Yes, he’d intended to play on her senses, to prick and spark them, but he hadn’t allowed for her reaction, or rather the effect her reactions would have on him, spurring him on to more explicit touches—which had only encouraged her to even more daring, more blatantly sexual responses…
He felt as if they were on a runaway carriage, rocketing along with no reins.
Temporarily thrilling, yes, but ultimately destructive.
This—their interaction—had got out of hand.
Entirely unintentionally.
But control lay in his hands, no matter what she might imagine.
As they entered the drawing room, he swore to himself that no matter what the vixen did, he was not going to follow her lead. He was going to retreat to his previous line and hold firm against any actions that would escalate that telltale mutual awareness to any greater heights.
No more touching; no more suggestive remarks. No more playing at all.
With that resolution ringing in his mind, he glanced around. Melinda Boyne had already settled at the piano. She started playing a pleasant Irish tune. Filbury came to stand beside the instrument. Melinda smiled up at him, then he started to sing.
After the first verse, Wilson joined him, their voices blending in a soothing harmony.
Sebastian approved. Nothing remotely encouraging—to his inner self or Antonia.
He touched her arm briefly—just enough to get her attention—and when she glanced at him, with his head he directed her gaze to a nearby sofa on which Georgia Featherstonehaugh and Claire Savage had already taken up residence. There was space enough for Antonia, but not for him, which he deemed wise.
She hesitated, but then fell in with the suggestion and crossed to sink onto the sofa beside Claire.
The next half hour passed in unexceptionable fashion, with various ladies playing and singing, and several gentlemen adding their voices to the harmonies. As befitted daughters of the nobility, Antonia and her three friends were all accomplished pianists and also possessed well-trained voices; they combined to sing a ballad in four-part harmony, entrancing the entire company.
After the applause had died, as Antonia made her way back to the sofa against the back of which Sebastian had propped, he noticed a small conference being conducted on the other side of the room. Cecilia was at the heart of it, with Connell Boyne, Melinda Boyne, and the two older ladies all discussing some subject.
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.
Being this close, even without any suggestive, seductive caresses, without any further incitement at all, was playing on them both.
Escalating the hunger their earlier touches had irrevocably awoken.
Like a hunting cat, desire—a very different desire to anything previously between them—prowled through them, and he was sufficiently attuned to her, and sufficiently experienced, to know that those increasingly powerful impulses were only going to get harder to restrain, and they weren’t affecting only him.
And therein lay a very real danger.
She was no meek and mild miss. She was no stranger to instigating action, to leading and not simply waiting to follow.
Maintaining control, as he very well knew, often lay in ensuring others didn’t seize it.
But was the danger she posed so real—so immediate? Or would he still be able to leave dealing with her until after they return
ed to town, as he’d intended and had assumed he could and would do?
They were circling fluidly, revolving down the room. His attention had drawn in to lock on her, on them.
He couldn’t tell where her attention was, but she didn’t seem aware of the others around them any more than he was.
Hmm. He mentally paused, then lowered his shields and opened his senses to all the impacts he’d been holding at bay. And the lure of her, the physical reality of the sensuous woman she had grown to be, flooded his mind; the whirlpool of temptation swirled to the circling of their feet—and nearly pulled him under.
He slammed shut his mental doors at the very last moment. Then slowly drew breath and steadied his giddy head.
Good Lord! Their burgeoning attraction had grown even more powerful—infinitely more compelling than he’d realized.
As the current measure drew to a whirling close, he accepted that talking to her directly about what lay between them had become imperative—he couldn’t afford to delay and risk her seizing their reins.
Given the reality of what he’d just glimpsed, if she tried to seize control, she might well succeed, and he had no idea what would happen then.
He steered their circling feet toward the open doors. When the music ended, he halted and released her, but changed his grip on the hand he’d held and tipped his head toward the front hall. “We need to talk.”
She opened her eyes wide, but then made the decision—a deliberate concession he was intended to see—and inclined her head. “Very well.” She wriggled her fingers, and when he released them, she wound her arm in his.
He started for the doorway, and without a single glance behind, she walked with him out of the room.
Just before they passed beyond the doorway, he looked back, but everyone else had turned toward the piano, where Worthington was being prevailed upon to play; no one had seen them leave.
“Where to?” She slanted a glance at him. “I assume we need privacy?”
He nodded and mentally scanned the house plan they’d worked from during the day. “The conservatory. Everyone else seems intent on waltzing or listening to the music—we should be safely private there.”
But not too private. Unlike the morning room, someone else might walk into the conservatory at any time; he judged that was one risk she wouldn’t as yet be likely to take.
The conservatory lay at the end of the corridor that led right from the rear of the front hall. They passed the music room, and he opened the door with its glass panes, and Antonia preceded him into the humid warmth.
Shutting the door, he surveyed the room.
Greenery abounded on all sides, mostly ferns with the occasional palm lending height. The plants grew in pots of all shapes and sizes placed on a floor of glazed tiles. The central section of the roof was composed of glass panes, and the end wall and half of the outer wall were completely glazed, no doubt affording vistas of the moonlit grounds, of the manicured lawns rolling away to the lake, with the dark shapes of the trees in the Home Wood looming to one side.
The plants were densely packed and had been arranged to create a weaving path that led across and then down the length of the room. Sebastian hadn’t been in the conservatory before, hadn’t explored its amenities.
Antonia walked to where the path turned. Glancing back at him, she waved down the room. “There’s a clearing of sorts at the end.” Without waiting for any agreement, she started strolling.
He followed. Halfway down the long room, the path straightened, and over Antonia’s head, he saw a circular area ringed by low shrubs before the wall of windows at the end of the room. Two white-painted wrought-iron chairs and a small matching table were set against the green backdrop. The spot seemed designed as a place to share secrets.
Antonia led the way into the circle of ferns, some large-leaved, others with lacy fronds that bobbed in the faint currents created as she and Sebastian passed. Moonlight struck through the panes above, bathing the area in a silvery glow. To their left, a narrower path led through the ferns to a door giving onto the rear terrace, presently deserted.
There was no one else around; they were entirely alone.
Expectation welled; anticipation gripped her. Surely they weren’t there to talk about the murderer.
She halted and swung to face Sebastian.
He’d been scanning their surroundings and hadn’t been watching her; he abruptly pulled up with a scant few inches between them.
She fixed her gaze on his eyes. “What—”
The click of the door latch froze them both.
“I’ve never known much about Ennis’s Irish holdings.”
Cecilia; she’d apparently halted just inside the door—out of sight of the area where Antonia and Sebastian stood. The glass surrounding them seemed to reflect Cecilia’s words, rendering them with bell-like clarity.
“We wondered if you’d heard of any changes to the management—the people running things there?”
Filbury.
Sebastian frowned. They heard the click of the door as it shut.
“There’s still a bit of unrest over there, you see.”
That was Wilson.
Her eyes locked with Sebastian’s, Antonia’s mind raced. What did the men know? What did Cecilia know? What were the men trying to learn—and why?
“As far as I know, there have been no changes, at least not to the senior staff,” Cecilia said. “But why not ask Connell?”
“He’s rather overset by Ennis’s death, don’t you know—and we thought you might know.” Filbury continued, “We’re just a touch concerned.”
“We’re Connell’s friends,” Wilson put in, “and we wouldn’t want to see the estate get caught up in anything…well, untoward.”
“Untoward?” Cecilia said.
By their voices, the trio had been moving slowly away from the door. Any minute, they would reach the central path.
There was nowhere Antonia and Sebastian could hide and continue to listen. If they moved onto the path to the terrace door, they would remain shielded for only a short time, and if they opened the door and tried to slip out, the cold air from outside would give them away.
She evaluated their options at frantic speed, knowing Sebastian would be doing the same. They’d already heard too much; they needed some excuse—better, some screen that would suggest that they hadn’t heard a word…
They both knew their world. There was only one way.
She hauled in a breath and stepped forward, boldly closing the distance between them, reached up, framed the long planes of his face between her hands, stretched up on her toes, and pressed her lips to his.
In the instant her lips met the cool firmness of his, she realized that, while this kiss was a subterfuge to excuse their presence and reassure Cecilia and the two men that it was unlikely they’d heard anything, she—the passionate woman inside her she so rarely let free—had been waiting for this moment for much of her life.
It was that passionate woman who swept to the fore and took charge—who pressed her lips firmly to his and, with absolutely not a shred of reservation, boldly incited.
Sebastian reacted instantly—instinctively. First, to the unvoiced understanding that they needed to excuse and defuse their presence, to leave the others assured that they’d been far too distracted to have heard anything, much less taken anything in.
But even as his arms swept around Antonia and he drew her flush against him and swung them so her back was to the path and, from beneath his lashes, he could observe the steadily approaching trio, even as he angled his head, covered her lips with his, and seized control of the kiss, he sensed another imperative—another demand—one he equally instinctively moved to meet…
She and the kiss dragged him under.
Into a whirling cauldron of hunger, of greedy, ravenous need fueled by surging desire—hers as well as his.
The exchange was supposed to be just a kiss, a pretense, a façade.
It was anything bu
t.
Passion erupted; too long denied, it geysered between them, drowning them in a raging tide of wanting.
Hunger drove them. She parted her lips on a gasp, and he dove into the honeyed warmth of her mouth, plundering, claiming, needing to do so with an intensity that overwhelmed him. That seized him, shook him, and enslaved him.
She pressed nearer; one hand slid from his cheek, and her fingers speared through his hair, then splayed and gripped.
He tasted her joy, her effervescent delight, her enthusiasm and unbridled desire.
She’d set herself free and ensnared him.
She threw caution to the winds and effortlessly drew him with her.
They strove to get closer, to taste more, to devour. Their mouths merged, lips melded, tongues tangling, stroking and inciting and blatantly claiming.
He—and she—lost all touch with the world.
The entire company could have been standing, gawping, on the path, and he wouldn’t have known and wouldn’t have cared.
In that instant, the only thing that mattered was her—the fiery, feisty woman she truly was, the woman he’d always instinctively known lived beneath her cool, composed exterior. The only imperative remaining in his mind was to appease her demands, to lure her and capture her, just as she had already captured him.
It was tit for tat, a natural search for balance between them, and this time, she was leading the dance, forging the way, and for once, he didn’t mind.
Her lips were ambrosia, her mouth a dark paradise. The pressure of her body against his completed the lure—one that, for him, was utterly irresistible.
Not that he had any wish to resist…
Yet protectiveness remained, alert and watchful; some distant part of his brain informed him that the trio had come farther along the path and seen them.
But the intruders had halted, no doubt transfixed by the sight of him and the woman held tightly in his arms standing in the clearing and bathed by moonlight.
A soft male chuckle reached him. “Half his luck.” Then Cecilia murmured something, and the sound of footsteps creeping away faded.