his brows arched the faintest bit.
The comparison stunned her into a momentary silence, during which Pippa flounced closer, muttering about crushed silk and scandalized men. But for all the chaos erupting around her, Wendy could think only of him—Prince Stan, still leaning against the doorframe like he had all the time in the world to watch her humiliation unfold.
He hadn’t said a word, hadn’t moved an inch, but the intensity of his gaze sent ribbons of heat lacing up her neck. If only she could formulate some clever comment or demonstrate even a shred of poise. But no, there she was, hoisted up like a specimen while two men debated the state of her ankle and a third silently judged her from his elevated perch.
“Perhaps,” Wendy said finally, her voice trembling as she snatched her dress down from Andre’s grasp, “we can leavemy ankle’s future to its own devices. It seems fully capable of surviving without an audience. So, please stop looking!” she pleaded, her voice strangled with equal parts fury and mortification.
“No one’s looking,” Andre said curtly, though the faint strain in his voice betrayed him.
“I’m not even in the room anymore,” Nick declared from somewhere behind the doorframe, though she could still hear the laughter he failed to suppress.
And Prince Stan was gone.
Pippa, meanwhile, rushed forward, fingers flying as she attempted to re-secure the gown. “Oh, Wendy,honestly! Why didn’t you call me or a maid to help you tie the gown? A situation like this—this is the sort of clumsy thing that would happen to me, not you!”
“I suppose this is why Bea said women need attendants.” Wendy bit her cheek.
“Yes. We shall fix it, of course, though whether your dignity survives is another matter entirely!”
“Thank you, Pippa,” Wendy muttered through gritted teeth, flattening her lips into a tight line as waves of embarrassment crashed through her. Her cheeks radiated heat, her hands clutching the slippery fabric as if her life depended on it.
But at least her new sister-in-law was by her side, and she didn’t have to endure it alone.
And then there was the prince. Slowly, against all reason, she allowed her gaze to flicker toward the door through which he’d just left.
Wendy revisited the moments in her mind. Prince Stan hadn’t moved, nor had he looked away. His expression betrayed no shock or discomfort, only sharp, unwavering attention that made her knees soft like pudding. There was the faintest lift at the corners of his mouth—enough to suggest either mildamusement or perhaps subtle admiration—though Wendy could hardly fathom which.
“Do you think she’s all right?” Wendy heard the prince’s voice in the hallway.
“She’s usually not this clumsy,” Nick said, Wendy hearing it all.
Pippa, however, seemed to tactfully pretend not to hear.
“…glad she’s unhurt,” the prince’s voice now fading as he was probably downstairs already.
And just like that, the last string of Wendy’s dignity snapped. If there were a less graceful end to a morning, she could not imagine it. But the faintest glimmer of humor in his voice left her wondering if maybe—just maybe—she hadn’t entirely lost his favor. For now, though, she only wanted her floor to swallow her whole.
*
For Stan, thetranquility of Nick and Pippa’s new townhome on a quiet Marylebone street starkly contrasted with the storm inside him. Breakfast had been served in the drawing room, as the breakfast room had yet to be furnished. However, since he was a prince, Pippa insisted he be served elegantly in the drawing room. She was just as kind as Nick and everyone else from Harley Street—all potentially in danger from List because of him.
It’s all my fault.
The soft clink of porcelain and the faint shuffle of servants in the corridor punctuated the otherwise still space, a calm utterly at odds with his thoughts.
Stan should have taken a walk like Andre, who had strolled the short distance from 87 Harley Street to the townhouse on what seemed like a windy day, leaving Andre more disheveledthan usual as he deposited his trunk at the door for the servants to load into the waiting carriage. Meanwhile, Stan had arrived in his own carriage at Pippa’s insistence, drawn into her whirlwind of preparations to accommodate her seemingly infinite collection of trunks and valises. Between Andre and him, their meager travel necessities scarcely filled a fraction of the allotted space. He hadn’t minded the task at the time; in truth, he hadn’t given it a thought. But now, seated amidst the unnerving quiet, it struck him that perhaps agreeing to help had been nothing more than a prelude to some grand cosmic joke, one designed to leave his mind in greater disarray.
Wendy’s mishap upstairs, just as Stan arrived, left him completely unraveled.
Nick and Pippa had excused themselves minutes earlier, providing Stan with a brief reprieve from Pippa’s enterprising tone of giving instructions to the servants. This left him alone at the table with Andre, who appeared to be in no hurry to speak, allowing Stan’s thoughts to wander unchecked. Wendy seemed to remain hidden upstairs, but Stan couldn’t help glancing at the door every minute or so.
He stirred the cup of tea in front of him absently. Wendy hadn’t been down for breakfast. Her absence thudded in his chest with a fury he couldn’t explain—not aloud, at least—and between each sip, he found himself wondering when she might emerge from her chambers.
He’d stared.
