The Lady By His Side(61)

Then there were smiles all around, and the group dispersed. Connell and Melinda went to the piano; Connell summoned Filbury and Worthington to help him move the instrument into the corner of the room.

Halting before the sofa, Antonia followed Sebastian’s gaze. Beside her, Claire looked, too.

“What’s going on?” Antonia murmured at the same time Claire asked, “Why are they moving the piano?”

Then Connell directed Wilson to move the low table that stood on the Aubusson rug before the other sofa, then called Hadley to help him as he rolled up the carpet.

“Dancing?” Georgia murmured as she joined Antonia and Claire.

As if in reply, Cecilia rose from the other sofa and clapped her hands. “No Irish wake would be complete without dancing, as I’m sure you’re all aware. However, as too few of us are familiar with the usual jigs and reels, we thought to make do with waltzes. Rather more sedate, which should suit us better. Indeed—” Cecilia broke off as if to master an upswell of emotion. When she continued, her smile wobbled and her voice shook slightly. “Ennis loved to waltz. I’m sure he would approve.”

With that, she sat down rather abruptly. But her words had made certain no one would argue the propriety of waltzing—and as they’d already agreed, there was no one to play censor.

Once again seated before the piano, Melinda Boyne sounded out the introductory chords of a traditional waltz.

Sebastian glanced at Antonia. She was still looking toward the piano.

Hadley, smiling, was already on his way to claim his wife.

Filbury was crossing the room, his eye on Claire.

In the time it took to blink, Sebastian foresaw the problem—having to watch Antonia whirl about the room in some other gentleman’s arms—evaluated the danger—of him being goaded to the point of breaking his firm resolution and striding across the floor to claim her in front of the entire company—and decided on his best, and indeed only, way forward.

He straightened and stepped around the sofa. Antonia glanced at him, and he held out his hand. Commandingly, because, in truth, it really wasn’t a request. “My dance, I believe.”

Her brows rose, haughtily quizzing him. “Your name is not on my dance card.”

“You don’t have a dance card.” Thank Christ. He reached out, trapped her hand, and closed his fingers around hers—and tried not to register the feel of her slender digits within his grasp or the instinctive response that leapt within him. “You’re not going to argue, are you?”

Her eyes laughed up at him; her lips weren’t straight. “Would it do any good?”

“No.”

“Well, then.” With her free hand, she gestured to the dance floor where other couples were already revolving, then she stepped toward him, and he smoothly drew her nearer, and she placed her hand on his shoulder.

In perfect synchrony, they stepped into the dance.

He reminded himself that he should keep her at a distance, with the regulation however-many inches between their bodies.

Not so easy when she swayed so enticingly, when the fluid flow of her slender form drew him on and urged him to hold her tighter. Closer. In the end, he told himself it was simply easier to draw her more firmly within his arm so that their long legs interleaved as they whirled through the turns.

Being who they were, they were accomplished dancers. They’d waltzed since their early teens; the activity required very little of their minds. They could carry on a complex conversation if they so chose, but conversation, he judged, looking down at her face, a perfect pale oval with those strikingly dark brows and long lashes, and that lush, ripe, oh-so-tempting mouth, would be entirely superfluous.

Her expression was serene, composed; her lids were at half mast, screening her eyes from his gaze.

Leaving him free to study her face as he wished. If she was aware of his scrutiny, she didn’t let it show.

He should ask if she’d heard anything that might point to their elusive murderer, but couldn’t summon sufficient interest to do so, not while she was in his arms.

Melinda Boyne segued smoothly from one waltz to the next. The dancing couples were, in the main, not changing partners.

After several measures, Amelie Bilhurst spelled Melinda at the piano. The dancers stood smiling, relaxed, some chatting, waiting for the music to resume; when it did, they stepped out once more.

Outwardly, it appeared to be a soothing interlude, yet beneath his skin—beneath Antonia’s—Sebastian could sense the fires building. Could feel the insistent compulsion to act—to do something about the flaring attraction that, even now, seemed to flex its claws, preparing to sink them deep—rise. And rise.