“Congenial conversation?” she inquired, coloring the phrase with a peculiar hint of mockery.
“A worthy goal,” he replied drily. “We could get to know each other, in case.”
She picked up her wineglass, found it empty, and frowned at his still-half-full one. “Now who isn’t playing the game correctly?”
“I wasn’t aware wewereplaying a game.” He allowed himself a smile at her consternation. It hadn’t been intended as a game. He’d simply been trying at first to match her energy, to get a feel for her. It was an outgrowth of his magic, to observe and reflect. Well, and he’d wanted to simply revel in the generous, sparkling power radiating from her, as comforting as the cheerful fire she didn’t really need. Then he’d realized how his mirroring her had rattled her enough to drop some of her smooth defenses and prickly deflections, to reveal something of her true self—and he’d been unable to resist needling her for more.
He’d clearly annoyed her, but she drew in a careful breath and mastered herself. Excellent self-discipline. No surprise, given her high marks from schooling on the subject. She wasn’t as calm as she wished to appear, however, still sitting on the edge of her chair, not in the well-worn curve where she clearly nestled her bottom normally. She sat here often, he imagined, curled up like a kitten in that big chair by the fire, reading one of her many books.
“You said you’re hungry,” she said in that perfectly polite, highborn tone. “Please don’t wait for me. I really couldn’t eat anything more. Not because of nerves, but because I ate a large luncheon and a substantial snack before you arrived.”
An actual confidence there, he tasted the truth of it—and she wasn’t looking at him in proud defiance, instead gazing rather mournfully at her empty wineglass. Picking up the priceless crystal decanter, he held it poised over her glass. “Will you have more wine, then?”
After a bare hesitation, she nodded, her fingers passing over a lump in her pocket, so briefly he nearly missed it. Brushing his magic over it, he sensed liquid and tasted the contents of a small vial. A soporific. Not one she’d taken, however. No, one she was keeping it in case she needed it.
He hadn’t been told she might drug herself to get through this night. She hadn’t yet done it, so perhaps it depended on how things went. Given her skittishness so far—and the way she kept pushing him to get it over with, as if she’d be relieved to have a nasty duty behind her—he suspected things hadn’t gone well with her previous suitors. From the few Convocation wizards he’d met so far, that didn’t surprise him. She was sipping her wine, watching him warily, still more inclined to scratch than purr.
“Why would you eat,” he asked casually, “if you know you’ll be having a meal?” He picked up his plate and began eating the very excellent food. Far better than his impoverished community had ever managed.
She narrowed her eyes, then let out a sigh of resignation, cradling the glass in her hands. “My previous suitors were disinclined to share.”
Ah. He began to understand now. That had been the key to the puzzle. “And disinclined tocongenial conversation, too, I suppose?”
She frowned, the expression speaking far more than any words she’d given him. “One barely spoke to me at all, except to give instructions,” she confided. Then, seeming surprised at herself, she glared accusingly at her wine and set it down. “It’s of no matter.”
“It is,” he insisted. “I asked.”
“Sizing up the competition?” she asked archly.
“Not at all. They’re not competition anymore, right? The rules say we get the one night only, with no opportunity to try again. Unless I misread?”
“You have it correct,” she replied. “And thank the Convocation for including that one.”
“That bad?” he asked, watching her intently, his senses on her emotional pulse.
That pulse roiled, hurt and shame in it, though nothing showed on her face as she glanced away at the fire. “I think it’s really not appropriate to gossip about,” she replied airily. Then cast him a sharp green glance. “After all, you wouldn’t want me to detail your sexual techniques with the next fellows to try their luck.”
“You’re assuming I won’t succeed, then,” he said softly.
She rolled her eyes. “With your seed planted in that chair and not in my womb? I feel like this is a safe assumption.”
“I have all night to get it there,” he reminded her.
“So you keep saying. Remember that even a long winter’s night doesn’t last forever. I don’t understand the reason for your delay.”
“I thought it would only be civilized to get to know each other a bit, before…” He waved vaguely at the bed.
She snorted indelicately. “There is nothing civilized about this situation. It’s a fancy veneer plastered over a barbaric ritual.”
“Then why are you engaging in it?”
Throwing up her hands, she flung herself from her chair in a burst of graceful motion. “What do you care, Lord Phel?”
“Gabriel,” he insisted, but she only stared back, lips firmly closed, and he bit back a sigh. “If we end up married, I’d like to know what you want from the institution, from me.” He filled his plate again, since the first serving had barely made a dent in the hole gnawing at his belly—and since he no longer felt guilty eating when she wasn’t.
She turned her back to the fire, gazing at him as if she suspected he was crazy. A fair suspicion, given the various madnesses that had plagued House Phel before it was removed from the Convocation roster. “You have it backwards, you know. Marriage is nothing so intimate as the wizard–familiar bonding.”
How intriguing. “I didn’t know. Then what would you want from being my familiar?”