by Rachel Hauck
Though Daddy worried a bit about her being out on her own. Something he’d never done in the past. Corina suspected it had to do with losing his son.
“An heiress without any security? Let me hire someone for you, Corina.”
But she refused, just wanting to be. To find her bearings and destiny. She still felt poor and weak, broken—the furthest thing from an heiress.
In the end, though, she yielded to Daddy’s request to buy an apartment in a secure building, finding a lovely spot on the river with hefty security.
“I filled the position today.” Gigi sat back, arm propped on the back of the sofa. “Just got off the phone with Mark Johnson.”
“Mark Johnson?” Corina paused her exit and stepped back into the room. “The Mark Johnson who worked with me after college? The man the rest of us pulled out of the fire daily because he partied every night and missed most of his assignments? That Mark Johnson?”
“Yes, that Mark Johnson.” Gigi’s laugh mocked Corina’s concern. “He might not have been a stellar employee when he was younger—”
“He’s so much older now? It’s been what, seven years?”
“Certainly he’s older and more accomplished, married with a child. He’s built an impressive résumé.”
Corina heard the subtle innuendo. You did not. No, because she was pasting her life together and holding on to her crumbling family.
“He’s worked in London, New York, L.A., and is currently the managing editor for Martin Looper Media.” Gigi raised her brows. “Our competition.”
“Gigi, you called me. You asked me to come work for you. So let me. I can do the job. I’ve been on the weekly calls with New York and London. I’ve Skyped, Facetimed, and Google Plused with our bloggers, stringers, and photographers. I know the bull pen.”
“Do you want to know the real reason I called?”
It had been rather out of the blue. Corina thought perhaps God was answering her pleas to “do something.” How could she love and support her parents yet move on with her life? She felt like she was drowning, dying her own special death in the shadow of her brother’s. And Carlos would’ve never wanted it.
“Because your mama said you were driving her crazy.”
“Excuse me? I was driving her crazy?”
“Said you never left the house.”
“Me?” Mama! Frustrating, incorrigible Mama. Corina scrunched her hands into tight fists, digging into her palms with her fingernails. “She was the one who never left the house.”
“Well, you’re here. I thought it was a good idea when she proposed it. You’re moving on. I’m glad for it. But editorial director? Shug, please.” Gigi stood and crossed over to her desk, her attention to the conversation waning. “I want you to find you the big story.” She tossed Corina a saucy smile. “The biggest story of your life.”
“Yeah?” Corina held open the office door. “And what would that be?”
Back at her desk, Corina sat with a sigh, shaking her head at Melissa, who frowned and stuck her tongue out at Gigi’s door.
Story of her life? Corina had a story all right. Of her own life. An amazing story, one she’d never told anyone. It was her secret.
And his.
On days when the fog still clouded her heart and thoughts, she imagined it might have all been a dream. Then she’d hear a bell or the ping of the elevator doors and know it was real.
But it was a story she could never tell. Ever. Because it was an incredible secret. Though why she showed him any loyalty was beyond her.
With a sigh, Corina sat forward, facing Chip Allen’s dry Hollywood piece.
Why did she keep their secret? One small thought ricocheted in reply. Because in some small way, maybe she still loved him.
TWO
Brighton Kingdom—Cathedral City
THE LIBERTY PRESS
4 June
PRINCE STEPHEN NAMED THE WORLD’S MOST ELIGIBLE BACHELOR
THE INFORMANT
5 June
KING’S OFFICE CLAIMS PRINCE STEPHEN NOT LOOKING FOR LOVE, HAPPY WITH RUGBY LIFE
6 June
PRINCE STEPHEN, PATRON OF YOUTH RUGBY, TO OPEN SUMMER TOURNAMENT
Stephen snapped off the telly, grumbling and muttering to himself about the antics on Madeline & Hyacinth Live! Who did they think they were, trying to find him a bride?
To think, he used to consider them friends. But today they went too far, jumping in on the media speculation about his love life. What spurred this? He’d not been out with a woman in ages. And his blasted ankle injury had remanded him from the rugby field and the public eye for the past three months.
What gives?
Nevertheless, at this very moment, men and women around Brighton Kingdom were watching their show and tweeting to the hashtag #howtocatchaprince. Thank you, Maddie and Hy.
He should tweet his own answer. If he had a Twitter account. Leave him alone #howtocatchaprince.
Hobbling from his media room toward the kitchen, his belly rumbling for tea and puffs, he paused at the hallway window and gazed through the swaths of shadow and light into the palace gardens.
So lovely and green. Made him miss the pitch. But he was stuck inside, healing, his high ankle sprain fortified with a walking boot. He sustained the injury during the spring 7 Nations matches, just as his career crested into a new high. The Rugby Union had listed him as the top winger in the league.
He, a royal prince, accomplished such an acclaim all on his own.
Yet the injury lingered, not healing as quickly as Stephen would have liked. Day by day, he sensed his achievements slipping away while the younger, more hardy lads gunned for his position. Number 14.
In the kitchen, the tea service and a plate of cinnamon puffs were already set for him. Good man, Robert, his valet, butler, and aide.
Sitting at the island counter, set with linen, china, and silver—a royal etiquette Robert refused to abandon—Stephen poured a steaming cup of tea and took a long, hardy sip, then dipped in the tip of a puff.
The light, sweet pastry melted on his tongue. Pure delight.
Staring across the steel-and-granite kitchen—a remodel overseen by his mum while he played in the World Cup a few years back—Stephen sorted through his emotions.
What bugged him really? The headlines about his love life? Maddie and Hy and the whole of the Twitter universe advising him? Perhaps it was his lack of a love life that bothered him.
In truth, Maddie and Hy didn’t bother him much. The hashtag was kind of clever. The girls were good chums, really, and simply doing their job. Entertaining Brightonians each weekday afternoon.
No, no, what truly bothered him were the nightmares. The flooding memories. The times and events he’d run a thousand miles up and down the rugby pitch striving to forget.
Put it all behind me.
But the arrogant things demanded his attention now that his mind and body were not consumed with the game.
Surely he’d be back in command by summer’s end. Since his surgery in the spring, he’d been faithful with physiotherapy. He’d be in tip-top shape, ready to play in the fall Premiership.
Stephen picked up another puff, and another one of his distant memories drifted to the front. Why did puffs make him think of her?
But he knew. They’d eaten puffs together, that night, at Franklin’s Bakery. And it was forever lodged in his psyche.
Robert entered, a set of tea towels in hand. “Sir, there you are. How was your therapy?”
“Fine. Did you see the headlines again today?”
“Ghastly business, speculating on your love life.”
“They didn’t ring round here, inquiring, did they?”
Robert made a face, folding the towels neatly into a drawer above the cabinets. “They’d be foolhardy if they did. Wasting their time.”
“As I thought. I can’t imagine what sparked this sudden interest.”
“Perhaps a slow news week.” Robert smiled and Stephen laughed.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“As it was intended.” Robert bustled about the kitchen, preparing for supper. “I trust you’ll be on the pitch for the summer internationals? After all, the Brighton Eagles need their star winger.” The older gentleman, with a thick coif of pale red hair, was lean and fit, an ardent rugby enthusiast. “The whole city is electric with excitement over the upcoming tournament.”
When Stephen took Robert on in the spring, his love for the game was the one quality that set him above the rest of the royal household staff. That and the fact he was the son of a valet who was the son of a valet. His father had also served in the palace.
“No summer internationals for me,” Stephen said. Thanks to his blasted, stupid injury. He should’ve taken more care with his weak left side. With these international games, he’d have earned another cap. So far, he’d collected twenty-eight in all, on his way to a goal of fifty. “The ankle is not ready.”
’Tis a shame, sir, what with the new stadium and all. They say we’re poised for a good show opening weekend.”
“I’ll be cheering from the bench.”
“I’m sure the lads will love the support of their prince and team leader.”
Stephen shifted in his seat, gently stretching his left ankle, silently dealing with the pain. Why wasn’t it getting better? The throbbing seemed to be a constant. Even more bewildering to him was how the pain leaked upward toward his chest and drilled into his heart.
Ever since he returned from his tour in Afghanistan and demobbed from the Royal Air Command, he’d been on the pitch, consumed with the present, fashioning his future, grateful for every training session, every test that excised his dark demons, the painful past, and his doubts about a kind, loving God.
Okay, so it was only June. He’d miss the summer games, but Dr. Gaylord predicted another month in the walking boot along with physiotherapy and Stephen would be ready to train at 100 percent again.
As he stuffed his sixth puff into his mouth and washed it down with tea, door chimes pealed through his palace apartment.
Robert wiped his hands on a towel. “Are you expecting someone, sir?”
“Perhaps it’s someone who’s figured out how to catch a prince?”
Robert’s small white smile sparked in his eyes. “Shall I let them in?”
“Please, I’d like to know the answer myself.”
Stephen poured another cup of tea. Just how did one catch a prince? An American, Susanna, had captured his brother, the king, with a single glance.
As for him? He’d been caught. Once. And he was certain he’d never want to be caught again, despite all of Mum’s not-so-subtle hints about grandchildren to both of her sons.
“Sir, your brother is here to see you.”
Stephen glanced around to see Nathaniel enter, a large white envelope under his arm. “Come join me, Nathaniel, for puffs and tea. Your favorites.” Stephen reached over, shoving the second stool away from the island, intending for his brother to sit.
“May I see you in private?” Nathaniel said, serious and deep voiced, and without a nod to the puffs.
“Um, sure, what’s up?” It wasn’t like Nathaniel to pass up puffs. Stephen motioned again for him to sit. “Robert, can you give us a moment?”
The valet-butler-aide set out another tea service, then left without a word, drawing closed the kitchen doors with multicolored stained-glass centers.
“At least have some tea?” Stephen reached for the china pot and filled the cup Robert left for the king.
“I guess I could use a cup.” Nathaniel sat, still holding the envelope.
“Why so glum? You and Susanna have a row?”
“No, we’re fine. More than fine. Trying for a baby.”
Stephen grinned. “Then why the long face, my brother?” Then he pointed to the envelope. “Please, don’t tell me you’re here about the Prince of Brighton argument again.”
Nathaniel set the envelope on the counter, patting it with his palm as if to make sure it stayed in place. “Not today, but the argument is moot. I don’t understand your resistance. As my brother, you are the Prince of Brighton. The coronation only makes it official.”
“Precisely, and with the official setting in, I become patron of what? Fifteen charities and organizations . . . including the War Memorial and Remembrance Day.”
“I would think you’d consider it an honor to patron the War Memorial and Remembrance Day. You fought for and were wounded for your country.”
“Don’t, Nathaniel. You know why.”
“I know what you tell me, yes, but I’m not quite sure I understand it all.”
“Shall I recap my final days in Afghanistan for you?”
“No, I remember the tragic details and the lives lost—which is all the more reason I think you’d want to honor those men by being a voice to the people, reminding them of the price paid for their freedoms.”
“I remember the lads by being on the pitch. I play for them.”
Stephen understood the pressure Nathaniel faced. He was a king with royal duties and responsibilities, expectations. The press had all but given up on inquiring when the king would coronate his brother into the office of Prince of Brighton.
The King’s Office always answered the same. “His rugby is his focus for now. We’re giving him room to pursue his interests.”
The Prince of Brighton served as a patron, humanitarian, and defender of the weak. The peerage had been created by King Leopold IV for his brother in 1850, citing him as a chairman and spokesman for the poor and the aging vets.
The peerage was inherited by the oldest sibling of the ruling royal. The last Prince of Brighton had been their great-great-uncle Prince Michael, also a rugby player and an RAC colonel, who died on D-Day.
“I’d think you’d want to honor Uncle Michael, the men who died, and their families by being the War Memorial patron. Especially for those from other countries who were a part of the Joint International Coalition, men who were not Brightonian but gave their lives. Those men were your mates and your—”
Stephen shoved away from the counter, stumbling over his stool, his booted foot caught. “I know who those men were and how they died. I don’t need a lecture, Nathaniel.” The tea and puffs soured in his belly.
He couldn’t do it. Don his uniform and stand before the nation, the world, with his holier-than-thou royal title and pretend to be someone he was not. Someone worthy.
Besides, he’d created his own memorial at the Parrsons House and paid his respects every Remembrance Day. Or whenever he traveled to the country.
“Listen, I’m sure I don’t understand, but . . .” Nathaniel picked up the envelope.
“No, you don’t understand. Not really. So give me a break. General Horsch has been doing a grand job of patroning Remembrance Day and the War Memorial. He’s a great man, a stalwart warrior, and was the commander of the Joint International Coalition.”
“You’re giving in to your fears, mate.”
“Giving in?” Ha! “You think this is giving in? I’ve earned the right to choose, Nathaniel.” Stephen slapped his hand to his chest, bridling his fears. “But don’t ever say I’ve given in. I get up every day and face life, remembering what happened that day in Torkham.”
His voice dropped, and the silence reverberated against the tile and plaster.
“I’m sorry,” Nathaniel said after a moment. “But I am here for another reason. We can talk about the coronation later.” Nathaniel passed Stephen the envelope. “I need you to explain this.”
Stephen flipped the envelope over. “It’s a white, legal-sized envelope. Used to mail papers or perhaps store files.”
“Very funny. My brother, the comic. Inside. Look at the contents inside.” Nathaniel angled forward, flicking the edge of the envelope. “I’ve not said a word to Mum about this because it would crush her.”
In his thirty-one years, he’d crushed his mum many times. But as a young man. Not since his university
days. At least not to his knowledge. He’d worked hard to erase his reputation as the screw-up prince. The one who had tried but failed.
“Crush her? What are you talking about?” Dread iced over Stephen as the paper inside slipped into his hand. He swore softly under his breath. “Where did this come from?”
“So it’s true?”
Stephen stared at the gilded certificate with the embossed calligraphy letters. “Sort of. Not really. I mean, yes, we went to Hessenberg, and . . . Where did you get this?”
Memories, feelings, a longing he thought he’d divorced sauntered through him.
“Archbishop Burkhardt had it sent to me by special courier. He’s most concerned.” Miles Burkhardt was the most recent leader of the Church in the Grand Duchy of Hessenberg, Brighton’s North Sea sister island nation. “He came across the certificate in his office, found it in some secret compartment Archbishop Caldwell never mentioned to him. He was sorting things out for a remodel and there it was, presenting itself.”
“Then don’t worry about it.” Stephen returned the certificate to the envelope, his head reminding his heart this was no big deal. “I never filed with the Court. It’s not legal. And we ended things when I came back from my tour.”
“Ended?” Nathaniel’s furrowed brow irritated Stephen. Did he not understand? “How did it end?”
“I don’t know.” But oh, he did. Liar. “She went her way and I went mine.” He’d reasoned this out so many times to convince himself he did the right thing. To convince himself he didn’t care. Either way, it had to end. So he ended it.
“Stephen,” Nathaniel said, rising and snatching the envelope, “you’re married.”
“No, I’m not. I never filed with the Court.”
“Did you file an annulment with the Church then? Because according to this . . .” Nathaniel waved the marriage certificate like it was some kind of you-messed-up-again banner. “You’re still married.”
