“Are you ready?” she asked, looking up at the big Kindred. “We must let them know to start the dancing.”
“I cannot dance,” he said, frowning down at her. “And I don’t think you should be dancing either.”
“Not dance? Admit myself to be a wallflower?” Rissa was shocked. “I cannot do that! I am the Princess—I must lead the dance, not refuse it!”
It was a fact Lady Mildew had always impressed upon her. “Royalty leads, girl!” she’d said more times than Rissa could count. “It’s your duty as a Royal of the Very First Family to make a good showing in a ballroom or any social situation.”
Indeed, her own dear Mama had believed this precept so strongly she had gone to the fateful ball where she had self-immolated, despite the fact that her Heat Cycle was at its zenith and her maids had begged her to stay in her quarters and lie in the ice bath instead. Rissa could do no less, herself, she thought.
But Sir James was staring down at her with a forbidding look on his dark face.
“You shouldn’t dance because you’ve already overheated once tonight,” he pointed out. “I could smell you burning, Princess—a scent like burnt sugar. It isn’t safe to overexert yourself.”
He had very strong features, Rissa thought—well-molded and handsome to be sure, but when he looked at her sternly like that, it was quite intimidating.
It was a good thing she didn’t intend to let herself be intimidated.
She lifted her chin, staring right back into his metallic blue eyes.
“Sir James, forgive me for saying so, but you have only been here for an hour and you do not know me or my Cycle. I will be the judge of what is safe and what is not where it regards my personal situation.”
His frown deepened.
“You must allow me to do my job. I’m here to protect you until you find a mate and get Joined with him so that he may ‘slake your Heat.’”
Her cheeks burned at his words—how could he speak so openly of the mysterious process that would interrupt and tame her Cycle? All the other servants and Nobles only spoke of it in whispers—none of them were so blatant!
But again, Rissa refused to be intimidated.
“And how do you expect me to find a husband to…to help me, if I am not allowed to dance with the eligible men of the Court?” she demanded. “Besides, you were only sent here to protect me from assassins!”
“No, my orders were to protect you from all danger and that includes overheating!” he growled.
“And what do you know about my Heat Cycle?” Rissa flared. “How do you presume to know what makes me overheat?”
To say the truth, she hardly knew herself. Sometimes, it was true, that physical overexertion seemed to play a part in making the fire in her blood rise. But other times, there seemed to be no external reason at all. For instance, why had her Heat peaked when Sir James had sworn his vow to protect her? Why had her heart started pounding and why had her cheeks and then all the rest of her gotten so hot when he kissed her hand and looked into her eyes?
Rissa was still trying to understand it herself. But she wasn’t about to allow a male who had just come to Court an hour before dictate her actions for her.
If I let him boss me around, I’ll be no better off than I was with Lady Mildew as my chaperone and Companion! she told herself. So she held her ground and refused to drop her gaze. No matter how foreboding the big Kindred looked as he stared down at her with those flashing blue eyes of his, she would not budge, she told herself.
“Fine,” he said at last, frowning at her. “You make a valid point—I am not well informed about your Heat Cycle. But if I see or smell you overheating, I will step in, Princess. I am here to protect you from danger—danger which comes from outside but also from within.”
That seemed to be the best concession she would get, so Rissa decided to take it.
“I’ll be fine,” she assured him again. “I’ve been dancing at Court balls since my Coming Out ceremony five years ago.”
But of course, her Heat Cycle hadn’t yet started at that time. In fact, it had only gotten really bad in the past month or so, Rissa admitted to herself. Still, that didn’t mean she could afford not to dance. The Court would whisper dreadfully if she sat on the sidelines and refused to participate.
Sir James said nothing, but only frowned at her again.
“Come on.” Rissa tugged on his arm, which felt like iron beneath her touch. “We must go. If we stay out here too long together, there will be talk—even if you are an emotionless robot. You look too much like a man for people not to start gossip if we’re not careful.”