How to Catch a Prince

by Rachel Hauck

  They already had one American princess in the palace.

  Stephen steamed, rising to his feet, talking to the telly. “It’s none of your business.”

  Then they lit up the Twitter universe. “What do you think, ladies? Should the Prince of Brighton marry a Brightonian girl?”

  Stephen shoved out of his chair. He needed to pace. Never mind his swelling ankle.

  “Here’s a good idea . . . a tweet from Rebekah911,” Madeline said. “ ‘Bring him back on the show and ask him.’ ”

  The audience gave a rousing cheer.

  Stephen popped the air with his fist. “Never, Maddie, never.”

  On that note, the study door opened and Nathaniel entered, dressed in black tie. “Talking to the telly again?”

  “Madeline and Hyacinth are deciding my love life on national television. What’s this about the King’s Office issuing a statement?”

  “We were flooded with inquiries this morning.” Nathaniel smoothed his hand down the silk front of his tuxedo.

  “Ignore them.”

  “You know that only goes so far.”

  Stephen sat down hard into the chaise chair.

  “I loathe this.” He motioned to the tea cart. Did Nathaniel want a cup? “Every time she turns around she’s getting rejected.”

  “I didn’t know you cared.”

  “Good grief, Nathaniel, of course I care.”

  “I see. I was confused by the five and a half years of silence.”

  Stephen shot his brother a dark visual dagger. “Is this why you dragged yourself over here? In a tuxedo? To talk about my failings?” He motioned to his brother’s formal attire. “Where are you off to?”

  “Bluffwood.” On the north tip of the island, an hour’s flight away, the stone-and-beam palace was used largely for state functions, celebrations, hosting parties and charities. “The Foundation for Education honoring Mum with a ball is tonight. We’re wheels up in an hour. Anyway, I came to see how it went last night. From the photographs it looked as if you were getting on with Corina.” Nathaniel moved to the tea cart and poured himself a cup.

  “We got on well enough.” The passion of the kiss boomeranged on him, buzzing over Stephen’s lips

  “The film is getting rave reviews. Did you like it? Susanna and I have a private screening this weekend.”

  “It was grand. On a blockbuster scale.”

  “How did you leave things with Cor—”

  “I kissed her.”

  Nathaniel glanced at Stephen, his cup and saucer cradled in his palm. “And why did you do that?”

  “I don’t know rightly, but nothing’s changed. I still want the annulment.” Stephen reached for a low stool and elevated his foot. “I don’t understand you, Nathaniel. You force me to fly to America to see her, demand I get annulment papers signed, then act as if you’re cheering me on to win her over.”

  “I admit, I was angry with you at first. You acted in a foolish and irresponsible manner marrying her that way. I wanted this mess resolved.”

  “Why do I sense a ‘but now’ in your tone?”

  “I’ve softened ’tis all. Talked this over with Susanna. Then I remembered my brother who manipulated my coronation guest list to include the woman you thought I loved but was too cowardly to admit it.”

  “Cowardly? No, I’d never assign those words to you Nathaniel. If anything you were too willing to fall on your kingly sword for the sake of the kingdom and perish the love in your foolish heart.”

  “Nevertheless, you were right. I did love her. Here you are, doing the same thing, not admitting you love Corina. Must be something in our brotherly blood. I think you should give your marriage—”

  “Don’t.” Stephen waved off the rest of the conversation. “It’s not going to happen.”

  “Did you like kissing her?”

  “Not going to happen, Nathaniel.”

  “Do you still have feelings for her?”

  “Not going to happen, Nathaniel.” He’d stay stuck on this mantra until it got through his brother’s thick skull.

  “Do you need to book another session with Mark Pyle? Talk about what happened in Afghanistan? Because it seems to be holding you back from true love.”

  “What I need is for you to leave me alone, my ankle to heal, and to get back on the pitch. I can talk until I’m blue, Nathaniel, but nothing will bring back Carlos, Bird, and the others.”

  “So that’s it then. Carlos is dead, so Corina cannot be your wife.”

  “The long and short of it, yes.” The summation felt odd in his chest. For years he’d reasoned this all out in his head, but speaking it aloud removed all doubt.

  “You can’t assign motive to Corina, Stephen. Or decide for her.”

  “But I can’t tell her the whole truth now, can I? About Asif. About my meddling. It’s a matter of national and royal security.”

  “I hardly consider a recommendation as meddling,” Nathaniel said. “Neither does the Defense Ministry.”

  “Perhaps, but it doesn’t change the fact that my wife’s brother died saving my life.”

  Nathaniel pursed his lips. “Are you sure you can never move past it?”

  “Could you? Besides, I’m not sure whether it will let me go.”

  “Does it seem so insurmountable? Do you regret marrying her?”

  “I try not to think about it. No looking back, just forward. Regret serves no purpose, does it? Which is why I carry on with rugby.”

  “You know you can’t avoid being a member of the royal family forever. You are Prince of Brighton, coronation or not. Which is a matter to discuss later.” Nathaniel sipped his tea, still standing.

  Stephen laughed low. “Touché. You know I love the family. It’s just when I’m on the pitch I feel I’m doing something for the country, for the lads in the military, for the youth.”

  “I think I’ve said this before, but it’s worth repeating. You’re not responsible for those men’s death. Asif acted alone.”

  “But I recommended him. And Carlos Del Rey was in Peshawar, safe and sound, until I put in his name for our flight unit. As for the others, I suppose they knew the risk when they volunteered to serve with me. But who’d have ever imagined . . .”

  “Stephen, somehow you have to fix this within yourself. This burden is too much for one man to carry the rest of his life.”

  “Perhaps it is my lot.” Stephen made his way to the window and lifted the pane, letting in summer’s breeze. Two stories below were the green hills of the palace grounds. An oasis amid the concrete city. “I was getting on fine until my injury—until you came round with that marriage certificate. I can’t explain it, Nathaniel. But I was over her until I saw her. Then she showed up here and I’m less over her every day.”

  Because at the end of it all, Corina Del Rey was the love of his life.

  “Has she signed the annulment?”

  “Not yet.”

  “All right, well, try on this idea. Susanna suggested a midweek retreat to Parrsons House, Wednesday through Friday morning. We’d go on the weekend but we’re booked.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “We thought we’d make it a family event. Mum and Henry are packing in with us. Perhaps you . . . and Corina . . . could come along?”

  Stephen laughed. “Invite Corina on a family getaway? After the debacle at dinner?”

  “Susanna thought she deserved another chance. As do I. Mum’s crazy about her. Consider yourself duly warned.”

  “Invite her out to what end? This is the exact opposite of filing for annulment. Is this you getting back at me for meddling in your affairs with Susanna?”

  “Certainly not, and if anything, I’m in your debt for your trickery. I suppose I see two options with bringing Corina out to Parrsons. One, you’ll realize, as you’ve already indicated, that you’re not over her and—”

  “It doesn’t matter if I’m over her or not, Nathaniel. Why can’t you see that?”

  “Or
she’ll sign the papers quickly and you’ll be done with it.”

  “Not going to happen, Nathaniel.”

  Nathaniel moved toward the door with his usual air of authority. “Think on it. We’re leaving in the morning.”

  When he was alone, Stephen stared at the muted telly screen—Madeline and Hyacinth were rather comical without sound—the predicament of his heart rolling out before him.

  Being with Corina awakened the dormant part of his life, the part that yearned for more. Rugby only exercised one emotional muscle. But what of the rest? Surely he must be a bit lopsided in his strength.

  Nevertheless, he could manage. Carry on. Stephen pictured Corina, lovely Corina, handing him a set of signed annulment papers. The idea plunged his soul, and instead of feeling relief and freedom, he felt alone, lost, and aching to shed the bonds of his invisible shackles.

  The six o’clock cathedral bells pealed through the city, electrifying the misty evening with an ancient song.

  Corina glanced up, an image of Stephen breaking through her thoughts, loose strands of her hair blowing across her face. “Is it six o’clock already?” Her interview with Clive had gone much better than expected. For four hours, he sat with her in the back corner table, watching the rain, chain smoking, and sharing about his life

  “I love the bells. Makes me want to do something profound. Charge a hill or kiss a beautiful woman.” Clive gazed at her as the choreographed bells resounded against the concrete and glass of downtown.

  “The bells make me want to kneel in prayer.”

  Clive laughed. “Well, if that didn’t douse my passion flames.”

  Corina dusted her fingers together. “My work here is done.”

  Clive grinned, dashing out his latest cigarette. After maneuvering the rough patches of Clive’s personality, Corina and the star-actor-philanthropist hit a friendly stride that had them talking about everything from his career to babies to politics.

  He was a much richer, deeper, kinder man than he let the public see. He shared about his impoverished childhood. His middle-grade teachers who recognized his brilliance. The patron who sponsored his Oxford education. His first love, who introduced him to the theatre. “I never looked back.”

  The sixth chime rang out, the song of the bells vibrating in the rain-soaked air.

  “I think I’ll never tire of the syncopated bells.”

  “If we think this is beautiful, imagine what heaven must be like.” Corina collected her things, reaching for her messenger bag.

  “Heaven? Huh, never consider it much,” Clive said. “But what an incredible force. Seven cathedral bells ringing in unison.” He tapped another cigarette from the crumpled pack until he saw the overflowing ashtray. He raised his eyes to Corina. “We’ve been here awhile.”

  “Four hours.” The interview couldn’t have gone better. She had enough material for a biography. She’d text Gigi that they should run the interview as a Sunday feature, both print and online, the month King Stephen I opened in the States. “I can’t thank you enough, Clive. You are quite an amazing man.”

  “What do you think they’re singing?” he said. “The bells?”

  She peered into his deep brown eyes. “I’m not sure, but in my head I hear, ‘Glory to God in the highest. Peace on earth, goodwill to men.’ ”

  Clive inclined his ear. Was there a soft mist in his eyes? “ ‘Glory to God . . . peace on earth . . . goodwill to men.’ ”

  “Such a beautiful, powerful sound.” One that reminded her she had a secret.

  “I know it’s late, love. As I said, I’ve this thing tonight, Children’s Literacy Foundation Art Auction at Royal Galaxy Hall. Would you care to go? You do owe me a dinner.” Clive splashed Corina with his smarmy Hollywood smile.

  “I don’t know.” She patted her messenger bag. “I should get these notes organized.” Besides, Stephen would be there. According to the LibP.

  “Pffftt.” He waved her off. “Let them simmer. I find things are more clear when I leave them be.” He stood, reaching for her arm. “Come, I need a date tonight or I’ll be mobbed. A beautiful lass is the best deterrent. Besides, you can dispel the rumors. Tomorrow the headlines will be ‘Is She the Prince’s Girl or Clive Boston’s?’ ”

  “Very droll, but I’m not interested in any more headlines.”

  “Do you protest because your prince is the foundation’s patron?” Clive folded his arms and leaned against the ornate iron pole holding up the awning.

  “Clive,” Corina said with a punctuated sigh, “I think you have a thing for the prince yourself.”

  His hearty laugh garnered the attention of those around them. The whispers started. Clive Boston. “It’s just I know what I see.” He tapped the corner of his eye. “I see love.”

  “You see nothing,” Corina said, standing, slipping her iPad into the messenger bag.

  “There are none so blind as those who will not see.”

  “Whatever, Clive.” Blind or not, he’d managed to circle the conversation back around to the beginning. Speculation about Stephen. The truth? She wanted to see him. Save for the annulment papers, last night’s hasty good-bye in the amber lights of the Manor might have been their last.

  “Come, I’ll drive you home.” Clive roped his arm around her, steering her away from the café toward a private car park. “I promise to be a perfect gentleman.”

  “In the car or at the auction?”

  He squeezed her shoulder. “Then you’ll go?” He clapped his hand over his heart. “Be still. I may never recover.”

  “As a friend.” I am a married woman.

  “But of course.”

  Clive drove a Lamborghini, which had more horsepower than the Cathedral City streets could contain. Corina gripped the door handle as the actor gunned the gas, then eased off, then gunned it again to the rhythm of a blaring Steven Tyler song.

  “Which hotel, love?” he said. “The Wellington or Royal Astor?”

  “Neither. I’m at this quaint inn called the Manor between Gliden and Martings.”

  “The Manor? Why aren’t you at The Wellington? Or the Astor?”

  “The Wellington was booked. I never made it to the Astor.”

  His expression said he didn’t believe her, but he zipped on through traffic, jerking the wheel of the Lamborghini as he changed lanes, belting out “Walk This Way” an octave higher than Steven Tyler.

  When he turned down Market Avenue, he cut across two lanes to a flurry of car and lorry horns, careened around the corner to Crescent, and crashed-stopped on the curb by Gliden. He leaned to see out her window. “Where did you say you were staying?”

  “There.” She rapped her window, pointing out the small, thick-beam structure. “The Manor.”

  Clive turned down the music, squinting. “Corina, sweetheart, I see nothing between Gliden and Martings but a narrow, old alley.”

  “Where are you looking? It’s right there.” She powered down her window and pointed. “It’s small but you can’t miss it. See the light in the window?”

  He jerked back into his seat, revving the engine. “If you don’t want me to know where you’re staying, lass, just say so. But making up a place? Tsk, tsk, I thought more of you. After all we meant to each other this afternoon.”

  “Clive, I’m not making it up.” She brushed her hand over the chills skirting down her arm. “Watch, I’ll get out and go inside.”

  “You’re going to go inside? Of what?” He motioned with his palm up. “An alley between two department stores? Love, if you need a place to stay, I’ve a spare room.” He surrendered both hands as if warding off her protest. “Strictly platonic. At least for the first night.” He winked. “The guest rooms are on the other side of the house.”

  Corina glanced toward the Manor’s front window where she could see Brill sweeping the lobby. “You really don’t see it?”

  “Lamb, I do not and I’m a bit concerned if you do.”

  Corina popped her door open and slipped the strap of
her bag over her shoulder. “See you tonight? I’ll hire a cab. Meet you there?”

  “Corina, darling, I can’t leave you by a curb. What will the prince say if anything happens to you?”

  “Thanks for the ride, Clive.” She slammed the car door and turned for the Manor as he sped off. If she’d not spent the last four hours with him, she’d believe he was pulling her leg with this no-Manor manner. But he’d been somber and sincere all afternoon once he’d settled down, letting his heart open, becoming her friend.

  So, if he didn’t see the inn, then how did Stephen? What about Thomas? A shiver descended on her thoughts.

  What’s going on?

  Adelaide’s piquant face appeared at the door. “You coming in? Supper’s on soon.”

  “Y–yeah, sure.” Corina glanced back at Clive’s car, the red taillights disappearing, and crossed the threshold of the Manor.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The curved steel of Royal Galaxy Hall, designed to look like a spacecraft, embraced Corina as she walked through the doors.

  The futuristic structure cast a cold blue glow over the five-hundred-year-old streets, over the ancient thatched roofs that still existed in the historical district of Cathedral City.

  Corina snapped pictures with her phone, musing about the significance of architecture. How it represented where a people had been while speaking of where they are going.

  Circulating through the showroom, the music thumping and bumping, she searched the guests for Clive. He’d texted, asking her to meet him by the children’s finger painting display. But she was fine with viewing the gallery on her own for a few minutes. She might even buy a piece. The Children’s Literacy Foundation was a worthy cause and she’d always wanted to collect art.

  Cathedral City had been home to some of the world’s most beloved renaissance artists. History credited them with moving Brighton out of the Dark Ages toward enlightenment.

  At the children’s display, Corina loved the finger paintings. Such creativity. Especially the one of Jesus with a giant S on his chest. Maybe that one was coming home with her.