Page 21 of The Sound of Seduction
Nor was it allowed. His world was dangerous, and he couldn’t ever approach her as he’d wished.
Except that Andre had given him one chance: a dance with the woman of his heart.
The music played on, blending seamlessly with soft laughter and murmured conversation as he approached her. Step by deliberate step, he charted a course across the polished parquet, weaving past the observing crowd. He moved purposefully but not too quickly, giving her enough time to notice him. Enough to steel his thrumming heart—the rest of him was harder than diamonds when he saw her.
Her head lifted when he was nearly there, her wide eyes locking onto his. Something about that look—the uncertainty mixed with undeniable recognition—felt like a stitch pulling tight in his chest. Her reaction wasn’t that of a court debutante eager for glory. She wasn’t one of them. And yet, she stood there like a vision, unassuming but breathtaking, wearing the trappings of elegance as though they were borrowed ratherthan her due. She was so very much herself, unmolded by this glimmering crowd.
At last, he reached her, his chest tightening further when she dipped her gaze, a blush warming her cheeks. Her hands curled tightly into the folds of her gown, and for a moment, he thought she might take a half-step backward. But she stayed.
“Miss Gwendolyn Folsham,” he began, his voice balancing formal and intent, “would you do me the honor of this dance?”
She blinked up at him, her pink lips parting slightly in surprise. Her hesitation was brief but palpable. Then, as if buoyed by some strength he hadn’t expected, her gloved hand unfurled and reached tentatively for his; he took it gently in his own, his fingers steadying hers as much as leading.
The room around them shifted faintly, and guests turned to notice the prince leading someone onto the floor who surprised them. Yet, Stan ignored them all. For now, the Lists, their dangers, and the room’s edges blurred and faded entirely as he led Wendy to the center of the parquet.
*
Wendy’s hand inhis felt warm and steady, as if it belonged there. It was absurd. She had no place stepping into the light, not alongside him. But Stan’s unwavering grasp made escape virtually impossible, and so she followed him, her pulse racing as if trying to outmatch the soaring melody of the string quartet.
She had grown up in rooms that smelled faintly of clove oil and belladonna, where her father’s unwavering focus was on his patients’ wellness and her family rarely entertained grandeur. She was educated, certainly, and her work as a nurse at the practice made her useful in ways that mattered. But none of that belonged here, amidst crystalline chandeliers and gilded splendor. The sister of a doctor, the daughter of a dead one—what claim did she have to this polished world where a prince as dazzling as Stan commanded attention with little effort? Her gaze darted to the faces in the crowd, noting the murmurs and stolen glances from familiar patients. They knew who she was. Just a nurse. That truth pressed down harder than the glittering silk of her gown. And not even Wendy dared mustering an explanation of why the prince had chosen her.
The shimmering skirts of her gown flowed over the petticoat that brushed against her ankles with every step. Around them, the ballroom hushed slightly, the collective hum of curiosity buzzing in the air. Wendy scarcely registered the stares, the barely concealed whispers, as Stan guided her to the center of the parquet. She could only focus on the firm, confident hand at her back, anchoring her as the crowd softened into blurred shapes and colors at the edge of her vision.
Ahead, Nick spun Pippa elegantly across the floor, his expression a mixture of pride and joy as his wife laughed softly at something he murmured. Wendy caught his eye briefly, and the look he gave her interrupted her mid-breath—the brotherly kind of glance that spoke without words. Approval, encouragement, and something infuriatingly protective. He didn’t seem surprised to see her escorted by a prince. Wendy envied that certainty in him, as if he believed she had any right to be there.
She dragged her gaze back to Stan and stumbled slightly as he turned to face her at the center of the dance floor. Now that they were still, she felt every stare upon her. Her throat tightened. She wasn’t built for waltzing under gilded chandeliers or dazzling members of the Ton. Her place was quieter, simpler, away from the polished scrutiny of ballrooms. But she was here.
Stan’s deep voice reached her over the low hum of the string quartet as he stepped closer. “Is something the matter?”
His question was soft, yet it grounded her. His dark eyes held hers, steady and intent, pulling her from the haze of growing panic. She nodded faintly, but her lips parted, and the confession escaped before she could stop it.
“I shouldn’t say,” she mumbled, feigning a smile for the onlookers.
“If you don’t tell me, I can’t help you,” the prince said.
It was absurd but also terribly sweet.
Under normal circumstances, it was her offering help and service. How often she’d said this exact phrase to patients, she couldn’t even count. And it was true; he couldn’t offer a cure unless she told him her symptoms. And the only cure for standing still on the parquet at a ball with what felt like a thousand eyes on her would be the one thing she didn’t know how to do.
“I still can’t really dance.” Her voice was a whisper, barely audible amid the sweet swell of violins, but Stan heard it, his brow lifting in faint surprise before his expression softened. He didn’t scoff. He didn’t falter. Instead, he stepped back slightly, his movements deliberately measured as if addressing a far greater concern than an untrained waltz partner.
“You can,” he said simply, his tone kind but firm, leaving no room for doubt.
“I… no,” Wendy stammered, shaking her head. “I truly can’t.”
His hand tightened gently at her back, his other resting lightly on her gloved fingers. “Just follow me like you did in London. That’s all you have to do.”
His calm was maddening, yet it worked through her jittered nerves. Follow him. Surely, it couldn’t be that simple.
*
Stan realized thatbeing with Wendy was as simple as breathing.
Essential.
Instinctual.
And now that he felt her in his arms—her warmth molding to him softly, her lace-gloved hand resting so delicately in his own—he didn’t know how he’d survived for a whole day without her presence. He inhaled deeply, his chest expanding as her subtle scent wrapped around him. Roses and apricots mingled with the clean, straightforward simplicity of soap. It was intoxicating in its purity. Briefly, he closed his eyes, committing every detail to memory as though he needed this moment to sustain him.
