Burning for Love (Kindred Tales)

The Steward scowled.

“You’ve apparently been saying that you wanted to marry someone your own age for some ridiculous reason, so when the Duke came to me and proposed himself as your suitor, it seemed the perfect solution.”

“The perfect solution?” He’s twenty years older than me!” Rissa protested.

“That’s nothing. Anyway, tis better that the husband be at least a few years older—then he may better lead the wife,” the Steward remarked.

“But…but he ruined Prunella Ascott,” Rissa pointed out again.

The Steward waved a hand in front of his face, dismissing her words.

“Show me the Royal who hasn’t sewn his wild oats, girl! Such rumors do not signify.”

“But—” Rissa began.

“But nothing,” the Steward said, frowning. “The Duke has Royal blood aplenty and will be able to breed babies into you that come out with the Sheen to their skin. Also, he’s almost your same age, so that TittleTattle bitch—whoever she may be—can’t stir up rumors about me that I’m trying to hold the throne for myself by assigning you unsuitable suitors.”

“But Uncle, I cannot—” Rissa cried again. However, the Steward wasn’t about to let her get a word in.

“Let’s hear no more about this,” he said, glaring down at her from the double golden throne. “If you have some objection to the Duke, you have only to wait a month and then you can reject his suit. Until now, this matter is finished!”

“But I don’t know if I can wait another month!” Rissa said desperately. “My Heat Cycle—”

“Is a blasted nuisance, girl—as are you, yourself!” the Steward said sharply. “I cannot be spending all my time trying to find you suitors that are to your exact specifications. I have a planet to run! Servants, help me up!”

Two page boys came running to his sides to haul him out of the throne. They took him by the arms and pulled until, with another loud burst of flatulence that left the pages red in the face with repressed giggles, the Steward finally came to his feet. He left the Throne Room muttering loudly about ingratitude and how irritating it was to have to deal with the matters of “young people” constantly and the other servants and the herald followed him. Soon no one was left but Rissa, the Duke, and of course, James, who was still by her side.

“Well, Your Highness, it seems that we are a match,” the Duke drawled, stepping up to her.

James growled, low in his throat, and took a step closer to Rissa’s side.

“We most certainly are not,” she said. Having the big Kindred standing close to her gave her courage to speak her mind. “And I fear I must inform Your Grace that we will never be.”

“Ah, but I think we will. I think the two of us will be seated on that throne, up there, before this month is out.” The Duke nodded at the double throne and sidled closer, his mustaches twitching.

“Step back,” James ordered, putting himself between Rissa and the Duke. “You are getting too close to the Princess.” Despite the Duke’s four-inch heels, the Kindred still towered over the other man.

“And I shall get closer still, Sir Robot,” Duke Grabbington sneered. “Close enough to marry her and put my Royal babies in her belly, I should think.”

The thought of having the disgusting Duke that close—of letting him kiss her and impregnate her—made Rissa want to retch.

“Never!” she exclaimed, looking around James’s broad shoulder to glare at him. “You’ll never get that close to me. You should know right now, Duke, that I intend to reject your suit at the end of the month for I quite despise you.”

“Ah, but as you told the Steward, you might not have a month before your Heat Cycle rises to a crescendo and overcomes you.” Duke Grabbington smirked in a self-satisfied way. “And I dare say that, as much as you despise me, you would prefer having me as your husband to self-immolation.”

“You are wrong, Sir,” Rissa said coldly. “For I tell you now that I would rather burn to ashes than to let you touch me!”

For a moment, Duke Grabbington looked taken aback. Then his self-satisfied smirk returned.

“Well, you shall be obliged to let me touch you tonight, for you can no longer refuse to dance with me, my dear,” he told her. “I am your legal suitor and by Court rules, you must dance every dance with me and hear what I have to say, in order to give me a chance to press my suit.”

Rissa felt a wave of horror and disgust wash over her as she realized what he said was true. She was in for a miserable month, for she could not break the Court rules, which did, indeed state, that she must dance with the Duke and sit with him at any state dinners in order that he might get a fair consideration before she refused him. Still, she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of letting him see her feeling defeated or upset.