Page 63 of The Sound of Seduction
There was a sound—voices, faint but distinct, traveling up from downstairs. Her heart stuttered. Something about it rang familiar. She scanned the room quickly, each object settling into place as recognition dawned with startling speed. The dresser. The quilt. The faint scratch above the doorframe.
This wasn’t just any room. This was heroldroom.
Her eyes widened, the realization sending her bolt upright. The covers slipped slightly, exposing her bare shoulders to the cool air, and her startled gaze landed on the form beside her.
Stan.
He was sprawled on his side, unmoving save for the steady rise and fall of his chest. His face was perfectly calm, a boyish serenity softening the strong line of his jaw. There was an innocence in his expression, so at odds with the wickedly consuming man he’d been the night before.
Oh. The memory slammed into her, vivid and clear, making her skin flush hot despite the chill in the room.
“When did I fall asleep?” she whispered to no one in particular, tugging the end of the blanket higher. Her movements must have stirred him. He groaned softly, his voice rough with sleep as he shifted and rolled closer.
“Stan!” she hissed, attempting to tug the blanket away from him without dislodging it further from herself.
He mumbled incoherently and reached for her, his arm looping around her waist with a lazy confidence. Then he pulled her in, his warmth enveloping her like a furnace. That’s when Wendy noticed—became painfully aware, actually—that she was completely, utterly, and irrevocably naked.
Her entire body tensed.
And she realized a soreness in her middle. That was new.
Meanwhile, Stan remained blissfully oblivious, tucked under her blanket, her only shield of modesty. He, on the other hand, was fully clothed—or nearly so. He lay on top of the quilt, his broad chest brushing hers, radiating warmth like a furnace.
“Stan, wake up!” she demanded, keeping her voice low but sharp as her embarrassment spiked.
He groaned again. “Hmm?” Barely coherent, his grip tightened, and his face burrowed against her as though he had every right to remain in a world where nothing else mattered but holding her.
“Wake. Up,” she tried again, her voice a hurried mix of urgency and exasperation.
“If you insist,” he muttered, sleepily grinning against her skin before slowly pulling himself upright. The blanket twisted with his movements, threatening to betray her further. Her mortification deepened when his shirt budged, revealing a glimpse of his deeply tanned chest—a chest that would put any carved marble sculpture to shame.
She shook her head firmly. Not now. This was no time to admire him!
Wendy nearly giggled at the stray thought, but another sound caught her attention. She froze again, then scrambled out of bed, clutching the blanket, and dragging it around her like a makeshift cloak. Her bare feet hit the wooden floor, chilly against her skin, and she padded quickly to the window.
Peering out, she saw movement below.
Oh no!
Nick and Alfie were directing a carriage, their arms waving wildly as they attempted to guide the driver closer to the house. Just behind them, she noticed Andre hoisting a trunk over one shoulder with casual ease. The realization struck her just as a startled gasp caught in her throat.
“Stan! They’re moving supplies to Cloverdale!” she exclaimed, whipping her head toward him.
His response was sluggish at best. He sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and muttered groggily, “Good morning, my beautiful love.” His voice—low and unrefined—sent an involuntary shiver through her. She might have melted at the sound of it—if her heart weren’t already tangled in dread. Because now that the night was over, reality was here, and it had sharp teeth. What if this moment unraveled everything she’d fought to build? What if one whispered truth, overheard or guessed, cost them both everything?
“Stan!” she barked, refusing to be distracted by his tousled hair and endearing sleepiness, or the thrill of hearing him call her “my love.”
He stretched lazily, cocking one eyebrow as if amused by her frantic state. “Wendy, what time is it?”
“Look!” She waved frantically toward the window, willing him to catch up with the gravity of the situation. Stan’s shirt and much of her clothes lay on a pile on the floor.
At last, Stan dragged himself to his feet. Standing there in nothing but his crumpled breeches, he looked far too smugfor her liking. He wandered closer, raking a hand through his already messy hair, and leaned casually against the window frame, completely unconcerned by the commotion below.
“They’re moving medical supplies,” Wendy hissed, stalking back toward him. The blanket trailed behind her like the world’s most awkward train. “To Cloverdale. They’re all here! Awake!”
Stan only grinned wider and crossed his arms, his casual composure as frustrating as it was unshakably charming.
It was going to be a very long morning.
