Spellswept Page 3

Her smile had turned unwontedly wistful at that statement—and Amy had glanced beyond her at the portrait of the late Mr. Harwood that hung in Miranda’s study, an unusually sentimental ornament for that practical place of business.

  Miranda had been fortunate in her own husband’s appearance, judging by both that portrait and the two children who had been born to their match—but she, too, had married for strategy, not for love. It was the only sensible way to choose a partner for any woman with intelligence and ambition—and of course, if one chose wisely, respect and mutual assistance would eventually turn into real affection. It was everything that Amy had ever hoped for in a match.

  So she forced the Harwoods and their revelations from her mind to smile up at Lord Llewellyn now and give him the disciplined focus that he would deserve throughout their lives together. “Are you enjoying the evening, my lord?”

  “Very much.” He gave an assessing glance around the room and nodded approvingly. “You really haven’t missed anyone, have you? If you wouldn’t mind aiming this way for a bit...” He maneuvered her adroitly to one side, moving smoothly across the room.

  Amy slid a discreet glance of her own in that direction, keeping the warm, open smile on her face. “Are we intercepting Mr. Westgate?” she murmured.

  His own smile unflinching, Llewellyn twirled her adeptly around the next couple in their path. “I want to make certain he’ll be watching the demonstrations later on.”

  “Aha.” Amy slipped back into place in his arms, her mind humming back into motion as she returned to her usual, non-Harwood-distracted work.

  Llewellyn was speaking, of course, about the magical demonstrations, when the younger mages would take turns displaying their talents for the delight of the assembly. A traditional moment at the end of any ball, it was the perfect opportunity for young, ambitious gentlemen to show off their strengths—both to the older men who might advance their magical careers and to the eligible young women who might be persuaded to consider them as marital partners. At a ball like this, it also served a vital function for the nation: to impress diplomats from other realms with the ongoing power of Angland’s magecraft, which had turned back so many attempted invasions in the past.

  Westgate was one of the Boudiccate’s own officers of magic, and among the highest-ranking of that elite force. Amy might not know a great deal about magic herself, but she knew all about power and influence, so she was fully prepared by the time they met a moment later.

  “Mr. Westgate!” Beaming, she tugged Lord Llewellyn to a halt before a tall, lean man with dark brown skin and graying, close-cut hair, who stood by the sidelines sipping a glass of elven wine without any noticeable enjoyment. “I am delighted to see you here, sir. Is everything to your satisfaction?”

  Westgate’s eyebrows rose as he lowered his wine. “Miss...Standish, was it not?”

  Amy nodded, intensifying the warmth of her smile. “Mrs. Harwood was so pleased when you accepted her invitation. She thinks very highly of your work, you know.”

  “Indeed.” His eyebrows, if anything, notched a little higher. “Perhaps she ought to listen to a bit more of my advice, then.”

  Luckily, Amy had been quite prepared for that crotchety response, because whenever Miranda spoke of Lionel Westgate, her words of reluctant praise had invariably been followed by the conclusion: “...even if he is the crankiest mage in all Angland.”

  So unlike Llewellyn, she didn’t twitch at Westgate’s words. Instead, she tipped her head to one side with a look of warm conspiracy. “Now, Mr. Westgate. You know you can’t expect the members of the Boudiccate to respond to instruction as if they were students at the Great Library. They have to discuss important matters and make decisions amongst themselves—but they always take your advice into account.”

  “Ha.” He gestured with his nearly-full wine glass at the arched ceiling high above them, beyond all of the dazzling fey-lights. “Then why are we still holding events here, do you think? When I’ve warned her time and time again...”

  At that, Amy blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  He shook his head. “No one denies old Harwood’s genius. But the spell must need reinforcement eventually—it’s a miracle it’s lasted this long without him here to keep an eye on it!—and yet she won’t let any other mages inspect it for safety. Calls the idea an insult to her husband’s memory, if you can believe it!”

  The water outside the thin panes of glass suddenly seemed even darker, as if it were squeezing tighter around the ballroom as discomfort tightened Amy’s chest.

  How many years had it been since Mr. Harwood’s death, now? Five? If his spell collapsed now...

  She took a deep, sustaining breath, carefully maintaining the easy good humor of her expression. “Aren’t we fortunate, then, to have so many brilliant mages here with us tonight for our protection?” As if only just then reminded of him, she gave a small start and turned back to her dance partner. “Oh! You are acquainted with Lord Llewellyn, are you not, Mr. Westgate?”

  “Llewellyn.” Westgate nodded briefly, his expression unreadable.

  “Sir.” Llewellyn’s smile was broad and confident. “A pleasure to meet you again. Good work with that band of kelpies last month.”

  “Them?” The older man shrugged irritably. “Those were hardly a challenge for a whole team of us together.”

  “Well, I’ve been working on a spell that might help in cases like those, actually.” Llewellyn took a step closer. “It might even turn that into a one-man operation.”

  “Oh really?” Westgate’s eyes narrowed as he raised his wineglass, preparing for another sip. “Planning to present it tonight at the demonstrations?”

  Llewellyn nodded with exactly the right look of deferential respect. “I’d be grateful for your thoughts on it, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Hmm.” Westgate took a long sip of elven wine. “Well, don’t ask me now, boy. We’ll see what I think after I watch it in action.”

  Llewellyn opened his mouth; Amy squeezed his arm warningly. With a sigh, he relaxed and stepped back, taking her cue. “Thank you, sir. I’ll look forward to it.”

  “Just don’t collapse this place around us when you do it!” Westgate called after them as they swept back onto the crowded dance floor.

  Lowering her voice as they joined the other dancers, Amy asked, “Is that a real possibility, do you think?”

  “Nonsense.” Llewellyn’s lips twisted with amusement. “You needn’t worry about any of Westgate’s mutterings, Miss Standish. ‘The Raven of Doom’, you know—that’s what all of the Great Library students call him, because he’s always harping on about the worst that might happen.”

  He shook his head, leading her gracefully across the floor. “It’s as you told him yourself: before the Boudiccate decides on anything, they’ll always discuss it amongst themselves and take various mages’ opinions into account. I’ll wager they’ve had plenty of private inspections of this place in the last few years. They simply didn’t want to tell old Westgate they’d chosen someone else for the job, to keep themselves safe from all his cawing about it.”

  “Mm.” Amy kept her tone perfectly neutral, but her eyebrows wanted to knit into a frown. She kept her expression clear with an effort, conscious of every potential watching eye.

  Of course Llewellyn knew far more about magic than she did—but Amy knew a good deal about people. Lionel Westgate’s hair might be graying with age, but he was full of energy and sharp intelligence. He hadn’t struck her as a man prone to unfounded worries.

  Still, her future husband was right: the Boudiccate always took important magical questions to their council.

  Except when it comes to Miranda’s family. The thought shivered through her with a whisper of unease as she suddenly remembered that impossible, dancing flame cupped in Cassandra’s hand. Miranda certainly hadn’t discussed that with her fellow members of the Boudiccate, had she? Amy had lived for ten months with the Harwood family without even guessing at the secret—and i
f Cassandra hadn’t lost her temper, it might never have come out at all.

  Miranda might battle fiercely with her equally strong-minded children, but she would never betray either of them to outsiders. That had been proven to the world when she’d neither disowned Jonathan as expected, nor even banished him from the family home when he’d refused his place at the Great Library and struck out on his own, unsanctioned career path.

  “You hit the right notes with him, though,” Llewellyn said, “as usual.” He pulled her a fraction closer with unmistakable possessiveness. “Just think how well we’ll do together,” he murmured into her ear. “With your political skills and my magic...what can’t we hope for?”

  The answer died, unspoken, in Amy’s mouth as another couple circled past.

  Jonathan Harwood was dancing with Lady Cosgrave this time, with the ease of long acquaintance. Lady Cosgrave—by far the most approachable member of the Boudiccate—was clearly trying to lecture him with the tone of an older sister, while he smiled and parried all of her points and made her laugh despite herself.

  Following Amy’s gaze, Llewellyn let out an aggravated huff of breath. “Incredible, how he’s wormed his way into everyone’s good graces.”

  Amy’s eyebrows rose; using the excuse of a sweeping turn, she pulled subtly back within his embrace. “I don’t believe Mr. Harwood is trying to gain anything from Lady Cosgrave or any of the other members of the Boudiccate.”

  “Ha. I went to school with him, you know, before any of us were old enough for the Great Library. The son of one of the oldest magical families in the realm, and he wouldn’t even pretend to take an interest in the subject. He should have been a laughing-stock from day one—anyone else would’ve been!—but somehow, by the end of our first year, he’d actually talked everyone into thinking him ‘such a good fellow,’ despite everything.”

  Llewellyn shook his head in open disgust. “Of course we all expected it to come crashing down for him in the end, when he’d finally have to fall into line and head to the Great Library with the rest of us, but no...he still wouldn’t budge. And he didn’t even lose anything for it!”

  Amy narrowed her eyes, studying her partner’s face warily. “Hasn’t he paid a significant price by not attending? He’ll never rise in the world as you and the others will.”

  “Just look at him,” Llewellyn said bitterly. “Does he seem to you as if he’s suffering for everything he tossed away? When you think of every man who’d fight and strive for the opportunities he was born with...”

  Aha. Well, there it was: for all that Llewellyn’s family was perfectly respectable and respected, they were certainly no Harwoods. Not a single woman in his family, past or present, had ever represented the nation as a member of the Boudiccate; no gentleman among them had ever risen to the highest magical posts in the realm. Llewellyn’s own ambition must have nearly choked him when he’d watched Jonathan Harwood reject it all—and Amy couldn’t help but understand how he had felt.

  But that wasn’t what made her breath catch in sudden realization. Oh!

  Finally, it all made sense.

  “What could make any man so careless?” Llewellyn muttered.

  Amy didn’t answer him aloud. But in her head she silently corrected him: Not ‘what.’ Her gaze scanned through the crowd until it fastened on a head of thick, curling brown hair—the same hair that ran all through the Harwood family—because the right question to ask, of course, was actually: ‘Who?’

  Jonathan Harwood was the least careless person she knew, but what he cared about, unlike Llewellyn, wasn’t power. It was family. And that was why she’d never truly understood his decisions—until now.

  He could always have studied his beloved history on the side while dutifully carrying on the family legacy in public...but only if he weren’t convinced that someone else deserved to take on the weight and power of that legacy herself. How soon had he realized his younger sister’s passion?

  It was impossible, unthinkable for any woman to study magic...

  But...not quite so impossible, perhaps, after Jonathan Harwood had taken that first public step to prepare his family and his cohort for that change.

  Amy could barely breathe as her thoughts whirled around that single, earth-shaking point, re-sorting and reassembling themselves around a concept she’d never dared to imagine before.

  “Miss Standish?” The music was coming to a halt; Amy blinked back into the world to find Lord Llewellyn impatiently repeating himself, a look of barely-veiled irritation on his handsome face. “I said, shall we make the announcement at the end of this evening? Or—”

  Announcement? Her mind still full of swirling schemes, it took Amy a moment to absorb his words. Then they clicked into place. “Of course!” she said, injecting warm enthusiasm into her words. “Our announcement.”

  Their wedding announcement—that must be what he meant. Of course she hadn’t actually proposed to him yet; she’d planned to do so, officially, during one of their three dances across the evening. But it would be foolish to be irritated by his presumption now when everyone knew that she would ask, and everyone knew, likewise, what his answer would be.

  “Ye-e-es...” His frown deepened even more as he released her, holding out one arm to escort her off the dance floor. “So your answer to my question is...?”

  “The end of the evening,” she said quickly. “After the demonstrations. That would be the perfect timing.”

  Every guest would be assembled and attentive at that point—and, better yet, it would give her plenty of time to compose herself first, after all the revelations of this evening.

  Smiling brightly, Amy patted his arm, stepped away from her intended, and slipped into the crowd before he could stop her.

  She didn’t aim for Jonathan or Cassandra Harwood this time. That way lay only more perilous confusion. Instead, she moved on a carefully selected path from one guest to another, mingling, laughing, asking thoughtful questions, and making certain each time to casually bring up Miranda’s most favored projects before moving on. It was a dance of its own, although she’d left the physical dance floor behind her. The careful shifting of moods and opinions, the thrill of persuasion and the buzz of the challenge—it all filled her with a brimming energy that felt more sparkling and effervescent than even the finest elven wine.

  This was the purpose that she’d been born for—and when she met Miranda in the midst of her rounds an hour later, the undisguised approval on her mentor’s face warmed Amy more than any fire. Smiling, Miranda drew her aside to murmur into her ear.

  “Mrs. Seabury,” she said, referring to the oldest and most intimidating member of the Boudiccate, “just stalked across the room to ask me where I’d found my new assistant...and to offer me more than a few political favors if I’d release you to her service instead!”

  Amy’s eyes widened, her heart giving a sudden lurch as that lovely warm sense of security slipped suddenly away from her. “What did you tell her?”

  “What do you think?” Miranda laughed and gave Amy’s shoulder a reassuring pat. “Trust me, my dear. Old Seabury lost her ability to talk me out of anything that really mattered years ago. I have far greater plans for you than simply to move on to another assistantship! Once you’re safely betrothed and we can start you on your way...” She tilted her head, her voice dropping even lower. “Is everything arranged to your satisfaction there?”

  She meant, Have you proposed?

  Ah. Amy’s fingers tightened around her wineglass. Of course she should have taken care of it by now...but then, Llewellyn had rather bypassed that necessity, hadn’t he? Still, she would issue her proposal by the end of the evening to make it official. So... “We’ll make our announcement after the demonstrations.”

  “Excellent. Perfectly timed, as usual.” Smiling warmly, Miranda nudged Amy around and raised her voice as the Fae ambassadress approached in a glittering blur of wings and color. “Your Eminence! Have you met my new assistant yet? She arranged this enti
re evening, you know...”

  Amy dived back into the political whirl with pure exhilaration and didn’t emerge again until thirty minutes later, when a firm hand closed around her arm just as she was shifting away from a large group. It was Llewellyn’s hand, and when she turned, she found his smile tinged with irritation. “I’ve hardly even glimpsed you tonight. Aren’t we due another dance by now?”

  “I—yes, of course.” Swallowing down a sigh—she’d been aiming at a particular target in her next group—Amy nodded, remembering Miranda’s advice. Time to take care of those final details. Once her proposal had been safely issued and accepted, everything would be perfectly sorted according to her plans. After all, once their betrothal was official, she couldn’t back out from the decision—not without ruining her political prospects beyond repair. A politician’s word was her bond.

  And there was certainly no reason to feel any panic about that! So—

  “Miss Standish,” said Jonathan Harwood, and Amy turned to him in a rush of relief even as Llewellyn’s grip tightened uncomfortably around her arm.

  “Mr. Harwood.” She beamed at him even as she gave her constrained arm a discreet tug. “Does your mother require my assistance?”

  “Ah...yes, I’m afraid. It’s a family issue.” He nodded to Llewellyn, his face carefully neutral but his gaze fixed on the other man’s still-tight grip around Amy’s bare brown arm. “Apologies, Llewellyn, but it shouldn’t take too long.”

  “Don’t you think it could wait, then, until I’ve had my turn?” Llewellyn’s grip didn’t loosen as he narrowed his eyes. “I appreciate that your purpose in life nowadays is to run your mother’s errands, but—”

  “Actually,” Amy said, with a firm and undisguised yank that took Llewellyn by surprise and threw him off-balance, “Mr. Harwood’s purpose in life is the study of the Daniscan invasion, just as my purpose tonight is to assist his mother in whatever she may need. You should read some of Mr. Harwood’s published articles, Lord Llewellyn. They really are quite enlightening.”

  She didn’t even attempt to hide her flare of irritation as she twitched herself free, a pointed rebuke in her gaze. There was a duty of attention owed to one’s partner, certainly, but there was also a duty of respect between equals. She would always make her own decisions for herself as well as—in the future, with luck—for the whole of Angland.