Page 20 of The Sound of Seduction
Wendy’s lips parted in a rush of breath she’d forgotten she’d been holding. She stared at him as the gasps and faint whispers quieted around them. The air between them felt charged as if something unseen—something pressed by the curiosity in the room—demanded recognition.
And then he moved.
Prince Stan, the man who had eclipsed the splendor of even this ballroom, bowed. Deep and deliberate, the motion was perfectly executed, yet it sent a stark shock up Wendy’s spine.
Every thought swirled in her head. How could this be happening to her? Would someone pinch her and let her scurry around the practice with a pile of clean towels any moment? Or, surely, someone would tap her shoulder any time now and inform her that this was a misstep, a wrong turn in the orchestra of events, and they were expecting someone else entirely.
But his eyes stayed on hers as he straightened, the look in them unyielding, focused.
Gentle, she’d say, with a tinge of vulnerability that woke her from her stupor.
“Miss Gwendolyn Folsham,” he began in a deep, even tone that made her break out in goosebumps.
Her heart, already thundering, skipped so violently she feared it might leap entirely out of her chest. One word—the simplest greetings—and her carefully constructed walls began to tip.
Reality twisted uncomfortably close to the whimsical fairytales she had once adored. It couldn’t be that simple.
And yet, here he was.
*
Just a minute earlier…
Stan stood tall,his eyes scanning the room with practiced precision. A ballroom like this—bright with countless lights casting their brilliance on gilded trim and gleaming parquet floors—should have been a sanctuary of celebration, not a stage for tension. And yet, here he was, every nerve honed and attuned to threats as though he were on a battlefield instead of a polished dance floor.
The crowd was alive with chatter and laughter, the swirl of ladies’ gowns creating a palette of color as if a painter had swirled his brush too vigorously. Stan’s gaze swept past diplomats engaged in polite conversation, their laughter too hollow to be genuine. He noted the presence of Langley and Violet, who stood near the far wall, their attention caught by a French emissary’s animated gesticulations. Violet looked serene in her ivory gown, though Stan knew Langley’s hand resting at her elbow wasn’t for effect. She leaned on her husband just enough to betray her delicate condition, though only someone looking closely—as Stan always did—would notice.
His gaze shifted, and there they were—Baron von List, leaning back with unsettling ease, and his wife, a portrait of poise on his arm. She tilted her head towards her husband as he murmured something in her ear, her expression unreadable. Her eyes, dark as ink but cold as ice, cut sharply across the room, a predator’s gaze wrapped in civility. Stan tensed. Criminals always adopted masks in polite society, but with the Lists, it wasn’t a question of deception. It was an inevitability. They weren’t watching the ball. They were watchinghim.
The music swelled, and the crowd shifted around the dance floor’s edge, creating a wide circle as Alfie led Bea out for the first waltz. The newlyweds stepped into the light, their hands joined, Bea radiant in her gown and Alfie’s confidence a match for hisbride’s loveliness. Stan’s lips twitched faintly with approval. If anyone deserved a reprieve from danger, it was the pair of them.
I’ll stand guard for you.
He scanned the room again, intent on keeping the Lists and other suspicious figures in sight. But the forming sea of murmuring guests created a wall of colored silk and black tailcoats, limiting his vision. Awful crowds. Height helped, but nothing fixed limited sightlines when bodies jostled, and heat gathered like fog rising on a battlefield. His instincts were screaming. Something didn’t seem right. He couldn’t place it, but his stomach knotted tighter with every measure of the waltz.
“Stan.” Andre’s voice at his side caught his attention. Stan turned, noting his friend’s calm but intent expression.
“You see them?” Stan asked, nodding slightly toward the Lists.
“I do,” Andre confirmed briefly. His words were measured, and his tone was low to avoid attention. “But we need to focus elsewhere tonight.”
Stan raised a brow. “You don’t say.”
“This isn’t up for debate. You’re the next highest-ranking guest in attendance,” Andre added with a subtle tilt toward the dance floor. His meaning was as clear as daylight.
Stan frowned. “You’re telling me to waltz while the Lists watch us like prowling wolves?”
“I’m telling you to do what’s expected,” Andre replied before shifting his gaze. “And to keep her safe in your arms. I would, but you outrank me by far.”
Stan’s eyes followed Andre’s line of sight until they found her—Wendy. She hovered near the far edge of the floor, her posture impossibly still. Her rose-colored gown shimmered faintly as the light teased the golden threads woven through the fabric, but her expression was what caught him. Fear. Not alarm or panic like that borne of battle, but the kind that softened into dread, theunmistakable look of someone seeking an escape they couldn’t find. Had List delivered a threat?
Oh, if he as much as breathed in Wendy’s direction, Stan would… oh, he would do his worst with bare hands.
Andre clasped Stan’s shoulder briefly, his message delivered. “Your duty lies there,” he said softly before stepping away.
Stan exhaled slowly, his thoughts a storm of responsibility and instinct. Traditionally, etiquette dictated that he’d dance with the highest-ranking aristocratic lady in the room, but there was no contest in his mind. None outranked Wendy—not in his eyes. The Lists would not take her. Not if he could shield Wendy with his body.
Oh, the thought alone made him hard, his body over hers… but this wasn’t the moment.
