It was such a bizarre request, it took Rachelle a moment to believe he had really said it. “Yes,” she said.
“Thank you,” said Armand, and in one fluid movement, he lowered his head into her lap and closed his eyes, as calmly as if there weren’t people staring and whispering.
Rachelle was caught in a kind of stupefied surprise, like the smudged colors that would hang in her vision after staring at a fire.
Vincent laughed nervously. “Of all the strange—” He reached toward her, but now Rachelle had an excuse to take action. She caught his wrist in a grip so tight he gasped.
“I’m afraid I can’t let you disturb him,” she said blandly. “Maybe we can talk later.”
“Of course,” said Vincent, sounding rather strangled. She released him and he scrambled to his feet and stalked away.
“Is he gone?” Armand asked softly.
“Yes,” Rachelle muttered. “I didn’t need you to save me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. But some of the ladies wouldn’t stop talking about my marvelous virtue. I got a little tired of it.”
“So you needed a little defilement?” she asked.
“I needed,” he said flatly, “to be left alone.”
“You didn’t seem to mind their adoration before.”
He sighed, and his breath stirred against her face. “I suppose the heat is getting to me.”
“Do you need to take your hands off?” she asked, remembering the audience.
“No,” he said.
And then they were silent. Rachelle dared a look around; a few people were still staring, but most were chatting with each other now. La Fontaine leaned against the King and fed him grapes; a quartet of musicians played violins. Erec lounged against a nearby tree; when their eyes met, he raised his eyebrows. Her face burned, and she looked away.
She couldn’t look at Armand. But she couldn’t ignore his warm weight in her lap. She felt him shifting slightly as he breathed; it was as unnervingly comforting as when Amélie painted cosmetics on her face.
The song ended, and there was a smattering of polite applause. Then the King said to Erec, “You look bored, d’Anjou.”
“Do I, sire?” Erec asked languidly.
Armand sighed and sat up. He pushed a lock of hair out of his face, and Rachelle’s fingers twitched with the impulse to smooth it back for him.
“I confess I’m bored as well. Propose an amusement for us.” The King leaned his chin on his hand and surveyed the glittering crowd that waited on his every move.
Rachelle vaguely remembered Erec having once told her about the King’s penchant for demanding a courtier to decide on his next amusement. It was supposed to be a test of elegance and taste. At the time, she’d just been grateful that, unlike Erec, she’d never have to attend court herself.
“A duel,” Erec said promptly, and Rachelle’s stomach lurched.
“I have heard that I outlawed dueling,” said the King.
“As did your glorious father and grandfather,” said Erec. “But those were duels of honor carried out to the death. I propose a duel to three strikes only, myself against Rachelle Brinon. Any blood that we shed, you have already sentenced to fall.”
Rachelle bolted to her feet. “Sire,” she said, and then stopped. She needed a clever retort, a way to turn his suggestion into a joke that nobody would dare to take seriously enough for the duel to go forward.
“Well?” The King raised an eyebrow.
“I’m not good enough to perform before you,” she said finally. That was at least flattering.
“She brawls often enough with the Bishop’s bloodbound, and bests her half the time,” said Erec.
“But—” said Rachelle.
“She’s just shy,” Erec went on. “We have a wager between us, you see, that the next time we fight, the loser must give the winner a kiss.”
And he winked at her.
Rachelle’s face heated. That’s not true, she wanted to yell, but she knew that protestations would only seem like proof, and Erec would just make her look even more ridiculous.
Armand was still sitting right behind her. She didn’t dare glance back at him.
“Really?” said the King. “How charming. Duel her, then, and may the best one of you enjoy the spoils of war.”
Rachelle bowed numbly. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
A minute later, they had cleared a wide space in the lawn and Rachelle stood a pace apart from Erec, her sword drawn.
“Why did you have to lie to him?” she hissed.
“But, my lady, how can you object? Surely either way, the victory is yours.”
“I hate you,” she muttered, and knew instantly that it was the wrong thing to say, because his eyes crinkled with suppressed laughter.
“Excellent.” He smacked her shoulder lightly. “Then you’ll fight better and have the delight of disgracing me before the King.”