How to Catch a Prince

by Rachel Hauck

  Around the wall to a display of acrylic by thirteen- to fifteen-year-olds, Corina ran into a group of men in tuxedos. Clive?

  But he was not among them.

  That’s when she saw the Pissarro, one of the Impressionist paintings up for auction. Oh my, it was the “Rue du Roi—Avenue of the Kings.”

  Her heart filled with memories as she moved closer to inspect the piece. God, what am I to do with this?

  The historical scene of the Avenue of the Kings from the top of the Braithwaite Tower, with the horses and carriages standing in the gaslights after a cleansing rain, was magical. Glorious. The view Stephen and Corina experienced the night he proposed. And it was to be auctioned.

  “Extraordinary piece, isn’t it? Eighteen ninety-eight.” A woman wearing a Children’s Literacy Foundation badge joined Corina. “We are blessed to have it. The piece was lost for the last five and a half years.”

  “Lost?”

  “Construction workers found it in an old warehouse on the north side of the city. No one knows how it got there. We believe it belonged to a private collector, but we can’t find the records. Can you imagine? The workmen brought it to us, suggesting we auction it tonight on behalf of the foundation. We will find a permanent home for this beautiful piece.”

  “This is my favorite view in the whole city,” Corina said.

  “Mine as well. My husband proposed to me on the Braithwaite.” The woman sighed. “Do be sure to register if you haven’t already. The auction starts in thirty minutes.”

  “Thank you.” Corina watched the woman until the crowd folded in behind her, then turned back to the painting.

  The woman’s husband proposed to her on the Braithwaite? The painting was lost for five and a half years? It was too much. Too much. Was she to consider these signs or mere coincidence? Everything around her pointed to Stephen.

  But he’s not looking, God.

  Flushed and trembling, awash with sentiment, she missed him. Missed Carlos. Even that crazy Diamatia that became her wedding gown.

  “This is my favorite place in the whole world,” she said as he slipped his arms around her waist.

  “Will you miss me?” He set his finger under her chin and raised her face to his, bending for a kiss. He looked resplendent in his dress uniform, a gold royal braid across his chest.

  “With every fiber of my being.”

  Holding her, he leaned against the twisted wrought iron railing that hemmed in the Braithwaite terrace, and they gazed into the glittering Rue du Roi.

  “So beautiful.”

  “This is Cathedral City.”

  The bells chimed. Nine times. She rested her head against his chest, listening to his heart beat in time with the bells. How could she be so very happy yet so very sad?

  “The Pissarro.” Stephen’s voice floated over her shoulder. “One of my favorites.”

  Corina turned to find him standing several feet behind her, surrounded by somber-faced auction types—a woman in a long white gown that washed out her pale complexion and a set of tuxedoed men.

  Their eyes met, but for such a brief moment she wasn’t sure he saw her. She started to address him, but the group moved, Stephen with them, without a word or glance toward Corina.

  Thomas trailed behind, giving her a sweet nod hello.

  She smiled, but barely, inhaling the truth. Stephen would never truly acknowledge her in public. Why should he? They were over.

  “Don’t give up, love.” Clive leaned against the display wall, his face lit up with a cheeky grin.

  “There you are. Where have you been?”

  “Seriously, Corina, back alley drunks are more aware of what’s going on than you.”

  “Don’t start with this Prince Stephen business again.”

  He laughed and joined her, facing the painting. “We’d make a good couple, you and me. A power duo.”

  Corina regarded him for a moment, assessing his vulnerability. He’d confessed during their interview that he’d given up on love after an intense Oxford-years heartbreak.

  “Clive, you rapscallion.” Corina manufactured a solid, jovial laugh. “You’re just dying to add me to your string of brokenhearted babes, aren’t you?”

  He collected himself, the light changing in his eyes. “You found me out, sly lass. But it was worth a try. I’ve no American heiress in my stable.” He kissed her cheek, whispering in her ear. “But if you change your mind . . .”

  Corina squeezed his hand. “You’ll be the first to know.”

  “If you’ll pardon me, I’ll see what other beauties are about. Shall we catch up later, have an appetizer or two and call it dinner. You are supposed to be my date.”

  “Say nine o’clock?”

  “Perfect.”

  Oh Clive. No wonder he hid from the press. He was hiding from himself.

  “How did it go? With Clive?” This time when she turned, Corina found Stephen standing alone, his arms clasped behind his back. “Did he ask you to marry him? He’s known for spontaneous proposals that don’t go anywhere.”

  “At least he’s honest about it.”

  Stephen scoped the area with a sly glance, then leaned toward her. “Nathaniel and Susanna are taking a few days at Parrsons House. You’re invited. If you care to come.”

  “I’m invited. By the family I rudely walked out on Sunday night?”

  “Don’t make us out to be insensitive clods.” Agitated, he shifted his stance, taking the weight from his booted ankle. “Do you want to come or not? Nathaniel and Susanna want to leave tomorrow.”

  “Do you want me to come?” Their eyes met, but only for a moment.

  “I–it might be pleasant.”

  “Your confidence is killing me.”

  “Hey, do you want to go or not? Never mind, I’ll come for you at eleven sharp.” He walked off into a gathering of well-dressed men and women, waiting in audience for him, cameras flashing.

  Corina bit back her grin. She was spending time in the country with her husband and his family. How lovely.

  Now, to register for the auction and see about acquiring a treasured Pissarro.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Gigi

  Her nose for news itched like a flea-bitten hound. Gigi pushed away from her desk and walked toward the window, hands on her hips, watching the river lap against the embankment.

  The front page of the Informant ran a grainy image of Prince Stephen at a fund-raiser last night, and don’t you just know, Corina Del Rey stood in the background.

  Something was up, yet something also lurked beneath the surface.

  Not to mention her boots-on-the-ground minions were failing her left and right. Not one had any intel on Corina or the prince.

  Reaching for her phone, Gigi fired off a text to Corina.

  ART AUCTION? W/ PRINCE. DO TELL.

  NOTHING TO TELL.

  Gigi paced to the window. Twin sailboats glided down the river toward the arched causeway, cutting through shards of sunlight.

  She was just going to have to be persistent. Back at her desk, she fired off an e-mail.

  To: Madeline Stone

  Subject: Love this recipe

  Any intel on Prince Stephen and Corina Del Rey will be well worth your while.

  GB

  Wednesday evening, as the sun set over the country estate, Stephen bent over the makeshift boules court.

  A bit of Joplin ragtime played from under the lawn tent, where Mum and Henry reclined, holding hands in the space between their chairs, listening to music and watching the game.

  A breeze chugged up from the surrounding valley, cool and sweet, fragrant with the dewy, dark earth of Brighton. Caught in the current, Corina’s long, free hair billowed behind her back as she looked on, waiting for Nathaniel and Stephen to set up the court.

  The drive to Parrsons from the city this morning had been pleasant, as if they’d determined without words to just be, forgetting the difficulty between them.

  But being around Corina reminded h
im of why he adored her. She challenged his carefully carved spaces. She made him laugh. She made him want to be more, to test his boundaries, to be the man he was meant to be.

  “Okay, we’re ready,” Nathaniel said with one last inspection of the court.

  Susanna stepped foward, tossing the metal boule ball in her hand. “I say girls against boys.”

  “Susanna,” Corina protested with a wave of her hands, “I’m horrible at this game. I couldn’t hit that little red jack-thing if I was standing over it with a hammer.”

  “I’ll take my chances.” Susanna’s expression made Stephen laugh. She was so utterly American. I’ll take those odds and win anyway.

  “Susanna, really, I’m horrible.”

  “Sounds fair to me.” Nathaniel kicked four balls toward Stephen. “Winners earn bragging rights. Without one word of complaint from the losers.”

  “You’re on, Mr. Big Stuff.” Susanna shook on the deal, giving Nathaniel’s hand a hard squeeze. “Georgia Girls verses Brighton Boys.”

  “Wasn’t there a song about that?” Stephen said, snapping his fingers, humming, laughing.

  “Not yet,” Susanna tossed him a wink. “Now, move aside men. Corina and I are going to practice. Corina, sugar, all you have to do is roll the ball to the red jack there in the middle. Feel free to knock the guys’ balls to kingdom come.”

  “Susanna, really.” Corina ran her palms down the side of her shorts, nervous. “I’m horrible.”

  “Corina, you’re not supposed to smack talk yourself. Come on.”

  Stephen strained forward with each of Corina’s boule rolls, willing the ball toward the jack. But she was right. She wasn’t very good.

  “All right,” Susanna said, popping her hands together, her voice every bit like Coach Stuart’s. “You’ll get it. Let’s practice again.”

  “Enough practice. Let’s play.” Nathaniel moved to the top of the playing lane.

  Stephen watched his prim and proper brother, the disciplined King Nathaniel, grinning. The man was every bit as competitive as his wife. And twice as competitive as his brother. No way did he want to lose this little lawn tourney. He bowed toward his wife. “Ladies first.”

  “We’ll take it.”

  Stephen captured Corina’s hand as he walked past and whispered, “You can do this.”

  “If you say so.” Her response was soft against his soul, her warm gaze peaceful. “But I’m not proud. I’m willing to let Susanna carry me.”

  He laughed, releasing her hand, and joined his brother. Another time, in a life undisturbed by war, this game would be Brighton princes against their princesses.

  She was his wife but not his princess. An honor he’d robbed from her.

  “It’s ladies against the gents, I see.” Mum walked out from under the lawn tent and joined the women. At fifty-eight, she was graceful and elegant in her linen slacks, cashmere sweater, and pearls. The Queen of Brighton, having lived with Dad for over thirty years, first as he was the crown prince, then king. After his death, Stephen wasn’t sure she’d ever laugh again. But she’d found a new joy in Henry’s love.

  “We’ll play one round for bragging rights. The rest for fun,” Nathaniel said. “Mum and Henry will be discrepancy judges. Henry, remember I’m your king and this close to approving your new young businessmen project.”

  “Oh my word . . . blackmail?” Susanna huffed, roping an arm of solidarity around Corina. “Never mind. We’ll win anyway.”

  “Susanna, please.” Corina verged on begging. “You overestimate me.”

  But the game was under way and Corina was to bowl first. Stephen crouched along the side of the court. “Get as close as you can to the jack. Give it a little hook when you—”

  She paused with a sigh, glancing over at him. “Will you shut up? You’re making me nervous.”

  Nathaniel muffled his laugh, pressing his fist to his lip.

  Stephen rocked back on his haunches. “Fine, then, show us what you got, Del Rey.”

  Her roll barely made it halfway, but Susanna more than made up for it, bowling within centimeters of the jack. She would be tough to beat.

  Corina cheered and slapped her partner a high five.

  But Nathaniel’s roll knocked Susanna out of play. “Oh, Stratton, you are going to pay for that one.”

  “Bring it, Stratton.” Nathaniel snatched Susanna for a kiss and Stephen glanced away, hiding his envy.

  Stephen hadn’t easily warmed to Susanna’s American flavor—she reminded him too much of Corina and what he’d lost—but now he couldn’t imagine the family without her. He glanced round to Corina, catching her eye, smiling.

  “Stephen, you’re up, little brother. Show them how it’s done.”

  The competition rocked between Nathaniel, Stephen, and Susanna—who was single-handedly defeating the men. With ten balls played, two remaining, Corina crouched for her final turn, spinning the ball in her palm.

  “Just like walking the runway . . . it’s a beauty pageant . . . a beauty pageant. Going to sing a song . . . easy-peasy.” She released the ball, gently, and with a slight spin.

  The metal piece rolled down the lane at the perfect speed, curved around Nathaniel’s ball, and lightly kissed the jack. Then stopped.

  “I did it!” Corina jumped, screaming, gaping at Susanna, who wrapped her in a celebratory hug.

  “The beauty pageant queen brought her A game.”

  “Love, you did it.” Stephen said, wishing he were free to sweep her up in his arms and kiss her. “I knew you could.”

  She tipped her head back, arms wide. “I love boules.”

  “Stephen, come on, mate. You’re up.” Nathaniel slapped his back. “We’re still in this. For all the bragging rights.”

  “R–right.” But he didn’t want bragging rights. He wanted to see the expression on Corina’s face when the girls won.

  As he bent to roll his ball, a comfort he’d not felt in five and a half years coursed through him. He was coming home. The rest of the way around the bend.

  Corina knelt on the ground, singing. “Miss it, miss it, now you have to kiss it.”

  Susanna laughed. “Oh my gosh, I’ve not heard that in years.”

  “It’s the only talent I can bring to this game.”

  Stephen peeked at her. Oh, he’d kiss it all right.

  Mum stood with Susanna near midcourt, watching, while Henry came alongside Nathaniel, cheering. “Come on, lad. For the gents.”

  “Don’t you dare go easy on her,” Nathaniel said.

  “Never you fear.” Balancing on his good foot, Stephen aimed and rolled his ball with gentle perfection. If he calculated right, his roll should bump Corina’s and stop just shy of the jack.

  “Come on, come on.” Nathaniel paced alongside the court with the ball. “For all the bragging rights.”

  Stephen watched Corina, yelling at the ball, tussling with Nathaniel, laughing, singing at the ball, “Miss it, miss it.”

  She had to win. Stephen sent his own wishes toward the boule. Come on, stop!

  The air over the lawn dropped to a whisper. Motions slowed. Sounds were muted. Colors bleached.

  Then it happened. Stephen’s boule stopped just shy of Corina’s. He exhaled, falling off his heels onto his back, stretching out on the grass.

  Susanna and Corina erupted with shrills and shouts, launching into some sort of wild winning ritual dance—must be an American thing—that had the Queen of Brighton bumping hips with her daughter-in-law. No, her daughters-in-law.

  Nathaniel stood over Stephen, offering his hand. “We gave it our best, say, little brother?”

  “Absolutely, our very best.” Stephen stood, his gaze, his heart, every sense in his body fixed on Corina. He had to tell her. Everything. He was sick of hiding, fearing, living for her in his own head. If she hated him, then she hated him.

  At least they’d both know the reason why.

  TWENTY-THREE

  One moment she’d been celebrating. The next, tra
iling off with Stephen, his hand gripping hers.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Just come.” Stephen strode ahead of her toward one of the motor carts. When she slipped in next to him, he started down the lawn, away from the family, leaving behind comfort and driving toward the unknown.

  Corina peered at him. An end-of-day beard shadowed his jaw, and from under his dark lashes his blue eyes glowed with a reflection she did not recognize.

  A dozen questions fired through her mind as Stephen steered the cart over the grounds, creating a path in the thick grass, but she kept them to herself. He’d talk when he was ready.

  For now, it was enough to be with him, to hear the song of the night birds on the breeze.

  Up a slight incline, Stephen urged the cart to the top of a knoll, through a stand of trees, and popped into a small clearing where a cultivated, low stone garden sat under six royal oaks.

  He parked next to the wall and cut the motor, resting his hand on the steering wheel. “Besides me, the gardener is the only person who ever comes to this place.”

  “Stephen, it’s beautiful.” Corina stepped out her side of the cart. Heather and a deep pink foxglove grew near the wall, along with purple and yellow blooms she did not know. Between two of the trees, toward the back, sat an iron-and-wood-slat bench.

  “I come here on Remembrance Day.” Stephen stood beside her. “And December twentieth.”

  “W–what is this place? A memorial?” She glanced at him, hand to her heart, noticing the granite stones under each tree.

  “Mine. Yes.” Stephen reached into the cart for a torch and motioned for her to walk through the gate. “One year the team was playing in Australia, and I flew home to lay a wreath at these markers for Remembrance Day. I’m off the pitch that day. Don’t care what’s at stake.”

  Corina started down the path between a row of hedges. “You built this?”

  “I needed a place to go, to remember what the lads did without the world watching.” He aimed the torch beam over one grave marker, then another. “The bodies aren’t here, but . . .” His voice faded as a slight shudder moved over his shoulders. “Their spirits are. At least to me. When I come here, the voices, the explosions, the turmoil stops. Peace. This place, along with rugby, keeps me going.”