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All right, then. She’d gotten her wish, so she’d be happy. She shouldn’t feelmorenervous.
She edged between him and the fire, easing into her chair—which didn’t feel nearly as comfortable as usual—and perched on the edge. Arranging her skirts, she regretted the color. The forest-green velvet gown was new from House Ophiel, sent along with one of their dressmaker wizards to tailor it, along with a whole new wardrobe for her. Papa had been generous in providing her with new gowns during her trials, an unvoiced message of encouragement that meant so much. She’d disappointed him by not becoming the wizard they’d hoped she’d be, so she was grateful that he supported her quest in the trials to do her best as a familiar.
The forest-green gown had instantly become her favorite for its sensually full skirts and lovely embroidery of silver leaves. At that moment, though, she could wish that she wasn’t wearing a color so akin to Phel’s cloak.
He studied her while she fidgeted, gaze whispering over her skin and leaving a trace of steam behind. Where his cloak had been made of rich cloth, his clothing veered toward the simple side. Of course, he’d traveled days to get to Elal on horseback, which she’d have known by the earthy smell if she hadn’t observed for herself. He either refused to barter for a magically propelled conveyance, or he couldn’t afford it. He also smelled of snow and fresh winter air, and she found she didn’t mind the combination. Better by far than the perfumes her carriage-borne other suitors had sported. She caught herself inhaling his scent again, savoring.Stop it.
“Shall I pour?” he prompted, arrogance tempered with that hint of uncertainty.
Eesh.What was wrong with her? She was hardly impressing him with what a wonderful hostess of House Phel she’d make. Of course, rumor had it that the actual house was in ruins. Still, she’d been raised better. Wizard or familiar, she was a lady of a High House. “Apologies,” she murmured in her most gracious tone, plucking up the decanter and pouring a healthy portion for him.
He quirked that brow, black as his eyes, as that one streak in his hair. “Aren’t you indulging also?”
The vial burned in her pocket, and she poured herself a small allowance of wine, in case she needed to drink the potion. He gave her small portion a quizzical look, lifted that long-fingered hand and slid his glass to sit beside hers, as if to compare the vastly different levels. He raised those sardonic black eyes to hers, then tipped his glass to add to hers until they were even. “In this, at least,” he said, “let us begin on equal footing.”
Plucking up his glass, he lifted it, waiting pointedly for her to do the same. “To a fruitful night,” he suggested, watching her keenly.
She echoed him in a quiet murmur—trying not to think about what would happen between them, her nerves whispering a warning despite his courteous manners—and he clinked his glass against hers, his eyes never leaving her face. Slowly he brought the glass to his lips, then held it there, waiting again for her to mirror the action. The silence—and unexpected tension—stretched out, a hum in it like quiet magic. Finally, Nic took a sip, one he mimicked exactly in length and swallow.
“Oh, for goodness sake,” she burst out, plunking her glass down ungracefully, all politeness dropped, nerves forgotten at the implied insult to House Elal. “It’s not poisoned.”
“I never imagined it was,” he replied evenly, also setting his glass down, but not mimicking her abrupt speed. “It is delicious, however. From Elal vineyards?”
“Naturally. Our coastal vineyards are the best in the Convocation, each vine tended by its own earth elemental. This vintage is set aside for the family.” She picked up her glass and spun it slowly, observing the rich red. It was her favorite, and she’d miss it greatly when she left.
“I’d be able to tell if it were poisoned,” Lord Phel remarked conversationally. “Water magic extends to wine. That has to be on my MP scorecard, which you’ve no doubt studied.”
He had her there. “Then why the charade?” she demanded.
He shrugged a little and sat back in his chair. “I wanted to see what you would do.”
Flushed and flustered, she picked up her glass and took a hearty swallow. “There. Satisfied?”
Cocking his head, he continued to study her, as if she were already his to extract power from. “Are you always this high strung, or is it the circumstances?”
As if the circumstances aren’t enough?“Maybe it’s you,” she snapped, regretting it instantly. He looked so intrigued.
Leaning forward again, he set his forearms on his knees, lacing his fingers together. “Surely you’re not frightened of me.”
She managed a nicely derisive laugh. “I am not.”
He considered her, nostrils flaring as if he smelled a lie. Perhaps he could, though Nic didn’t think his skills should extend to that. She wasn’t afraid. Wary, yes. Her nerves singingly alert at the strength of his magic, filling the room like bright moonlight. Wishing the whole thing over and done with already. But she refused to be afraid. “Shouldn’t we get to business?” she inquired, gesturing at the bed nestled in the curve of one wall.
“Business,” he echoed, looking as if he tasted something unpleasant. “Is that what this is to you?”
“What else would you call it?”
“If we make a child between us tonight, we’ll be married,” he said slowly, feeling his way through the words. “We’ll be tied together as family, as the leaders of House Phel, and as wizard and familiar. Those aren’t matters of business.”
If Nic hadn’t already known that Lord Phel hadn’t grown up in the Convocation, had never trained at Convocation Academy, that bit of naivete would’ve given him away. “It’s nothingbutbusiness,” she said. “The business of perpetuating the Convocation and assuring our families that our bloodlines will continue. Everything else you list is about politics, power, and you becoming the most powerful wizard you can be—also business. That’s why this cold-blooded arrangement. There’s no reason to put ourselves through the Trials otherwise.”
“Isn’t there?” He seemed to be turning over her explanation, gaze still weighing her.This entire conversation is a test.Nic’s estimation of his intelligence—and strategy—rose considerably. None of the other three suitors had bothered to assess her this way. If she failed his test, would he walk away without planting his seed? Surely not, as he’d forfeit his gambit—a steep price indeed. She doubted the nascent House Phel’s meager coffers could afford the loss.
“His scores are all in water and moon magic,” Maman had said. “True to House Phel’s historic strengths, but it’s unfortunate that they don’t have more useful affinities. What can one make with moon and water magic, so pale and yielding? Even before their MP scores declined, the house could never compete with others, and they never did amass much of a fortune.”
But Lord Phel’s magic didn’t feel pale and yielding at all. With prickling unease, Nic became very aware of the danger this wizard presented. He would not do for her plans. He saw entirely too much, was far too canny. She’d never be able to manipulate this man. She should try to fail his test and escape with her future intact—if he’d let her. Taking a fortifying swallow of wine, she considered how to outwit him.
“Shall we eat?” Lord Phel asked into the silence that had gone on far too long for politeness. At her puzzled frown, he gestured at the tray of food. “I assume that’s why this is here.”
