Page 27 of The Sound of Seduction
The others bustled around them, Nick overseeing the loading of the carriages while Alfie spoke quietly with Felix just ahead. They were all kind to her, truly, but Wendy couldn’t shake the impression of being a permanent bystander. She wasn’t a doctor like Nick, whose hands helped build their practice from the ground up. And unlike Bea or Pippa, she wasn’t born into this gilded world of titles and ballrooms. She was simply… Wendy. A nurse. An observer. She knew how to bind wounds and comfort patients, not how to weave effortlessly through this glittering tapestry.
“I mean it, Wendy,” Pippa said gently, drawing her from her thoughts. “You’re always welcome here. Don’t forget that.”
The sincerity in her voice caught Wendy off guard, and for a moment, she could only stare at Pippa. She opened her mouth to respond, but instead of words, her mind reeled with memories of the past night. Prince Stan’s hand guiding her through the waltz.His steady voice murmuring the steps. The way he’d looked at her afterward, his expression unreadable but piercing and lingering long after the music ended.
“Thank you,” she murmured finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
Pippa reached out, brushing a strand of hair off Wendy’s shoulder in a gesture so familiar it made the ache in her chest deepen. “Now, let’s return to London. We have work to do.” She turned gracefully, heading toward the carriage, leaving Wendy standing just beyond the gravel path with Bea still lingering close by.
“Wendy.” Bea’s quiet voice pulled her attention, her gaze warm, but searching. “Youdobelong, you know.”
The kindness in Bea’s words tightened Wendy’s throat. She forced a small smile and nodded, though she couldn’t bring herself to answer. How could she explain the storm that churned within her? The noise of the Ton, the judging gazes at the ball, and even worse, the voice in her own head whispering that she’d never truly fit in the prince’s world.
Wendy turned back once more as the first carriage creaked forward. The estate seemed impossibly large now, as though it were swallowing her in its shadow. She tried to shake the thoughts that pressed at the corners of her mind, but they always returned to one thing. Or rather, one person.
Stan. What could she offer him, truly? She had to stop pining after him, no matter how fiercely her heart protested otherwise.
Chapter Thirteen
At Cloverdale Housein London, Stan clenched his jaw against the faint sting of antiseptic, the sharp smell mingling with the sterile chill of the bed chamber that had been converted to a treatment room as Andre methodically unraveled the bandage from his aching shoulder.
The late afternoon light caught the edges of Andre’s instruments, all neatly arranged on the table nearby. Andre fussed over them, his sharp gaze darting between Stan and the tools he’d brought.
On the desk sat the letter from home, its broken seal a silent rebuke. It had arrived days earlier at Langley Hall and was forwarded to Cloverdale—another problem added to the pile. But Stan’s pain was not just his shoulder. His failure to stop List gnawed at him harder than the wound. List was still out there, bleeding Transylvania dry. Yet, here he was, bleeding instead of fighting, no closer to capturing the man responsible.
Andre cleared his throat, dragging Stan from his turmoil. “You look terrible, and you’ve been avoiding me since you received your post. You must rest or it’ll all hurt worse than it already does.” His tone was brisk, but Stan caught the thread of worry beneath it.
Stan managed a dry smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “It already does.” He glanced back at the letter, his mother’s words pounding at the edges of his mind.
He will begin by erasing the women who stand beside the men.
But Thea wasn’t the only woman close to him anymore. List’s target.
Wendy.
Stan clutched his heart instinctively, as if he’d already been shot.
If Mother knew the full truth—Thea’s close calls, his festering wound—would she rage? Collapse? Demand the impossible? List’s men were stripping the mines bare, their greed draining not only the earth’s riches but the lifeblood of the people his family had sworn to protect. How could they protect anyone when they couldn’t even shield their own?
But she was right in that he needed a stronghold in England, an embassy perhaps.
Stan shifted to give Andre better access, wincing as Andre poured a strong-scented liquid over the wound. Andre’s sharp eyes surely didn’t miss the flinch, but Stan tried to ignore the burn. Only four days since the ball, and it had all unraveled—Wendy’s laughter echoing faintly behind the chaos. He should have said something. Done something. Sent flowers? No—that would have been unwelcome. Nick would never forgive him for drawing Wendy into his chaos, not when his shadow carried the threat of a criminal who could so easily make her collateral damage in List’s schemes. A war was coming. Nick would never allow Wendy to be caught in its crossfire. Stan had to catch List, stop him, but how? He had no idea. Perhaps it already was too late.
Before the thought could fully form, a sharp tug on his shoulder forced a wince from him.
“Have the guards arrived yet?” Stan asked.
“Yes, Nick and Andre showed them everything. I hope they’ll be trustworthy,” Andre said, laying his hand carefully on Stan’s shoulder but Stan nearly jumped from the pain of even the lightest touch.
“Is it really necessary to change the bandage again?” Stan snapped, his irritation spilling over.
Andre didn’t glance up, his focus locked on the dressing as he peeled it away. “Unless you’re keen to have the infection take its course and spare you all future worries—yes. I don’t re-dress wounds for sport,” Andre drawled, though his tone stayed even. “This is not a trifle injury.”
Stan scowled, biting back a retort, but the hiss he couldn’t suppress as the dressing pulled from raw skin said enough.
“Thought so,” Andre muttered. “It tore open again when they attacked you the second time.” He gestured lightly at the wound on Stan’s side, an injury he’d gotten when List’s men took Thea after the wedding ball. The latest skirmish when Thea had been taken to the woods had aggravated it, leaving it raw and angry. But Andre had saved her then and was now setting his healing hands on Stan. Andre’s movements, as always, were precise. If it hadn’t been for him, that second attack on Thea could have turned out far worse than leaving her with the shock of it altogether. Moreover, since there had been a second attack, Stan feared for a third.
“I’m aware,” Stan said tersely. His voice dripped with bitterness, his frustration flaring. “It’s difficult to forget being tossed aside like a ragdoll while two men tried to drag my sister away.”
