Page 25 of The Sound of Seduction
It shouldn’t matter, she scolded herself fiercely. She swallowed, each breath heavier than the last. Prince Stan had gone. No farewell. No explanation. She wasn’t foolish—only a nurse. Whatever warmth he’d shown had melted away with the night. Yet the understanding did little to soften the ache unfurling in her chest.
Her eyes slid unbidden to the ballroom’s center, where they’d danced just an hour earlier. The memory was still warm, vivid, his steady hand guiding hers through turns and steps, the way the music had seemed to bend for them alone. And now, like a candle snuffed out, that warmth was gone, replaced by the icy realization of her reality. Duty, danger, and the shadow of aristocratic divides pulled him away. It wasn’t her world, and it never would be.
From the corner of her eye, Nick’s voice tugged her back into the moment. “Pippa was just saying that Cloverdale House should be ready soon,” he said. His words were calm, but there was a tautness to his posture, his attention undoubtedly still lingering on whatever had passed between him and Alfie a moment ago. “The architect gave her the good news that he’s obtained all the necessary permits for the construction.”
“Cloverdale House,” Wendy repeated, more to steady herself than to truly answer. Her brother nodded, his face softening as Pippa chimed in about the grand effort to turn the elegant estate into a place of healing. Wendy tried to focus, but her own thoughts still churned. She nodded along, catching only fragments of Pippa’s enthusiasm, but her focus kept deteriorating.
Caught between worlds. That’s what she was. Not quite belonging, not quite excluded, always poised at the threshold of something that promised both joy and sorrow. Society’s rules, Nick’s warnings, her own insecurities—they all formed a net that held her tightly.
And yet… and yet she couldn’t erase the warmth of Stan’s hand, the way he’d pulled her closer on the dance floor. How could something so fleeting unmoor her so fully? Even now, she could picture him—not the prince, not the nobleman—but the man who had looked down at her as if she were the only person in that glittering crowd.
But that moment, however sweet, changed nothing. Out there—beyond the music, beyond the chandeliers—duty awaited. Danger loomed. And men like Prince Stan didn’t belong with women like her.
Not for the first time that night, Wendy forced herself to breathe deeply and plant a faint smile on her face. She was here for Nick, for Pippa, Alfie and Bea, Felix, and Andre—her family. For her meaningful work. If dreams of princes lingered dangerously near her thoughts, they were only that—dreams. Nothing more.
Still, she couldn’t quite resist one last glance across the room, past Nick and Alfie, to where Baron von List still lingered. His expression seemed changed. Pleased. Smug. Triumphant. As if her pain were part of his design. He’d been over on the side of the dance floor for a while. And then, his gaze flicked to hers, a chill that froze her from the inside out. And then the violin’s crescendo pierced the crowd, but the sound only seemed to heighten Wendy’s disquiet—her hands grew cold and unsteady as the icy stung of Baron von List’s stare pressed down on her, chilling her spine, and leaving her frozen in place, unsure where to turn or how to escape his unsettling gaze.
No wonder Prince Stan wanted to get away.
Chapter Eleven
Andre seemed readyto return to London, but Stan wasn’t so sure this had been the wisest move. They’d been in the carriage for more than half an hour, but Stan had not wanted to leave the ball. Least of all, without exchanging another word with Nurse Wendy. Her delicate hands in his, the sensation of leading her in rhythm with the waltz lingering in his thoughts, a tether he hadn’t wished to sever so abruptly.
Just then, the sound of distant hooves broke through the peaceful hum of night. At first, it was almost ghostly, faint and rhythmic, but then it grew—a heavy, menacing cacophony crashing through the silence. It didn’t sound like another carriage with travelers. Stan tensed, his ears straining as the dirt road beneath them seemed to vibrate in warning. The air thickened, the scent of damp leaves and earth suddenly laced with the sharp tang of something colder.
Danger.
His pulse quickened, pounding like war drums in his chest.
He turned to the carriage window, catching Andre’s uneasy glance.
“Lock the door,” Stan said, the words clipped, his voice low. He snapped the latch into place himself and moved back, one hand already brushing his boot where the concealed knife waited. Somewhere in the shadows, something was coming for them. No, not something—someone. And Stan had the terrible suspicion they had been waiting.
The cries came next. Sharp, jagged screams sliced through the muffled drumbeat of hooves. A chill clawed at the base of his spine, coiling there like a snake poised to strike. Hell was bleeding into the night, its entry marked by shouts in a language that made his blood burn. Prussian. He clenched his fists, his nails cutting into his palms. This was no coincidence. No accident.
The carriage jolted. Stan caught himself against the door as the horses reared up, their terrified whinnies shredding the quiet. His body moved almost independently, a soldier’s reaction carved deep into instinct. He stepped between Andre and the door, his stance rooted, braced, as though no force of nature could move him.
“Do you have a pistol?” he barked. The words were sharp, deliberate.
Andre shook his head, his expression one of raw fear. Stan kept his gaze forward, his jaw locked. He expected nothing less. Andre was a healer, not a fighter. The burden would fall to Stan. It always did.
The handle rattled violently, the sound of metal grating against itself sending adrenaline surging through him. Stan’s body tightened; every muscle taut as a bowstring drawn too far.
“Stay back,” he growled; words meant as a command, not a request. His heart hammered against his ribcage, its rhythm reckless and wild, but his breathing remained calm. Focused. The soldier within him awakened.
The door flew open, crashing against the frame with shattering force. Before they could drag him out, Stan surged forward, meeting the first attacker with his fist. His punches were swift and calculated—a fury honed by necessity. If he survived again, he could protect himself.
The man staggered, his mouth twisting open in a snarl, but Stan’s next blow silenced him. The crunch of bone crackedagainst the night air, sharp and satisfying, but Stan had no time to relish it. Another shadow loomed.
Stan ducked just as something heavy sliced through the air where his head had been. The club swung wide, the whoosh of near impact brushing his ear. He pivoted low, his hand flashing to his boot—and there, the cold bite of steel greeted his fingers. He slashed upward sharply, catching his second assailant along the arm. Blood sprayed across his sleeve, dark and viscous, and the man howled as he stumbled back.
The stench of cheap liquor clung to the air, thick and suffocating, as if his attackers had bathed in it before descending on him and Andre in this forsaken wood. Stan’s lungs burned with each shallow breath, and his eyes darted toward the fast-moving chaos, seeking his next move. But then, beyond the furious swings and grunts of the brawl, he caught the flicker of a silhouette—a woman’s shape illuminated briefly in the moonlight.
He blinked, unsure if his weary mind was playing tricks on him. Another blow came swinging toward him, and he barely twisted in time to avoid it as the attacker’s knuckles slammed against his ribcage. The pain spread, dull and hot, but he gritted his teeth, shoving the man back. Another scent—the iron tang of blood—curdled the air. Somewhere amidst the shouts and scuffling boots, a gasp rang out, light but piercing enough to slice through the fog of battle.
Stan’s head whipped around despite the risk it posed. An attacker ripped the sack off a figure hunched to the ground. The fabric fell away, and moonlight caught the cascade of her hair, loose and soft, glowing like liquid silver. His blood ran cold, freezing him in place for the heartbeat it took to whisper, “Thea?”
My sister.
