Page 16 of The Sound of Seduction
The memory unraveled him further, a sharp pang of guilt twisting in his chest. Like a besotted idiot, he had been rooted to the spot, his breath a traitor caught between gasps and stillness when she’d fallen. He should have moved—should have shielded her. But he hadn’t.
Worse, he was the humiliation incarnate.
Instead of helping her up, he had been useless, struck dumb, his body locked in a wretched stupor while time seemed to freeze around the soft, silken tangle of her. The sunlight had caught the sheen of her chemise, its pale ivory clinging to her form like morning dew to petals. She had been…enchanting. Utterly undone, yet so whole in her unassuming grace, like a flower toppled in the breeze but not yet plucked.
It had been ungentlemanly, shameful, a betrayal of every lesson ingrained into him since boyhood. A prince does not ogle. A man does not freeze in helpless lust while the object of his folly fumbles in embarrassment. And yet, for all his remorse, he couldn’t unsee her—not the way her skin had glowed in the filtered sunlight, nor the delicate twist of her ankle as she’d shifted to sit. She hadn’t looked at him in that moment, but if she had… he wasn’t sure he’d have been strong enough to meet her eyes without giving his feelings away.
He released a tight breath, one hand dragging over his jaw as if to wipe the heat of the memory away. Had she noticed his impropriety? Did she remember the humiliating pause, the beat where he had hesitated instead of helping? His chest tightened painfully at the thought. If she avoided him now, he couldn’t blame her.
Andre ate with the unbothered ease of a man ignorant of Stan’s torment, slicing into his scrambled eggs with deliberate precision before sweeping them onto his toast. The soft crunch carried through the quiet room. His own plate sat before him, untouched save for the glisten of butter pooling on a single slice of toast. The bread’s golden edges mocked him with their mundanity. Instead of eating, Stan’s stomach churned; his appetite, like his etiquette, had entirely abandoned him.
Wendy seemed to have that effect on him.
Her innocence, her quiet strength, her beauty left him pulsating with need. His greatest disgrace wasn’t in staring toolong; it was in knowing that, given the chance, he’d likely do it again.
He clenched his jaw, his pulse drumming in his ears. It was bad enough that he often imagined her with her tidy coiffure undone, her lips parted in breathless surrender, her form pressed against his, bare and unguarded. Those thoughts were unbidden, uncontrollable—and every time, he forced himself to shove them aside with no success. But now, the reality of her beauty, even if only accidentally exposed, rendered his fantasies wholly insufficient, cruel by comparison.
“I’m ready,” she said suddenly, stepping into the doorway. “When are we leaving for Kent?”
Wendy’s presence seemed to ripple through the room, a quiet force that never left—even when she wasn’t there. Every thrum of his pulse echoed the same maddening refrain. He was falling. Or perhaps he already had.
She finally arrived, framed in the gleaming arch. For a moment, she lingered, smoothing her hands nervously over the pale muslin of her gown—a gesture so uncharacteristically hesitant that it froze the air between them. Stan straightened, his chest tightening as he took her in. The gown, simple and elegant, caught the light just right, accentuating something she herself didn’t seem to grasp. She looked radiant, effortlessly so.
Andre, of course, filled the silence first, leaping to his feet with a dramatic sweep of his waistcoat. “Wendy,” he exclaimed, a teasing grin lighting his face, “if I didn’t know better, I’d say you raided the wardrobe of a queen for Silvercrest’s grand halls!”
Stan knew the coach was ready, and the others would follow soon. They were all bound for Alfie and Bea’s wedding in Kent. But in this moment, no one seemed in a rush to move. Even as they all prepared to leave, something about Wendy held Stan captivated—tied to her.
Stan glanced at Wendy, his brow furrowing as her lips pressed together, her eyes cast downward. The faintest flush crept across her neck. She didn’t meet Andre’s gaze, nor, Stan noted, anyone else’s.
“You truly look…” Andre continued, his voice softening. “Beautiful. Like a lady in every sense of the word.” For once, the usual edge of jest was gone from his tone, and Stan felt a pang of unease, though he couldn’t say why.
“Do stop, Andre,” Wendy murmured, her sharp wit softened into something reluctant, shy even. “I’m neither a duchess nor a lady. This is merely my new carriage dress and a new spencer. Bea insisted I not disgrace her wedding in road dust.” She waved a hand, dismissive. “Nothing special.”
Stan shifted his stance, clenching his hands behind his back. Nothing special? She couldn’t have been more wrong. She looked… well, he wasn’t sure he had the words. Sophisticated. Lovely. And entirely unaware of it. There was a tight pull in his chest at the thought.
“You’re wrong about that,” Andre said, his grin fading into something kinder, gentler. He reached for her hand, lifting it to his lips with a lightness foreign to his usual antics. “You’ll turn heads at the ball,” he murmured. A beat passed before he added, softer still, “All grown up.”
If Wendy was still flustered, she hid it behind a faint smile, though Stan caught the way her fingers trembled just slightly as Andre released her hand. The sight stirred something within him—a need, perhaps, to shield her from the attention she wasn’t sure how to bear. He cleared his throat, stepping forward at last as Andre glanced his way, amusement flickering in his expression.
“That’s true,” Stan said, his voice steady, though his eyes lingered on Wendy. “He’s right.”
Wendy blinked at him, an unspoken question in her gaze, but she said nothing, only twisting the edge of her glove between her fingers. Stan held her gaze for an instant longer before glancing back at Andre. The room had grown quieter, but not any more comfortable. Stan clasped his hands behind his back again, willing the tension from his posture. The wedding ball would be long enough without Andre putting ideas in anyone’s head to woo Wendy before he had the chance.
But Stan didn’t share any of the brotherly affection for Nurse Wendy that Andre did.
Oh no!
She was a woman all grown up, that was for sure. Fresh and ripe.
Must. Not. Pick. This. Flower.
From his seat at the table, Prince Stan lowered the edge of his paper, though he didn’t speak. His dark eyes lingered on her a second longer than polite, sparking a rush of awareness that flickered in her eyes. She parted her lips as if to say something—anything—but Stan, as though sensing her thoughts, promptly raised the paper again, dismissing her words before they could find air because they weren’t alone. Oh, how he longed to be alone with her!
“Wendy,” Andre said silently. “About earlier—”
“My ankle is fine,” she said. “Thank you.”
“Not that.” Andre rubbed his neck like a green boy.
