Page 31 of The Sound of Seduction
Keep your distance, Wendy. You manage the injury but not the royal mess of his life.
Her eyes narrowed, suspicion flaring. Not about the little nagging voice of reason but because of her concern for her prince.
Still not your prince, Wendy.
“Wait, what healing? Stan, you winced just now. You’re in pain!”
“It’s nothing,” he insisted, though the strain in his voice betrayed him when he wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. If anything, his attempt to move his arm in demonstration only deepened the grimace etched on his face. He quickly abandoned the effort, his pride clearly battling his pain.
She touched his forehead, her concern overriding all propriety. “You look fevered—have you rested at all? Has Andre given you anything for the injury?”
He hesitated, and that singular pause spoke volumes. Wendy could see the tension in his stance—the stubborn determination not to show weakness clashing with the very real signs of exhaustion etched into him.
“Andre’s in there with my sister.”
“Is she injured, too?” Wendy asked, ready to go to Andre and assist him.
“No, she’s perfectly fine now, but if they don’t come out of there, he might be—”
“Oh!” Wendy’s hands flew to her mouth.Andre and a princess?
“Oh indeed.” He arched a brow and there was a glint of boyish mischief that sent Wendy’s heart into a wild flutter. But then it melted away as if the fever burned his spirits.
Without fully realizing it, she reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against the fabric of his sleeve just above the sling. The warmth radiating from him confirmed what she already suspected. Her throat tightened as worry tunneled through her.
“Your Royal Highness,” she began softly, her voice steadier now despite the storm of emotions fighting for space in her chest. “You need to rest. Whatever this is—whatever you’ve endured—you can’t simply push through it.”
He looked at her for a long moment, his dark gaze lingering on hers in a manner that made her heart stumble. There was gratitude there, though unspoken, hidden beneath layers of pride and fatigue. Finally, he dipped his head, just a fraction. But even as he conceded, she noticed the faint hint of defiance still glittering in his eyes.
“Perhaps you’re right,” he said quietly. “But first… I need to speak with your brother about the guards.”
Wendy pressed her lips together, resisting the urge to argue further. Instead, she gave a short nod, watching him closely as he straightened, visibly steeling himself against his weakness.
But as she followed him down the corridor, her mind churned with questions and a growing unease. The Stan she knew was always composed, unshakable. But tonight, she had glimpsed something else entirely—a man who was, perhaps for the first time, pushed to the brink. And she couldn’t shake the awareness that he hadn’t told her the whole truth. But what could the prince, who clearly suffered from an infection, hide from her, a mere nurse?
Chapter Fifteen
The next day, back at 87 Harley Street…
The light filteredsoftly through the windows of 87 Harley Street, painting pale streaks on the polished floorboards. The treatment room was quiet, save for the faint clink of metal as Wendy arranged instruments on a tray near the carved wooden counter. Thin scissors. The smallest forceps. A triangular scalpel. Her hands moved methodically, performing the familiar task with care, though not without effort; her fingers trembled just slightly as she positioned the final tool. Wendy paused, drew in a steadying breath, and forced herself to focus. She had promised to split her time between the two places, but this morning, Harley Street needed her. By midmorning, patients would arrive, and Nick would need everything prepared. This, at least, she could manage without fault.
“Thank you, Wendy,” Nick said. He stood at the back of the room, poring over a sheet of paper littered with calculations. Angles, lenses, equations. Usual work for the week’s cases, though his tone was preoccupied. “Have you seen the vial of belladonna that was on the small desk?”
Wendy furrowed her brows, glancing up briefly. How unusual for Nick to ask about the little bottle with the dropper, the one he used to dilate patients’ pupils for their eye exams. “No,” she replied, though her curiosity over the missing vial quickly gave way to the need to finish her preparations.
The instruments rested in neat rows on the tray, gleaming in the light. Her trembling hands stilled as she stood back, willing herself to push the gnawing anxiety aside. There was work to do, and that was where her focus needed to be.
“Do we have enough clove oil for tomorrow?” Nick looked over his shoulder at the half-empty bottle on the metal tray on the side table.
“I put a spare bottle in the cabinet,” Wendy said just as Pippa swung into the room with an exuberant energy Wendy both admired and envied.
“Did he say anything?” Pippa suddenly asked, breaking the clinical focus with the kind of indulgent and amused curiosity that was typical of her. Wendy glanced toward her sister-in-law, who stood at the mirror, removing her gloves and unbuttoning her pelisse, her ochre gown catching the morning light. Pippa’s expression was expectant, the beginnings of a smirk playing on her lips.
Wendy turned back to the tray, her throat tight. “Who?”
“Who indeed,” Pippa teased. “The prince, of course! What did he say while the two of you floated across the dance floor, wrapped in whatever enchantment he cast over the room?”
Nick stilled but remained silent.
