After a half-hour, he dragged Dominique away from the guests, shoving a plate in her hand.
“You need to eat something,” he commanded.
When she opened her mouth, likely to argue, Ronan leaned closer so he could speak directly into her ear without being overheard. “You’re going to need your energy for later, wife,” he murmured and grinned when he saw a small shiver run through her.
“I’ll eat if you do,” she retorted, tilting her chin to look at him. Their faces were only a few inches apart.
Unable to help himself, Ronan leaned down and kissed her. “You’re right. I’m going to need my energy, too.”
When they finally settled at the table set up for the royal family, one of the servants brought over a carafe of mead. They sat side-by-side, their thighs touching as they ate from each other’s plates and drained their glasses of mead.
Tiny cakes and pastries soon followed, served by a plethora of servants, before the band began to play a merry jig. When he felt Dominique’s toe tapping the floor next to his foot, Ronan leaned over and asked, “Would my wife like to dance with her husband?”
She stared at the rapidly filling dance floor, a wistful expression on her face. “I would love to, but I don’t know how.”
The sadness in her words made him lament her childhood. Her parents had been fae nobility. They should have ensured she knew how to dance.
He took her hand, pulling her to her feet as he stood. “Then, I’ll teach you.”
She resisted. “I don’t want to embarrass you or your fam?—”
Ronan kissed her, hard and quick, stopping the words before they could leave her lips. “Don’t worry about my family and you could never embarrass me. Not even if you tried your hardest.”
Her eyes were wide and nervous as he guided her out to the dance floor. People made room for them, but no one stopped dancing with their own partners. Ronan placed one of her hands on his shoulder before taking her free one in his. Then, he set his other palm on her waist, pulling her a little closer.
“We’ll need some space for the steps since this is a jig. For a waltz or a slower dance, we won’t need as much.”
He demonstrated the steps and walked her through what he was doing as he led her slowly around the edge of the dance floor. Once she had the footwork down, he began to pick up speed. Most of the songs being played tonight were folk dances—jigs and reels with quick beats and simple steps.
Soon, they were whipping around the floor, and he turned her several times in a row, holding her tightly when she nearly tripped.
With a breathless laugh, she said, “Don’t spin me so fast, it’s making me dizzy.”
“Did you say spin you faster?” he asked, doing just that.
Her resulting laugh was even louder, but she managed to keep her steps in time with his just fine. “Ronan!” she cried.
“You’re doing fine. Just follow my lead.”
“Your lead? More like your pushing and shoving.”
“Well, once you learn how to dance properly, I won’t have to haul you around like a sack of potatoes.”
She scoffed, smacking him lightly on the arm. “Take that back!”
He found himself smiling down at her. “Fine. You’re not a sack of potatoes.” He winced when she stepped on his foot. “You’re like a Sasquatch.”
A second later, she trod his foot again, this time on purpose. He knew because of the way she giggled.
“Witch,” he muttered without heat. “My feet will be black and blue tomorrow.”
“Boohoo. Poor little prince.”
He loved the way she teased him right back, as though she was confident enough in him to do so. Less than twenty-four hours ago, she never would have dared.
“Such a vicious wife. I chose well.”
Her answering laugh was so loud that heads all around them turned.
