Page 11 of The Sound of Seduction
She liked what she saw even though it felt strange and out of place. Who didn’t want to be like a princess if given the chance?
But giving in to the idea—even imagining it—was going to be trouble. And Wendy knew it.
“Turn, won’t you?” Bea’s voice broke through her daze as soon as the modiste refrained from fussing and stood back.
Obediently, Wendy pivoted, her cheeks burning. She felt as if every eye in the shop was on her, dissecting the way the gown hugged her waist and flared at her hips.
Bea’s sharp inhale was the first sound to break the silence. “You’re… radiant,” she said, her warm eyes widening. “Doesn’t she look radiant, Pippa?”
“She does,” Pippa answered easily, leaning forward with a smile that could charm the entire room if she wanted while she pushed her spectacles up her nose with a discerning gaze—as if she knew the fine fabric of the dress. Her tone carried the smooth confidence of someone born to be admired. “Rose blush and gold suits you perfectly. And the shimmering shot silk—it catches the light just so. Doesn’t it, Bea?”
“Changeant, we call it,” Madam Duchon mumbled. “Two colored threads are woven in different directions, blushing pink and gold, to catch all the light in a dazzling ballroom.”
Bea nodded eagerly. “Oh, it does. It’s positively dazzling. Wendy, you’ll outshine half the girls at the ball.”
Wendy’s fingers curled into the folds of her skirts. “I hardly think that’s likely with you as the bride,” she murmured.The words came out quieter than she’d intended, but they were sincere. She wasn’t dazzling. Not like Bea, with her lush strawberry-blonde hair that gleamed with coppery hues and the poised confidence of a woman well-versed in Society; nor like Pippa,—but rather, the commanding presence they both carried at a ball. Her own hair, a tumble of wild golden curls that caught the light unevenly, seemed a rebellious imposter beside Bea’s sleek shine—a reckless scribble on the page where Bea was the artist’s deliberate stroke. Wendy thought her existence had always been practical, not ornamental—surgeons didn’t care how prettily a bandage was tied; they cared that it held. “I’m not certain this suits me. It’s too much.”
“Nonsense,” Pippa said, dismissing her in the same tone she used when scolding Nick for eating too many biscuits. “You’ll walk into that ballroom, and no one will suspect you haven’t always dressed like this.”
“They will when I trip over my own skirts.” Wendy frowned. “It is so silky, I am afraid to tear it.”
“Then we will be there to lend a hand. I assure you, I’m the reigning queen of mishaps at balls, and I won’t let you earn the title on my watch,” Pippa said with a wink.
She was so kind, Pippa, her new sister-in-law. Wendy wished she didn’t like Pippa so much, but she did, even though Pippa competed with Wendy for Nick’s protection—or was it his attention rather?
“If only you could see yourself,” Bea added gently, sensing her unease. “You look…” She paused, searching for the right words. “Like a dream. Truly.”
Wendy glanced down, unable to meet their warm gazes. “Well, it’s not every day I look like this. Or wear anything like this,” she admitted. “I don’t suppose I’ll fool anyone for long.”
“Don’t be silly,” Pippa chimed in briskly. “You’ll be perfect. I’ll make sure of it. You’ve already survived our wedding. This will be easy.”
But Wendy couldn’t shake the tension coiling beneath her ribcage. Nick’s wedding had been different. She had been the groom’s sister, unobtrusively tucked into conversations or helping direct wandering children after the celebratory breakfast. No one had minded that she hadn’t danced; in fact, hardly anyone had noticed. But now, she’d be stepping into a ballroom filled with England’s elite, where partners would stretch out their hands and expect her to know steps she’d never been taught.
And then there’d behimto witness her embarrassment.
Her breath hitched slightly at the thought. A prince. He’d be there. The prince.
The man who managed to stride through rooms as if he belonged everywhere, and yet had those damnably mischievous eyes that hinted otherwise.
Wendy forced herself to take a calming breath. She’d kept to fairytales for precisely this reason—they were harmless stories, but when their elements crept into reality, the line between wonder and apprehension easily blurred.
“Fairytales aren’t for women like me,” she muttered under her breath—not ones who stitch wounds and disappear.
“What was that?” Pippa asked, raising a brow.
“Nothing,” Wendy lied nervously. “Just reminding myself not to step on anyone’s toes if I’m forced to dance.”
“The dances will begin by rank,” Pippa shrugged as if it were nothing but common knowledge.
“Since Violet is pregnant, I don’t suppose the Earl and Countess of Langley will follow the bride and groom, will they?” Bea asked.
“Not if Prince Stan will be there,” Pippa said. “He outranks them all, even though he’s not English.”
“Oh, the villagers will speak of the balls at Silvercrest Manor for months!” Bea said excitedly.
“We’re certainly bringing some of London’s finest to our grandparent’s old country estate,” Pippa added with an arched brow.
“It’s been made for elegance, and we’ve let it slumber far too long.” Bea blinked in Wendy’s direction.
