Page 79 of The Sound of Seduction
Alex stood frozen for a beat, then darted after her, his stride purposeful and urgent. Stan watched his brother disappear into the throng, his own chest tightening. He couldn’t help but wonder who she was, what it was Alex had failed to say—or what he had said too much of to scare her away.
Across the room, Thea stood near a cluster of Harley Street doctors, looking poised yet approachable, like she belonged in every corner of the world. Andre lingered closest to her, and though his attention was always amiably split between the crowd, Stan noticed how it returned to Thea time and again. He couldn’t blame him, really. Everyone seemed to have someone to love, Stan thought, his chest aching with something undefinable. Happiness—that unrelenting desire to see his siblings find their joy—did little to soften his own sharp-edged longing.
He turned his gaze toward the sea of dancers, of ladies laughing into hands half-hidden by gloves, of gentlemen all overly eager to charm or impress. Somewhere beyond this whirl of movement, he had imagined Wendy would be there.
A soft, familiar sound broke through his haze. Violet. She cleared her throat delicately and touched his arm. Her fingers were steady, calm—a reminder. Her other hand held a glass sparkling beneath the chandelier.
“Stan,” she began lightly, “you looked far too serious for a ball.” She smiled gently as she raised the glass slightly.
He furrowed his brow as his gaze dropped to the cordial in her hand. The liquid inside appeared vibrant, a ruby hue that caught every flicker of light in the room. He tilted his head, suspicious but careful in his tone. “What is that?”
“Oh,” she said, brushing it off with a quick glance at the drink. “One of the baroness’s suggestions. Punch with something else, I believe. She handed it to me before asking allmanner of questions about Thea. Quite interested in her, don’t you think? Too much, though, considering she’s just as bad as her husband.” Violet sniffed delicately at the rim of the glass and grimaced slightly but followed it with a light laugh. “The smell is peculiar. I didn’t want to refuse her outright.”
Stan’s gaze darted toward the punch table where he caught sight of Sofia von List. Her head leaned toward her husband, her expression unreadable but her lips moving with precision, as though each whispered word was calculated to provoke him. It worked. List’s smile spread slow and deliberate until the man practically oozed satisfaction.
That can’t be good, Stan thought grimly, the unease settling deeper now. Sofia raised her gaze suddenly, and though her smile lingered, it didn’t reach her eyes when they landed briefly on him.
Henry’s voice cut through the moment, rich with affection as he addressed Violet. “If you truly plan to retire from these affairs after tonight, may I lay claim to a dance now?” He bowed slightly, his movement fluid, his smile reserved only for her.
Violet chuckled softly, her cheeks flushing. “It would be most ungenerous of me to deny you.” She offered her free hand, and Henry then glanced toward Stan.
“I can hold this,” Stan said, lifting the glass carefully from her grip before Henry led her toward the dance floor. Stan lingered momentarily, watching as the music swelled and Violet surrendered with graceful ease to Henry’s arms. They swayed seamlessly among the other couples, and for a moment, the tension in the room seemed to dissolve.
But not for Stan. His hand tightened slightly around the glass as he turned, his gaze restless once more. The ballroom remained as it had—alive with motion, beauty, and decorum. Yet, it lacked her.
By now, Violet had entirely disappeared into the whirl of silk and music, her dress catching the motion of the floor as Henry spun her lightly. A nearby clock chimed faintly, and Stan checked the time. It was nearing nine. This kind of evening, he reminded himself, was still early. Yet the ache for Wendy, as sharp as it had been all those months ago, seeped into his chest like it had been born from years of waiting. She wasn’t here—or not yet. Still, the moments stretched until it felt like a lifetime.
The scream was sharp and raw, slicing the air with a ferocity that silenced everything—the music, the laughter, even the sound of his own breath. It shattered the moment into jagged fragments that clattered to the marble floor.
Stan’s shoulders stiffened, his pulse hammering in his ears as faces turned toward the dance floor, confusion giving way to dread. Slowly, the dancers peeled away, skirts brushing urgently against polished floors, their hurried movements forming a widening circle at the ballroom’s center.
“Move,” he murmured, his boots striking heavy against the marble as he pushed through the huddled onlookers. His heartbeat filled his chest, choking him, louder with every step he forced forward. He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until the crowd dissolved completely, and he saw her.
*
The chill ofthe night air clung to Wendy’s pelisse as she stepped into Lady Ashford’s grand entryway, her hands instinctively brushing against the soft velvet trim. Nick and Pippa were in front of her, their careful steps barely making a sound against the marble floor. But it wasn’t the usual hum of anticipation she felt at a ball. No music filtered through the house. No laughter or shuffle of dancers’ feet. The silence was unnatural, pressingagainst her like a hand on her chest—ominous, too still, as if the house itself were holding its breath.
“Are we too late?” Pippa whispered, untying the navy ribbons of her cloak but hesitating to remove it completely.
It couldn’t be, it was after nine o’clock at night.
Wendy’s gaze darted to the sweeping staircase where Alfie and Bea rushed upward, their movements too hurried, too frantic to belong to the polished elegance of a Regency evening. Alfie’s face was tight with worry, Bea clutching at his sleeve as though urging him to move faster. Wendy’s stomach knotted. Something was terribly wrong.
Before she could fully take in the moment, Nick caught sight of Andre across the hall. “There.” His voice came low but firm.
Andre appeared out of shadow and light, his cravat undone, his coat askew. He glanced back, his expression taut with urgency. “Oh, you’re here!” he called out, relief flashing briefly across his face before he turned and bounded up the stairs two at a time, his coattails flying behind him. The knot in Wendy’s stomach coiled tighter. She didn’t need confirmation—something was very, very wrong.
The heavy slam of a door upstairs echoed through the house.
“What’s happening?” Nick demanded, already moving after him.
Wendy didn’t think. Her body moved on instinct, darting up the stairs behind Nick. Pippa’s uncertain voice called after her, but Wendy pressed forward, her slippered feet sinking into the thick carpet as she took the steps quickly. Her heart raced harder with every muffled voice and cry ahead of her.
At the end of the corridor, she caught up to Nick, Andre, and the others. They had gathered outside a guest bedroom, the heavy oak door slightly ajar. From the other side came the unmistakable voice of the Earl of Langley. It cracked with emotion—fear.
“Violet!” he cried out. A loud thud followed, as if something had struck the door. “She locked me out!”
Wendy inhaled sharply, her focus narrowing.Violet. Oh no!Her pulse quickened as she pushed further, slipping past an uneasy Lady Ashford and an ashen-faced Stan. Princess Thea had just arrived in the hall, her skirts swishing faintly as she looked from face to face, wide-eyed.
