by Rachel Hauck
He gave her a hardened expression. “Actually, Hyacinth—” There was the little matter of the rider. “I don’t think anyone would be interested in tweeting about my boring ole love life.”
Hyacinth tapped his knee, laughing. “We decided not to talk about your love life, you see.” She arched her brow. “So we invented this fun game.”
Ah, indeed, he did see. Next time he’d make the rider more specific. He should have expected them to pull some sort of stunt like this.
He gazed from Hyacinth to Madeline, then scanned the audience. Other than walking off, which sent the King’s Office into a dither, he decided to relax and go with it, grateful the panic moment had faded as quickly as it came, and grateful the hostesses chose a game instead of intimate questions. Compared to Torkham, this was heaven. Might even cause a giggle or two.
“We’ll ask Prince Stephen to pick the best one at the end of the show with the possibility of winning . . .” Madeline’s next words packed a wallop. “. . . a chance to be his date to the premier.”
The audience went raucous. The monitor displaying the tweets exploded with scrolling text.
What? No, no, no . . . Now that he refused to go along with. “Ladies, ladies.” Stephen slipped from his chair, hands in the air. He’d fix this. “I am so flattered, but your intel is wrong. I do have a date to the premier.”
“Oh my.” Ignoring him, Madeline walked over to the monitor, laughing. “They’re scrolling so fast I can’t read them.”
“Here’s a good one . . . From CharonwithaC. ‘Treat him like a regular bloke. He puts his trousers on one leg at a time like every other chap.’ ” Madeline glanced at Stephen. “Is that true? How does a prince put on his trousers?”
“We have a special royal prince trouser machine, you see . . .”
The audience laughed. Madeline slapped her thigh with a bit too much reverie. But Stephen was sweating again. Profusely. How’d the lasses like that about their royal prince?
He sweats. A lot.
“I like this one.” Hyacinth joined her cohost at the monitor. “From Everydaygirl. ‘Be an honest girl with him. Listen to him but share your own soul.’ ”
Stephen nodded. No man liked to be held at arm’s length. He fell for Corina because she loved him, put him in his place when necessary, and offered all of herself without restraint. He could trust her.
“Oh my, here’s one . . . From LiddyWellborn. ‘Ignore him.’ ” Madeline made a face with a visual check at Stephen.
He shook his head. “If she’s ignoring him, he’s not coming round to see her.” Corina ignored him at first, but every time he saw her walking across the campus oval, her dark hair shining in the evening sun, his heart slipped a little bit further in love.
Then he managed a position behind her in the leadership course, and midsemester she finally spoke to him.
“Here’s an interesting one.” Madeline laughed, leaning toward the screen. “But I don’t get it. From CorinaDelRey . . .” She looked puzzled. “Isn’t she that American heiress?”
Stephen’s heart yearned at the sound of her name. Corina? But surely not . . . Impossible. He left her in America. Surely someone was pulling a gag. He scanned the audience. Was she here?
“She tweets, ‘Tell him American football rocks rugby.’ ” Hyacinth cackled, glancing back at him. “Now we know that’s no way to win our Prince Stephen.”
For the next few minutes, the hostesses read the tweets, making jocular comments, while Stephen’s concentration faded toward the possibility of Corina being in the city.
No, surely she was catching the thread on Twitter. It would be 10:00 a.m. in Florida. She’d be at the start of her workday.
In the meantime, he kept smiling, nodding, laughing when appropriate.
“Here’s my favorite. From DebShelton. Her tweet is all hashtags. ‘#fakeittilyoumakeit #pretendingtobeaprincess.’ ”
Hyacinth and Madeline continued reading tweets until the amusement wore thin. Stephen downed a large glass of water, cooling his revving thoughts of Corina.
Madeline and Hyacinth returned to their chairs, going on about how fun it all was, gaining support from the audience, then challenged Stephen, rather boldly, to choose a winner.
“What do you think, Your Highness?” Hyacinth said. “I like LibbyWellborn. She seems like a sport.”
“Deb Shelton stood out to me.” Madeline gazed toward the board, watching the tweets roll through again.
They couldn’t be serious. A blind date? To a royal movie premier?
“Wait, we have to share this one.” Hyacinth spoke between rolling laughter. “From Tricia Gauss. ‘Kiss a frog.’ ”
Laughter floated in the studio.
“Well, there’s that . . .” Stephen said, doing a frog impression for the audience that earned him a round of applause.
“Here’s another one . . . oh, it’s quite different. From Agnes Rothery. ‘Bird would be proud.’ ” Madeline tossed a look to Stephen. “Bird?”
The studio darkened as the light of merriment dimmed in Stephen eyes. Agnes. He’d not heard her name in many years. Bird had been one of his best mates. Before and during Afghanistan. Agnes was his girlfriend. When their tour ended, Bird planned to propose. But he didn’t live to see her again.
Stephen tried to answer but lost control of his words, all the moisture evaporated from his mouth.
“Bird was his mate in Afghanistan.” The answer came from the audience. Thomas. “He died in battle.”
The reality of death punctured the show’s atmosphere. Hyacinth ran her hand down Stephen’s back as the audience rose to their feet with respectful applause.
“Can you tell us more about your tour in Afghanistan?” Madeline motioned for the stage manager to cut something. Probably the Twitter bit. “You’ve never talked about it.”
“No, I can’t. And I–I’ve a date, ladies, to the premier.” The words came, weak, awkward, devoid of his princely charm.
He wanted to exit the set. Disappear. Oh that the floor would open up and make his way of escape.
Agnes? She’d tweeted in goodwill. But it did nothing but remind Stephen he’d failed her and Bird. Broken his promise. But he couldn’t . . . couldn’t go see her.
A subconscious account of what he owed these men ran through his soul daily. And he’d never have the means to repay them. So why see Agnes? Why see Carlos’s sister? Worse, remain married to her, making love, creating a life and family together?
He comforted himself with the idea he’d instruct the King’s Office to locate Agnes’s address. It didn’t mean he’d have to see her, but at least he’d know her whereabouts, make sure she didn’t live in the city’s impoverished east end. He could do that much.
Madeline was frowning at him. “Are you sure you can’t take the winner as your date to the premier?”
“Quite. My date might not approve of my divided attention. My sincere apologies.”
The hostess frowned and sighed. Next to her, Hyacinth quickly offered a Madeline & Hyacinth Live! show prize to the winner. “We’re sorry it can’t be a date with the prince to the premier, but—”
“How about tickets to the art auction? As my guest.” Stephen had somewhat recovered and offered a safe alternative. He’d greet her then move on to his duties.
The audience applauded their approval. Hyacinth read Deb’s responding tweet. “ ‘Ahhhhhhhhhh blimey, yes!’ ”
“So Your Highness, who is your mystery date?” Madeline, without hesitation, barreled right into his inner sanctum. Meanwhile, the stage manager motioned sixty seconds to break.
“A mystery.” Stephen put her off with his best grin. “You’ll have to wait and see.” He’d rope Mum into going with him. Her husband, Henry, wouldn’t mind. Mum was a big fan of the cinema and Clive Boston.
Madeline turned to the camera. “We’ll be right back with Prince Stephen. More on the premier of King Stephen I and his plans for rugby’s biggest test, the fall Premiership.”
The audience applauded and the lights went down. Stephen exhaled, expecting a break, but Madeline leaned into him.
“So, Corina Del Rey? You know her?”
“Some. Years ago.”
“American heiress tweeting about how to catch a prince? Is she in the city?” Madeline gasped. “Is she your date?”
“Certainly not.” Steady, lad. Be a rock.
“Then why did she tweet that American football is far superior to rugby?”
He reached for the cup of water offered him by a young woman wearing a headset. “Cheeky lass. You know how Americans can be. Tweet her back if you want to know.” He’d done it now. Why would he say such a thing?
“Yes,” Madeline said, sitting back, boring him with an intense gaze. “I believe I will.”
She’d napped longer than she’d intended, waking up late in the afternoon when the sun had moved west, leaving her room in cozy shadows.
Pacing the room, shaking off sleep and jet lag, Corina washed up in that fantastic bathroom—she took pictures with the intent of remodeling her condo’s ensuite bath—and let Adelaide in when she brought a bowl of steaming chicken, wild rice, and mushroom soup, and warm, buttery country bread.
The aroma awakened her inner growl. She was famished.
“Adelaide, this is amazing.” Slow down. Savor. Corina dipped the edge of her bread into the soup. “But you don’t have to bring me room service. Where do the other guests eat?” If there was a dining hall, like with a lot of Brighton rustic inns, most on the shore, she’d eat there.
“We’ve no dining hall. We will serve you in your room. ’Tis our privilege. We are servants.”
“Do you serve all your guests in their room?”
She went to the door. “Rest. You’ve a long week ahead of you.”
“Adelaide,” Corina said, laughing softly. “Did you go through my things while I was napping? How do you know so much?”
“I keep telling you ’tis me job. I know why you came to Brighton.”
“Oh? Why did I come?” Corina fished. What did the old woman know? Corina guessed her to be seventy-five. Eighty tops. Despite her smooth skin. She also had an unusual aura around her, like popping lights.
And Brill, he was a bear with a jelly heart, wasn’t he? Kind, yet so . . . Corina searched for the word. Warrior-like. Was that it? As if he’d seen many battles. Though he bore no scars.
“You came to answer true love’s call.” Adelaide closed the door, and her gentle footsteps faded down the stairs.
Corina stared at the door. To answer true love’s call. “Adelaide, how do you—”
Oh forget it. She’d only say, “It’s me job.”
True love’s call. If only he would call. Corina supposed it was up to her to call him since the annulment rested with her. But for now the aroma of the soup beckoned her and she moved her tray to the bed and spied the TV remote.
In the corner, a flat screen powered up, shedding a bluish hue across the shadows. Spooning up her soup, Corina aimlessly surfed channels, stopping when she saw Madeline Stone from Madeline & Hyacinth Live!
She loved their show. They were just getting started when Corina lived here. She took a break every afternoon to watch the show. Carlos was keen on Hyacinth, meeting her once at a party, but he didn’t pursue her because he was deploying.
Dipping her bread into the soup—her taste buds were so happy—Corina was about to take a bite when Madeline announced the day’s surprise guest, “Ladies and gentleman, Prince Stephen.”
Corina choked on her bread, then burned her tongue with a gulp of hot tea.
Stephen. Her heart yearned. He looked . . . amazing. Tall, straight-backed, broad-shouldered, wearing a blue blazer and jeans. Not the baggy kind either. The kind that accented his muscled legs.
And his hair, so thick and wild, bouncing about his head, the free ends going their own way. Gelled or free, his hair made her want to bury her fingers in the dark strands.
Aiming the remote, she upped the volume, listening, laughing, furrowing at the tense look on his face when the hostesses mentioned the War Memorial.
Something bothered him about the war. Something about the event that sent him home surly and dark.
Now Madeline was introducing a Twitter game with the hashtag #howtocatchaprince.
On impulse, Corina scrambled for her phone, nearly toppling her dinner tray. She listened to them reading the tweets, laughing, shaking her head. These people had no idea.
She opened her Twitter app, hesitating. Should she? No, it was too risky. But something about being in this place made her want to break out, shine the light. Edge the tip of their secret into the light.
However, it might also tip off Madeline and Hyacinth. No one knew about their marriage. But that’s because no one went looking. Their relationship had been whirlwind and private. The Military Ball had been the first time anyone had ever seen then in public together. And they made sure the media knew the prince and the heiress were nothing more than friends.
But if she tweeted, she’d tip him off. Why not? Let him know she was lurking about. At the very least, it might motivate him to contact her. Maybe deliver the news she demanded about her brother.
She inhaled, thinking. The tweets were rolling on the screen. Some of them were quite funny. What could she say that was both innocuous and telling? Sports. They were always debating the merits of American football versus rugby.
Their first kiss was after a debate on the rugby field. He was teaching her how to pitch the ball and she kept trying to pass like a Georgia Bulldog QB.
“Now you’re just being obstinate.” He swung her up in his arms.
“No, I’m trying to show you how to really get the ball down the field.”
Their eyes met, and she slid down his body, her feet never touching the ground. He brushed one hand against her face, brushing back her hair, then lowered his lips toward hers.
Trembling so, she lost her hold on the rugby ball. It hit the ground with a thud.
“Are you going to kiss me?” Her heart churned in her chest, making her words wispy and barely audible.
“If you’d stop talking.”
When his lips touched hers, time stopped, and she was lost in the heat of his passion and the power of his arms holding her. Then his hand slid down her back and rested on the curve of her hip. She drew him closer, letting go, telling him what words would not suffice.
I’m yours, Stephen Stratton. I’m yours.
Mercy . . . The memory stirred the dim and dull swaths of Corina’s passions and her feelings for Stephen.
With a glance at the TV and a fortifying bite of Adelaide’s heavenly soup, she decided to do it. Tweet. “Tell him American football rocks rugby.” Adding the hashtag #howtocatchaprince, she hit Send.
Sitting back, she waited, pleased with herself. She’d hidden in the shadows of secrets and death long enough.
THIRTEEN
That’s the way, Leslie.” Stephen skip-hopped around the Eagles’ practice pitch with Leslie and a few of her teammates Saturday afternoon. Her Watham 2 Warriors team had won their test and advanced in the tournament. “Keep your legs moving.”
He laughed, applauding her on, feeling the thrill of her run. She ran untouched across the try line, setting the ball on the ground, celebrating with her friends as they ran after her, bringing her down to the pitch and piling on.
After the Warriors’ victory, Stephen joined their bench for a congratulations, creating quite a stir with their mums, and the lasses begged him to play.
“I can’t, loves. My ankle. But how about some of my best tips for making a try?” They screamed—something boy rugby players never did—with hearty agreement. These girls were all courage.
The stadium crew brought round a cart and escorted Stephen with the girls to the practice field on the east side of the stadium.
In the glow of the lights and to the cheers of fans watching the next match, Stephen hobbled up and down the pitch with the girls, showing
them a good side step and how to ruck out the ball.
Rugby was the best sport, and after thirty minutes with these girls, he was their fan. He’d speak to the King’s Office and the Rugby Union about a campaign to strengthen girls’ play. He’d be their patron and voice to the world.
Take that, Corina Del Rey. You and your American football. Can’t suit up a girl in an American football kit.
Her tweet yesterday haunted him. Twisted about his chest all night. Where was she? Did she tweet from America? Did she fly to Brighton? If so, where was she? Did she bring the annulment papers? He was eager to have that part of his life signed, sealed, and boxed away.
He’d contemplated texting her, asking her if she’d tweeted on purpose. But he wanted time to think. He’d done nothing with her request for information on Carlos. There was nothing to do, really, except let her in on Brighton military classified information.
To be honest, he was grateful she’d not tweeted her request publicly.
Ask him for news on how my brother died. #howtocatchaprince
That would’ve had the defense minister ringing him.
Leslie ran across the field toward him, her friends trailing, and Stephen smiled, scooping her up with one arm. “I think you’ve got a future in the sport, Leslie.”
She wrapped her arms about his neck, hugging him. “Thank you for coming to my game, Your Highness.”
“My pleasure. I’m a rugby man, after all.” Leslie’s friends swirled around him, so he knelt down, careful of his ankle, and took down each of their names, promising to send them one of his special caps.
“I told you I was good, sir.” No confidence lacking in Leslie of the Watham 2 Warriors.
“Be faithful in school and practice, be team players, and you’ll all go far.”
The girls’ parents arrived, calling, “Time to get on.” Stephen gave them high fives and watched them go, another twist in his chest.
He’d have liked to have had a family. Girls. Seven. And form a seven-side rugby team. Call themselves the Stratton Royals.
