Spellswept Read online

“Oh, I know.” Amy couldn’t help a rueful smile; pulled out of her embarrassingly lust-spelled trance, she dared a quick, slanting glance into his lake-blue eyes and found them full of affectionate amusement. “I was quite prepared for that.”

  “Of course you were.” His smile deepened as he twirled her around, the better to show off her footwork to the room.

  It was one of the things he seemed to do as easily as breathing—showing off the best in the people around him, always. So it shouldn’t have made her chest ache with loss, but it did, of course. It always did.

  Why couldn’t you have studied magic? Amy closed her eyes for one brief, desperate moment as she twirled back into the circle of his arms. “You’re a wonderful dancer.” The words felt stilted in her mouth.

  “Thank you.” His own voice sounded oddly hoarse; his breath ruffled warm and quick against her hair. “It’s one of my few skills.”

  “What rubbish!” Her eyes snapped open. Jonathan always looked confident and at peace with himself—it was one of the most appealing things about him, that warm, steady, reliable presence—but the expression she caught on his face just then looked oddly lost. Vulnerable.

  The sight made something hurt deep inside her, and it turned her voice tart with exasperation. “You may let the rest of the world think what they like of you, but I have read the book you’re writing, remember? And Cassandra showed me your latest article this morning. You could be the finest history teacher in the country if you wanted to.”

  “And embarrass Mother even more? I think not.” This time, he was the one who averted his gaze, his pale skin flushing. “But thank you for the compliment. You’ve listened to enough of my tedious history lectures over the past months to earn a place in the Boudiccate just for patience, I should think.”

  Amy rolled her eyes, relaxing into his arms. “Trust me,” she said firmly. “If I’d found them tedious, I wouldn’t have asked to hear more of them. And I’ll earn my place in the Boudiccate through my own hard work, thank you.”

  “That part,” said Jonathan wryly, “I never doubted.”

  It was, of course, completely the wrong moment to pass Lord Llewellyn, who danced toward them with the dashing Lady Cosgrave glittering in silver lace in his arms. They both smiled and nodded as they neared, and Lord Llewellyn called across jovially, “Watch out, Miss Standish, or he’ll talk your ear off about some dusty old scroll no one’s ever wanted to hear of. Unless you’d like me to cast a spell of silence for your sake?”

  Amy’s teeth gritted behind her smile, even as Jonathan gave an easy laugh and nod in return and the youngest member of the Boudiccate tapped her dance partner’s shoulder in mock-reproof.

  “Shush now, my lord!” Lady Cosgrave shook her head at Lord Llewellyn indulgently. “You know how much our dear Miranda values his help about the place. And you needn’t envy poor Mr. Harwood, you know—you’ll have his lovely partner’s attention to yourself soon enough, won’t you?”

  “That is my plan.” Smiling, Llewellyn followed her direction to dance gracefully toward the opposite side of the room—where, Amy knew, Lady Cosgrave would be aiming for the Fae ambassadress.

  Amy should have been thinking, too, about those delicate trading negotiations that the Boudiccate was trying to strike with the Fae; but it was hard, for once, to care about such details as her lips pressed tightly together, trying to hold back an entirely impolitic response to her own intended fiancé.

  “Is something amiss?” Jonathan frowned, pulling her a fraction closer as he inspected her face. “You look...”

  “It’s nothing.” If Jonathan was willing to laugh off Llewellyn’s comment, so should she; it made no sense to feel this sort of rage over an insult so casual and unthinking, especially when it came from a man whom she should forgive whenever possible, for expediency’s sake.

  And yet...

  “Are you certain?” Still frowning, he cast a quick glance up at the dark panes of glass above them and the deep waters outside. “I would offer to accompany you outside for some air, but in this particular case...”

  “I’d rather not drown tonight, thank you.” Her lips tugged up in a reluctant half-smile. “I wouldn’t mind a sip of wine, though.”

  And a reason to make myself let go of you, she added silently. She had no choice; she had to sort her rebellious thoughts back into order before she could make any terrible misstep—and it would be infinitely easier without the perilous distraction of his warmth surrounding her.

  So it was entirely illogical to feel a pang of loss when he immediately released her. “Of course.” He stepped back, waving her toward the refreshments table at the far side of the room. “Shall we?”

  Her waist felt cold where his hand no longer touched her. She took his arm instead in the lightest of holds and walked sedately by his side through the swirling dancers, smiling and nodding to every couple they passed. She could name and describe every one of the guests after all the hours she’d spent on careful research before writing out the invitations. If put to the test, she could have recited a whole litany of facts and personal details about each of them, including their views on at least half a dozen of the most pressing political issues facing the Boudiccate this spring.

  So it was easy to make small talk to the dancers who paused to converse; easy to subtly nudge those conversations in exactly the right directions for Miranda’s aims; easy, too, to smile and warmly enthuse at those guests while never aiming a single look at the man whose arm she held, even as awareness rippled through her with every move he made.

  When they reached the long refreshments table, it grew easier yet, because the first thing she saw there made her relax into outright laughter: Cassandra Harwood with her back to the dancers and a look of guilty glee on her face, attempting to fit an entire cake into her mouth.

  “You’ll be sick!” Amy said, wincing as she hurried forward. “Or worse, spill crumbs on your gown.”

  “Worth it,” Cassandra mumbled around the cake. “I only just managed to sneak away.” She wiped her arm across her mouth as she gulped the cake down, scattering crumbs across her pale blue gown without any visible shame. Recalcitrant strands of thick brown hair were already beginning to tumble free from her chignon, as irrepressible as Cassandra herself. “I thought I’d never make it over here, Mother had such a grip on me.”

  “Introducing you ’round again?” Jonathan smiled ruefully at his little sister. “You’d think she must have introduced you to every possible political mentor in the nation by now, wouldn’t you?”

  “She was probably hoping they’d forgotten me since the last time.” Cassandra smirked back at him.

  Amy rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Do you have any idea what I would have given to have Miranda Harwood introduce me to political mentors when I was your age?”

  “Nearly as much as I’d give to make her stop?” Cassandra’s face tightened as she reached for another cake, her gaze sliding away from Amy’s.

  Jonathan shifted closer to his sister. “Here, brat.” He pointed past her at a different plate, his voice gentling. “That one has a liquid chocolate filling. If it accidentally spills all over your gown, well then...you’ll simply have to have some time away to change, won’t you?”

  Cassandra let out a choked laugh—and Amy realized, with a start, that the girl was fighting to hold back an actual sob, for the first time since they’d met. Cassandra’s usual unquenchable self-confidence might make life at Harwood House a challenge at times, when she opposed Miranda’s firm expectations for what seemed the mere joy of showing off her independence—but to see that fierce, spiky girl on the brink of tears now felt more than worrying. It felt wrong.

  It was automatic for Amy to angle herself at Jonathan’s side, blocking his little sister from the view of the crowd for the sake of the family and the evening’s entertainment. But it was a deeper and less rational urge—one that Amy couldn’t resist—to reach out once they were safely shielded from view and cup one hand lightly again
st Cassandra’s cheek, stroking away that first tell-tale tear as a wave of fierce protectiveness welled up within her.

  “Tell me,” Amy said with soft intensity. “Did someone say something to hurt you? Or...”

  Cassandra shrugged irritably, lowering her eyes, but she didn’t shift away from Amy’s tentative touch. Instead, she leaned into it. “It’s just...it never changes! No matter how many times I tell Mother what I want, she will not listen. She simply carries on the way she always does, sweeping everyone around her into doing whatever she’s decided is best. You know,” she said, appealing to Jonathan. “It’s one thing when she’s doing it for the whole nation, but—”

  “Shh.” He gave her a warning look and stepped closer, blocking her in, as a chattering group of guests stepped up behind them to pick through the assorted cakes and sweetmeats.

  “Perhaps...?” Amy gestured toward the rounded wall that curved behind the refreshments table. A transparent pane of glass inserted between the paintings there created a perfect lookout point and excuse.

  Together, she and the two younger Harwoods drifted toward it, Cassandra safely flanked on both sides by Amy and Jonathan. Smiling brightly as they all reached the glass, Amy made a show of pointing at the dark water outside...and dropped her voice as she studied the girl beside her: the second life-tilting surprise to have greeted her when she’d first arrived at Harwood House ten months earlier.

  By every right, Cassandra Harwood should have loathed Amy on first sight. Not only had Amy been an interloper upon Cassandra’s family home, but Miranda Harwood had made her own delighted approval of her new assistant abundantly clear from Amy’s first month onward.

  It was a gift she’d never dared to expect from the woman she’d idolized all her life—but that didn’t stop Amy from wincing with discomfort whenever she heard Miranda slip into outright comparisons during the epic battles that raged between mother and daughter.

  “For goodness’ sake, why can’t you simply model yourself on Amy?”

  She wouldn’t have blamed Cassandra for turning against her completely. Instead, the younger girl had welcomed Amy from the first, drawing her unquestioningly into the family’s private entertainments, teasing her with exuberant warmth, inviting herself into Amy’s room for tea and confidences, and treating Amy in every way like her own triumphantly-acquired and inherently lovable older sister.

  It was entirely unexpected; it was unbearably sweet; and much as she’d discovered with Cassandra’s older brother, Amy found that she had no natural defense against such open and genuine affection. Unlike anyone else she’d ever met, neither of the Harwood siblings ever expected her to prove herself to them in any way. In return, she found she couldn’t bear to witness either of them suffer, no matter what the cause.

  She bit back a sigh now as her loyalties pulled hard against each other, straining her resolution to breaking-point.

  Of course she’d always known that Cassandra chafed at her mother’s ambitions for her—their battles were legendary, loud and inescapable, pitting their twin wills against each other—but it was the one subject that Amy and Cassandra had never discussed in all their afternoons and evenings of cake and gossip. Amy would never betray her mentor, and Cassandra knew it.

  Now, though, Amy gave in at long last to inevitability. “Cassandra,” she said quietly, leaning closer, “I’ll speak to your mother for you if you’d like. You know she can’t truly force you to become a politician. If you dig in your heels and simply refuse to take that path, then nothing she does can compel the Boudiccate to accept you. If you only wait until you’re a grown adult and can choose another vocation for yourself—”

  “I’ve chosen,” Cassandra said with bitter emphasis. “That’s the problem. Hadn’t you worked it out yet?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Amy blinked, looking to Jonathan for answers.

  His brows knitted together; he shook his head slightly in return. Clearly, it was Cassandra’s truth to share.

  “Haven’t you heard me going on and on about magic?” The younger girl’s smile was wobbly. “Obsessions run in our family, you know. Mother’s politics, Jonathan’s history, and my...”

  “Magic?” Amy repeated, baffled. Of course she had heard Cassandra give loud opinions on the matter—she was surprisingly well-informed on that masculine topic, considering that her only brother had turned so famously against it—but Amy had always assumed that Cassandra’s own professed interest was just another way to needle her overbearing mother. It was certainly an effective strategy, since Miranda lost her temper every time Cassandra brought up the subject in conversation.

  “You...want to study the history of magic, you mean? As your profession?” Amy took a deep breath, absorbing the startling news. “Well, I know that isn’t what Miranda’s planned for you”—and it would certainly raise eyebrows in society for a lady to take so much interest in that subject, even if it was all safely couched in history—“but perhaps, if we angle it just the right way—”

  “No!” The word burst out of Cassandra like an explosion, loud enough to draw attention from the groups nearby.

  “Careful,” Jonathan warned in a soft whisper. “If someone hears you—”

  “I don’t care!” She wrapped her arms around her chest, misery seeping out of every pore. “Oh, I know it’s supposed to be a shameful secret, but if I have to hold it in much longer—”

  “Look out of the window, quickly.” Gently, Amy nudged Cassandra’s shoulder, turning her to hide her face from the assembly. “Now explain it all to me. Carefully, please, since I’m so slow tonight.”

  “I...” Cassandra hiccupped on a sob. Her lips twisted, and with a sudden, jerky move she thrust her right hand forward, palm upwards. “Just look!”

  She whispered something under her breath too quietly for Amy to catch the words...and a bright spark of fire suddenly appeared in her palm, hidden from the rest of the ballroom between her body and the glass.

  Shock stopped Amy’s breath. She almost staggered.

  Cassandra was casting magic.

  Amy’s gaze flew instinctively to Jonathan’s face, expecting her own stunned disbelief to be reflected there. This couldn’t really be happening, could it?

  But astonishingly, he wasn’t even looking at the incredible—unheard of! unimaginable!—event taking place only inches away from them. Instead, his blue eyes were fixed steadily on her face, faint lines of worry creasing his expression.

  He was waiting, she realized, to see how she would react—and whether she was, after all, a safe person to trust with such an explosive secret.

  Good God. She swallowed convulsively, her breath returning in a rush. If anyone else found out...

  How long had the Harwood family been keeping this secret? If the news ever reached the rest of the Boudiccate—much less the newspapers!—that Miranda Harwood’s own daughter was flouting every law of nature by daring to cast magic of her own...

  “Miss Standish!” Lord Llewellyn’s voice rang out behind her, and Amy spun around with a gasp of horror.

  To her deep relief, she felt Jonathan step quickly behind her, providing an extra shield between Llewellyn and his sister.

  Amy pinned a bright, dazzling smile on her face and snapped out her fan with one hand, creating even more of a visual barrier, while she extended her other hand in greeting. “Is it time for our first dance, my lord?”

  “At last.” Smiling with proprietary satisfaction, he took her proffered hand—then cast a brief, dismissive nod in Jonathan’s direction. “Harwood.” His eyes widened as Cassandra stepped out from behind her older brother, her chin held high and her hands—thank goodness—safely empty. “And Miss Harwood! An honor to see you, always.”

  This time, his nod was closer to a bow. Of course. An entirely inappropriate, semi-hysterical giggle fought its way up Amy’s throat as she watched the rapid calculations unfurling in Llewellyn’s clever gaze.

  Jonathan, in his eyes, was unimportant—no rival in magery or r
omance and thus entirely beneath consideration. Cassandra, on the other hand, was publicly understood to be her mother’s intended successor within the Boudiccate and one of the future rulers of the nation, so he didn’t dare offend her.

  If he’d had even the slightest idea...

  “Miss Standish?” Llewellyn raised his eyebrows at her. “Are you quite well?”

  “Of course, my lord.” Amy gave her fan a brisk wave to cool her face, then let it fall back on the knotted golden cord that she wore about her wrist, matching the golden silk of her skirts. “I’m only looking forward to our dance.”

  “As am I.” Bowing to Cassandra—and ignoring Jonathan completely—Llewellyn drew her forward to join the other couples on the tiled floor.

  Over his shoulder, Amy watched Jonathan loop a protective arm around his sister, whispering something that made her nod and close her eyes, resting her head against his jacketed chest. When he glanced back up, his gaze caught Amy’s through the crowd.

  Her feet stumbled in their moves.

  Curse it. She lowered her eyes quickly, wrenching herself back into the moment and to her dance partner.

  Lord Llewellyn was her future partner in every way, and she could never let herself forget that salient fact. Breathing deeply, she forced herself to take careful note of his hand at her waist—pleasantly firm, not over-tight—and the long fingers that he’d tangled possessively with hers. It all felt perfectly agreeable. He danced with skill.

  He did everything with skill, in fact. According to Miranda, he was widely considered to be one of the most promising mages of his generation, predicted to rise high among their ranks. All that he truly required now was a wife like Amy with a prominent family name and the political acumen to become a star in her own right. Together, they had the potential to rise into Angland’s ruling echelon.

  “And he’s even rather handsome,” Miranda had finished, when she’d given Amy her private summation the day before introducing the pair. “Which one can’t always count upon, you know. Not everyone is so fortunate.”