How to Catch a Prince

by Rachel Hauck

  “Corina,” Susanna said. “You don’t have to go.”

  “Oh, but I do.” Before she either freaked out, or . . . or . . . or crumbled into a weeping ball. She struggled, embarrassed, searching for the exit.

  But the entry door was shut, blending into the carved walls. Corina whirled around until she spied a doorknob, and skirted toward it.

  “Corina, wait.” Stephen came after her, his hand grabbing her arm.

  She broke away, charged into the living room, retrieved her clutch, and started for the foyer. “Stephen, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come here tonight. You and I, we’re like a ticking bomb. I don’t get you. You don’t get me. Shoot, I don’t get me half the time.” The love well message confused her, tripped her up. Why did God send a word but not understanding? She felt foolish and weak.

  “Do you think we should go out in public together?”

  “No.” She sighed. “I don’t know.” She fumbled with the clasp of her clutch. “Don’t you ever get tired of hiding? Living in the dark?”

  He didn’t answer, but the twist in his expression told her yes.

  “You don’t have to take me to the premier.” She started for the door, hot, frustrated, not even thinking that her first and last night with Brighton’s royal family ended in a fight. She was more Georgia redneck than southern belle at the moment.

  “Corina—” Stephen blocked her passage with a swift sidestep.

  “Not bad for a man with his foot in a boot.”

  “It’s not my first go.” He loosened his tie. “Let me drive you home.”

  “I’ll take a cab.”

  He laughed. “There’s not a cab stand outside the palace.”

  “Then I’ll walk to one.”

  “You don’t have to be so stubborn.”

  “Neither do you.”

  “Fair enough. What game are you playing?”

  “Game? Please. I don’t need to play games.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “For the premier.”

  “And?”

  “The interview.”

  “I’m not buying it. Just like you don’t buy there’s not anything ‘more at stake.’ ”

  She stopped. “So there is something more.” Her gaze landed on his, and the air between them was palatable. His cologne fragranced every part of her.

  He started to answer, then withdrew his words and changed his expression. “No, no, there’s nothing more.”

  “Then there’s nothing more to why I’m here. Just a routine assignment from Gigi.” To say she believed she had a divine call to try for their marriage seemed overwhelming to her. How would it sound to him? “And, the trip gave me an advantage to urge you along in finding out about Carlos.”

  “Then I have a condition of my own.”

  “Signing the annulment isn’t enough?”

  “Why not attend the premier with me? Like you said. Come a bit out of the shadows. Shock the world.”

  “What? Stephen, that’s the exact opposite of wanting me to sign the annulment.” She shook her head. “Besides, you told Madeline and Hyacinth I was not your date. Do you really want them digging into us?”

  “What will they find? Nothing. No news stories, not even a photograph. The marriage certificate is in Nathaniel’s safe hands. Other than the old and new archbishops and Thomas, who knows? Let’s pull one on Madeline and Hyacinth. It should be good fun.” His smile urged her yes further to the surface.

  “I don’t want my parents finding out in the press.”

  “They won’t. Promise.” Stephen tipped his head toward the dining hall. “The chef made fried chicken for you tonight. His recipe is one of the best.”

  Corina glanced toward the dining hall. “No, I can’t.” She was too embarrassed. “Give them my apologies again. I’ll send flowers tomorrow.”

  “Let me get the chauffeur to drive you home. I’ll ride along, check out this mysterious Manor.”

  Corina exhaled, giving him a weak smile. “We never saw any of this coming, did we? That night we took the ferry to Hessenberg.”

  “I know I didn’t see a lot of things coming.”

  “You know what I regret the most?” She walked through the foyer toward the front door. “You never gave us a chance. Never trusted our love.”

  These blips of honesty surprised her, freed her. She could see the impact had a reverse effect on Stephen.

  The expression on his beautiful face hardened, and the tenderness in his gaze faded.

  “Come,” he said, ducking past her and hobbling down the portico steps. “I’ll ring for the chauffeur.”

  SIXTEEN

  Monday morning Stephen knelt on the edge of the pitch, removed his walking boot, and tied on his left trainer, the tip of his surgery scar peeking above his sock.

  “Can I say again I’m not for this?” Darren, his physiotherapist, stood next to him, arms folded.

  “You’re free to leave, if you wish.” Stephen stretched his legs, his ankles, going gingerly on his left one, then set his gaze down the length of the field.

  “What? And be responsible for Brighton’s prince and star winger permanently injured? My career will be toast.”

  “Then help me and stop protesting.” Stephen bounced lightly, testing his ankle strength.

  “Let me protest one more time. Your ankle is still weak. You’ve no side-to-side strength.”

  “Today’s test is not about sidestepping a defender, just a light walk up and down the field.”

  “You can test it in the physio room.”

  “But I want to be out here.” Because he needed to be in touch with some part of himself. Before the injury. Before the annulment papers. Before Corina arrived. Before her brutal honesty last night.

  “You never gave us a chance. Never trusted our love.”

  He inched ever closer to blurting out the whole truth. Forget national and royal security. If she knew, she’d say more than “You never gave us a chance.” She’d be the one walking away and never looking back.

  Stephen had played out the scenario from all sides so many times it didn’t matter what anyone said. If he told Corina her brother died saving his life, she’d despise him.

  She was right. He didn’t trust in their newlywed love. Not over her love for her brother.

  “I just need to know my ankle is healing.” Stephen started down the field, the fragrance of the earth rising with each step.

  “We’ve X-rays, MRI’s, and your physio sessions to tell us how you’re healing. It’s not as fast as we’d like. Remember, you’ve sprained this ankle four times.”

  How could he forget? Stephen had a vivid memory of each one. The first during a crucial university test. The second in the blast. Shot him out the back of the mess tent with Bird Mitchell landing on him as a human shield, protecting him from shrapnel and debris. His leg and ankle were wrenched sideways, trapped under their weight.

  The third was his first year with the Eagles. During the Premiership when he found himself on the bottom of a ruck.

  Then he took care with his ankle, training faithfully, taping up before each test, watching his steps on the field.

  Then last March he went down again. Freakish, really. He’d played the move over in his mind, watched team film, and nothing looked or felt out of the ordinary.

  Stephen made his way down the field, trying not to wince. Darren walked alongside. “If you’re not careful, you’ll set yourself back.”

  “But if I don’t challenge myself, I’ll miss the fall season.”

  Corina spoke right about one thing last evening. Stephen was tired of being careful. With his life. With his heart.

  “You’re limping,” Darren said.

  “Of course. I’ve been in the boot so long I don’t remember how to walk straight.”

  “Straight I’m not worried about. It’s that you can’t put down your weight.” Darren’s entire aura prepped for a hearty “I told you so.”

  Stephen pressed on, walking th
e hundred meters to the try line, then back again.

  “Steady on,” Darren said when Stephen turned round to walk it again, picking up his pace, adjusting his gait and his weight, putting more and more pressure on his healing foot.

  He was feeling good. In his right state of mind.

  “I might forgo the walking boot for tonight’s premier. Wear a real shoe.”

  “Then I’m taping your ankle before we leave the training room.”

  Stephen laughed and attempted a soft side step, popping Darren on the arm. The physio shook his head, grinning. “You’re overestimating yourself, Stephen.”

  “Ha-ha. I’m merely revving up.” The wind cruised over the field as the edge of sunlight peeked over the top of the stadium. Stephen broke into a small jog.

  “Stephen, please—” Darren ran round in front of him. “If you want to stretch your mobility, let’s go to the physio room.”

  “One minute.” Stephen visualized each step, placing his foot squarely on the ground, breathing steady, willing away twinges and pain.

  He added a bit of speed, landing solid on each foot, right, left, right . . . His left ankle gave way, dropping Stephen to the ground. He rolled with pain, moaning from his core.

  “How bad is the pain?” Darren anchored his shoulder under Stephen’s and hoisted him up so he balanced on his good foot. “Let’s get to the physio room.”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “That I told you?”

  “There, you said it anyway.” So the sum of Stephen’s fears was realized. He was not healing quickly enough, and at thirty-one, injury could sound the death toll for an athlete. If he didn’t heal soon, his career would be overrun by a younger, more agile and athletic, healthy Number 14. And he’d be left with his haunting nightmares and a secret annulment.

  “Off we go to an ice bath and a tight wrap. And let this be the last of such training sessions.”

  He was losing. On all sides. His career, his health, his purpose. Even his so-called marriage. If Stephen gave any consideration to the divine, such as an all-knowing, all-seeing God, he might bow a knee and ask for guidance.

  But he’d seen God’s answer to pleas for mercy that evening in Torkham, when his mates lay moaning in their own pool of blood. Then each one, to the man, died.

  He didn’t understand that God. Where was the God of love and goodness? And if he truly existed, how could Stephen expect that God give him any more than he had?

  His very life and breath.

  In the warm ambient lights of her room, ribbons of twilight floating past her window, Corina readied for the premier, wearing a second gown she’d purchased in the fashion district from the Melinda House shop.

  The Versace from home remained in the wardrobe. She was starting over. Starting new.

  The coral sheath gown flared at her knees into a small train. The beaded bodice was designed with a scalloped neckline and off-the-shoulder sleeves.

  A final check in the mirror and Corina was satisfied. Delighted, really. She felt internally quiet yet excited. Beautiful. Exactly how an elegant gown should make a girl feel.

  The saleswoman had gasped when Corina walked into the showroom wearing the gown and stepped up on the pedestal. The recessed lighting cascaded over her, igniting the gold beads and white sequins embedded in the dress.

  “It’s even more stunning than we imagined,” the woman had said, her hand at the base of her throat. “It seems as if it was made for you.”

  Made for you . . . Words she’d pledged to Stephen on their wedding night. I was made for you. I know it.

  A flurry of jitters batted around her ribs. He’d be here soon. Stephen texted confirmation this morning that he’d arrive to pick her up at seven o’clock.

  “Corina?” Adelaide’s voice came through the door along with a gentle knock. “Be you needing some help?”

  Corina answered the door, warmed by the sight of the petite proprietress. “Come in.”

  “My, my, don’t you look beautiful. Absolutely glowing.” She wagged her finger at Corina. “Such a force, true love.”

  “What do you see, Adelaide?” Corina returned to the floor mirror to finish pinning up her hair. She learned a lot of hairdo tricks during her brief stint with beauty pageants. “You seem to know more than you’ve been told.”

  “Here, let me help you, sweet one.” Adelaide brought a chair over for Corina to sit, then took the pins from her. The woman’s tender touch soothed Corina’s battered emotions. Her exchange with Stephen last night remained with her all day, and she waged one-sided arguments with him. She nearly told him to forget their date when he texted to confirm, but relented.

  How could she quit on this “love well” journey so easily? Patience might be required.

  “Everything will be all right,” Adelaide said, sweeping up Corina’s hair.

  Corina peered at Adelaide through the mirror. She’d broken down this afternoon and confided in Adelaide about her date with the prince. She had to tell someone. Bearing all of this alone burdened her. Stephen had Thomas. And his family. She had no one.

  You know so much, Adelaide. And I know so little about you.”

  “I told you, I’m a servant.”

  “Who’s servant.”

  “Yours. His.”

  “The king’s? The producer of the movie? Stephen’s? Of the inn? And is Brill your husband?”

  Adelaide ducked behind Corina’s head and gently pushed the last pin into her hair. “Brill is me fellow servant.” She stepped around in front. “The prince won’t be able to take his eyes from you.” Adelaide brushed her hand gently over Corina’s cheeks. “Tears? Love, what are these tears?”

  Corina laughed low, holding the woman’s hands in hers. “You’re . . . you’re just so kind.”

  “Your lonely heart will brim with love very soon.” Adelaide stooped to see her face. “Just believe.”

  “See, there you go again. How do you know my heart will brim with love?”

  She tapped the corner of her eye. “I sees what I sees. And I know how lonely you’ve been. We all watched and waited as he prayed for you.”

  “He? Stephen?” Corina gripped Adelaide’s wrists, willing a straight answer from her.

  “Jesus, of course. He is the King of the kingdom.”

  “He prays for me. A–and you saw him?”

  “But of course.” Adelaide turned for the door. “Now, I’ve the perfect adornment for your hair.”

  Corina tried to protest, but the flames Adelaide kept igniting within her incinerated her words.

  Tiptoeing over to the door, Corina leaned out, listening. The theory of the inn as a movie prop with Adelaide and Brill as character actors weakened with every interaction with them.

  They were just too real. Too sincere. Too otherworldly. Dare she believe it?

  Also, the inn was too weird. As if built for one. Why would a director go to all the expense of a “stunt inn” for one?

  On her return from the art festival this afternoon, Corina noted there were no other floors. As she climbed five flights to her room, each landing only led her up the next set of stairs. No windows. No corridors. No closed-door rooms.

  “Here we are.” Adelaide bounded off the top step into the room, carrying a polished, dark wood box. “I just love this piece.” She set it on the bed in front of the mirror. “Sit here and I’ll fit it on.”

  Corina sat, squinting into the box. “What’s in there?”

  Adelaide lifted the lid with a hmmm of delight. Inside, lying on red velvet, was a delicate, single-tiered, diamond tiara.

  Corina jumped up. “Adelaide, no. A tiara? I’m attending the premier with Prince Stephen. I cannot wear a tiara.” No need to go into the whole “wife of a prince” confession. “Where did you get that?”

  “Love, sit yerself down,” Adelaide commanded, authority rising from her graceful frame. “How I came by it must remain my secret, but I will tell you it is a very special piece. Been in me care for, well, quite a time.
Please, sit. It will look lovely atop your dark hair.”

  Shaking, Corina refused, hands clasped at her waist. “I cannot wear a tiara. I’m going to a movie premier with a prince. What will people think?”

  “That you are a princess.” Adelaide perched the tiara delicately on her fingertips.

  Corina jumped to her feet, backing away from Adelaide. “I demand to know what you know.”

  “I know what you know.” Adelaide gently grasped Corina’s hand, drawing her back to the edge of the bed.

  “About me and Stephen?”

  Adelaide nodded. “’Tis me job.”

  “I don’t know how or why you know, but if you do, all the more reason you cannot ask me to wear a tiara tonight. And if you know royal history, then you must know royal protocol. ‘A woman in the company of the prince cannot wear a crown or tiara unless she has her own peerage, or has been given such by the House of Stratton.’ Adelaide, I do not have any peerage.” How she remembered this protocol, Corina would never know. The words just came rushing out as a valid and perfect argument.

  Adelaide examined the tiara, then settled it on Corina’s head. “Brighton Kingdom is not the only kingdom to hand out peerages. A princess should wear her crown.”

  “Someone in the King’s Office told you, right? Or the archbishop?” Corina said, wincing as Adelaide settled the crown on her head. She’d worn diamond tiaras before—for her sixteenth birthday party, for her debut. But never in the company of a true prince. “Are you from the Madeline & Hyacinth Live! show?”

  Adelaide sighed. “Will you stop? I’m neither with a movie nor television show. Mercy, you’ve stories as if from fairyland. Why not ask if I’m your guardian angel? There . . .” Adelaide stepped back, smiling, looking pleased. “This was fashioned for Queen Magdalena by King Stephen I.”

  Corina leaned to see in the mirror. “Adelaide, how did you get this? It belongs to the royal family. I cannot possibly wear it.” All of the Del Rey wealth could not replace such a priceless heirloom.