And now he was smirking at her. “I don’t think I’ve ever rendered you speechless before.”
She wanted to slap his face. She had told him never to kiss her again. She also wanted to forget what she’d said and pull him close for another kiss. But either reaction would amuse him. That was the problem with Erec: everything was always a game to him, and he always won.
Instead she tried to look bored. But she knew she was blushing, and anyway it was already too late. He would be insufferable the rest of the evening.
“Thank you for the dance,” she said flatly, turning away.
“Don’t tell me you’re leaving already.”
“Good night.” She hadn’t actually been planning to leave the reception, but now that he had asked her to stay, she refused to give him the satisfaction.
“What about your charge?”
“I’ll take him with me.” The dance had started up again; she marched straight through the wheeling couples to Armand, and seized his hand out of la Fontaine’s.
“We’re leaving,” she said, and dragged him with her through the crowd—they were all staring, but who cared?—and out a pair of great glass-paneled doors into the garden. Outside was a long, grassy walk lined by oak trees hung with lanterns.
“Where are we going?” said Armand after a few moments, as she continued to drag him down the walk.
Rachelle had not considered that, but she wasn’t about to tell him. “That way,” she said, and didn’t slow down.
“Not that I mind the fresh air,” said Armand, after another few moments, “but you do realize that everyone in there thinks you dragged me out either to kill me or to kiss me senseless?”
Then she did stop, so she could drop his hand and turn on him. “What?”
“Well, after that display. And you know what people say about bloodbound.”
The anger was so sudden and furious, she was surprised she didn’t strike him.
“I know a good deal better than you do,” she said, “unless you’ve been called a whore to your face.”
Ladies tittered and made eyes at Erec. But men of any kind only made catcalls at Rachelle, unless they were cursing her.
Armand winced. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Why? Don’t pretend you think I’m an innocent.” Before he could speak, she went on, “But your second cousin just boasted to us about sleeping with the King. How am I the shocking one?”
Armand’s mouth twisted wryly. “Accepting a man’s favor is elegant. Kissing in public is vulgar.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Welcome to the court. Also, she is mistress to the King, and you know how much royal favor can excuse.”
“Such as being bloodbound?” she asked bitterly.
“But you’re not really excused, are you? I was thinking more about what the royal family gets up to.”
Rachelle pushed a strand of hair out of her face. The sweat had started to cool on her skin. In the distance, the wind rustled in the trees. The night was opening up around her again; Armand, his face half-lit by the flickering lamplight, looked strange and ominous.
Not that he sounded it. “Why are you spouting this nonsense?” she demanded.
“I suppose because it’s easier than thinking about the fact that we’re all alone so there’s nobody to hear me scream.”
“Do you really think I dragged you out here to kill you? I’d get in trouble for that, and you’re not worth it.”
He laughed. It was a curiously open laugh, his shoulders shaking and his eyes crinkling. “You’re very comforting.”
“No,” said Rachelle, “just honest. If I were trying to comfort you, I would promise not to hurt you.”
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The next morning, they had to attend the King’s levée. Apparently it looked strange if the King’s beloved son did not attend his father at every opportunity, so after a hasty breakfast, Rachelle and Armand squeezed their way into the royal chambers along with half the court so that they could watch the Duc de Bonne fulfill his lifelong dream of handing the King his undershirt.
Rachelle found the levée boring beyond all belief, but she supposed it wasn’t worse than any of the other court functions they might have been dragged to. The most trying part was watching everyone pretend not to notice the weakness in the way the King moved, in his overstudied gestures. The rumors were right: he was ill, no matter how little he wanted to admit it.
Just like the world was ending, no matter how little the entire court wanted to admit it.