The Royal Wedding Collection

by Rachel Hauck

  Corina smiled on the inside. It was a rather outlandish situation. Funny in a sad sort of way. My husband the prince stopped by for a chat.

  “Okay . . .” Melissa moved to her desk. “Just as long as you had fun. Some of us are going to River Rock tonight, if you want to come.”

  “Sure, why not.” Corina tried her tea again. Still too hot. So she powered up her Mac and launched e-mail, then the Internet, making her way through her morning list of newspapers. She had a few minutes before her nine o’clock meeting with Mark.

  Suddenly Gigi perched on Corina’s desk. “How are those roses doing?”

  “Blooming.” Corina blew over the surface of her tea.

  “And you?” Gigi said. “Are you blooming? This business with Mark isn’t getting you down?”

  “Getting me down? No. This is just a blip in the road. Listen, Gigi, I have a meeting with speak-of-the-devil in nine minutes. Do you need something?”

  “You, darling.” Gigi floated a gold embossed invitation through the light and onto the desk in front of Corina. “Your first road assignment.”

  Corina read the script on the heavy card stock.

  On behalf of His Majesty and the Royal House of Stratton

  You Are Cordially Invited to the Gold Carpet Premier of

  King Stephen I

  14 June, 8:00 p.m.

  RSVP to His Lord Chamberlain

  “What is this?”

  “An invitation. See right there. ‘You are cordially invited . . .’ I want you to cover the premier.” Gigi was in full-fledged media-mogul form. “I’ve also spoken to the film’s star, Clive Boston, and he’s agreed to do an exclusive with us.” She grinned with a wink. “He owes me one.”

  “Clive Boston owes you one?” The boisterous but reclusive star hadn’t given an interview in ten years. “Do I want to know why? Or how?”

  “No, trust me. Anyway, I want you to—”

  “No, Gigi. No.” Flat out. No. Corina handed Gigi the invitation. “We’ve got stringers in London who can go down to Cathedral City to do the job.”

  “Fine if I wanted a piece on tourism or the opening day of the summer season in Cathedral City, but this is a royal invitation to a movie premier. I’m not sending just any ole body in my stead. I’m sending you.”

  “You’re sending me all the way to Cathedral City to cover a movie premier? That’s a mighty expensive junket.”

  “Don’t forget Clive. The fact we’re getting an interview, my dear, is what separates the big dogs. Who gets the scoop, the inside story, is the one everyone will turn to for their news. Anyway, I had to sweeten the deal with Clive, so I tossed you into the bargaining. Told him you’d be doing the interview.” She gave Corina a hard stare. “You need to leave by the end of the week.”

  “Gig, did it occur to you to ask me? Clive Boston? He’s an arrogant blowhard.” Corina had crossed paths with the iconic actor in years past—when she traveled with Daddy to L.A.—but they had nothing more than a “Hello, how are you?” relationship. Certainly not enough to lure the actor to the interview couch. “He’s notorious for not showing up.”

  “He seemed really keen on seeing you. Said he’d always wanted to know you more. He’ll be in Cathedral City for the premier next week, so you can do your interview there. Two birds, one stone.” Gigi slapped a sticky note to the desktop. “Here’s his information. He said texting works best. We need this scoop, Corina. The Beaumont Post is due for a scoop, a righteous exclusive.” Gigi stood to leave, jerking the hem of her suit jacket. “Don’t let me down, shug.”

  “Corina?” Mark stuck his head into the bull pen from his corner office. “You coming?”

  “She’s on her way, Mark,” Gigi said.

  “Just a sec, Mark. Gigi,” Corina called after her with a righteous hiss, gathering her notes for her meeting with Mark, “I’m not saying yes to this.”

  Cathedral City? She couldn’t go to Cathedral City. He, the man she was married to, lived there.

  “Sure you are. This is perfect for us. An American heiress on the gold carpet . . . Everyone will be talking about it. Then we run an exclusive with a major recluse, a star the world wants to know more about, interviewed by the Corina Del Rey.” Gigi shivered and sighed. “Brilliant. I’m ecstatic with myself.”

  “Gigi!” A few of the staff lifted their heads above their computer monitors as Corina’s call rocketed through the bull pen, “Send a stringer.” She dropped her tone. “It’s a movie premier. An interview. Clive is a sucker for any gorgeous face. Send . . . I don’t know . . . He’s going to probably be a no-show anyway.”

  “He’ll show. I’m sending you. Why would I send anyone else but you, darling? A stunning, wealthy, intelligent woman. A Del Rey, the South’s answer to the Kennedys. I dare say you’re as much an interest to the world as Clive.”

  “I’m nobody, Gigi.” Corina glanced toward Mark, who waited for her with his arms crossed, leaning against the door frame. “Why are you doing this?”

  Did the woman know something? Did she see Stephen this weekend? Or perhaps one of her spies? Corina suspected Jones from the night security desk was an informant of some kind, and he had seen her with Stephen in the parking lot last week. But Corina had been careful. She felt sure she’d not given Stephen away. Could the roses have tipped her off?

  Surely if Gigi had any kind of a story on a royal like Prince Stephen, she would’ve run it on the front page of the Sunday Post, the newspaper’s only online and print edition.

  Corina assumed her weekend secret remained safe. Yet this sudden go-to-Cathedral-City rattled her. Raised her suspicions.

  “It’s a royal invitation and I’m sending my A team. Live a little, Corina. Take an adventure. Remember what kind of life you had before your brother died.”

  “That life is over, Gigi. All that remains is life after Carlos died.”

  “Well then, start carving out your destiny. Goodness girl, don’t confine yourself to a life of insignificance.”

  “Excuse me? What did you say?”

  “I said carve out your destiny.”

  “No, after . . .”

  “Don’t confine yourself to a life of insignificance. Make Carlos proud. Do something. This?” She flagged her hand toward the corners of the building. “A baby step for you. Now, don’t keep Mark waiting.”

  But Corina couldn’t move. Gigi’s words, so off-the-cuff and flippant, nailed her to where she stood. Corina’s heart cracked open a little bit further. She was uncomfortable with an internal trembling.

  “Do I have a say in this, Gigi?” Mark called, finally engaging the conversation.

  “Not really.”

  With a shrug, Mark turned into his office. Oh sure, he was exactly what the Post needed. A weak-bellied Gigi Beaumont pawn. He’d be no help in this fight.

  “Darling, what are you thinking on so hard?” Gigi waved her hand in the air. “I can almost smell the smoke. It’s a simple decision. Yes. Tell you what—you can stay at The Wellington. On me.”

  “The Wellington?” Cathedral City’s luxury hotel. Corina’s family had stayed there when they visited Brighton in the summers.

  “Corina,” Mark said from the far corner, exerting what little backbone he possessed, “any day now.”

  She made her way to his office, trying to figure out how she could get out of this outlandish assignment. Surely she’d run into someone from the royal family at the premier. Maybe Stephen himself. Then what?

  Besides, how was going to a movie premier and conducting an interview with a long-in-the-tooth actor living a life of significance?

  Just as she crossed into Mark’s office, the peaceful voice from the chapel, from church yesterday, moved across her heart.

  Love well.

  The simple communication aroused all sorts of ponderings. She still didn’t know exactly what it meant. Love well? Love who? Love how?

  Shaking off the residue of the divine whisper, she set up at the conference table, preparing to show Mark,
again, how the Post online assignment board worked. But he was on his phone now, so she paced over to his window, which faced the road and the community beside the Post building.

  Across U.S. 1 was a Catholic church with a cross perched on the highest point of the pitched roof. The midmorning sun highlighted the icon, sending a long shadow of the cross over the four-lane road. The shadow also fell through Mark’s window and across his floor.

  When Corina glanced down, the cross also covered her. Shivering, she stepped back. How was that possible? The church was sixty, seventy yards away.

  Backing toward the conference table, she felt light and swirly. She steadied herself with her hand on the table.

  “Ready?” Mark said, hanging up, coming around to the head of the conference table. “Let’s get to it.” “I’m meeting my wife at ten to look at a house.”

  “R–ready.” But she wasn’t ready. For anything. She couldn’t collect her thoughts into anything cohesive. They were buckshot with the events of the weekend. And the shadow of the cross that had just fallen over her.

  At that moment, a grandfather clock in the corner chimed the hour, it’s tone rich and resonate, coursing through Corina. She pressed her fingers to her temples, her heart palpitating with each bong.

  For a wrinkle in time, she was atop the Braithwaite, in Stephen’s arms, dancing to the glorious symphony of Cathedral City’s nine o’clock bells.

  “Stupid clock. Can’t keep time.” Mark shoved away from the table with an angry huff and opened the clock’s glass door, stopping the pendulum on the third chime.

  “Wait, it wasn’t finished,” Corina said.

  “Who cares. The time is wrong. My wife insisted I bring this thing in here. Give the office some charm, she said.”

  Mark returned to the table, but Corina felt robbed, cheated, of the music that flowed from the clock’s time.

  “Cheap old thing . . . my grandfather made it when he was a kid. In shop or something. I think I’ll tell maintenance they can have it.” Mark scooted up to the table with a glance at Corina. “Listen, I know you love working with that albatross of an assignment board, but come on, it was designed for Windows 3.1.1. I want to develop a new online board. I have a friend who is a developer and—”

  “Give it to maintenance? You are willing to discard your grandfather’s clock because ‘it’s not working’?” Corina didn’t mask her emotions. Mark’s furrowed brow warned her she danced around crazy.

  “It’s a clock, Corina. I don’t even think my grandfather liked it.”

  “But it’s worth fighting for. You can’t just d–dismiss it—”

  “Corina, what are you talking about?”

  Love well.

  Then she knew. She couldn’t just dismiss it. The door had been opened. Not just her heart, but his. A peace filled the cracks and holes of her soul. For the first time in over five years, she recognized a piece of herself. Until now she’d only been going through the motions.

  “Mark, I’m going to do it. Cover the premier.” She left the conference table, her thoughts forward. She’d need to book a flight and the hotel. Do some research. Beef up her knowledge of King Stephen I history. And what had Clive Boston been up to lately? She’d need a premier gown. But she had just the one at home in Marietta. At the door she turned back to Mark. “I think a new assignment board is a fantastic idea. The staff will love it.”

  She strode into Gigi’s office with her head high, shoulders square. “I’ll do it.”

  “Of course you will.” The boss dragged her eyes away from her computer. “But what brings you in here to tell me?”

  “The chimes of an old grandfather clock.”

  NINE

  Four days after his return from Florida, Stephen woke up panting, a fire blazing over his skin.

  Corina had paraded through his nightmare, a death scene, weeping and wailing, wearing a white wedding gown stained with her brother’s blood, her golden-brown eyes wild with pain.

  “Did I love him well?”

  Stephen rolled out of bed and dropped to his knees, pressing his forehead into the thick carpet.

  Rocking from side to side, he pleaded with his soul to end the night memories. He’d petition the Almighty, if he could muster enough faith to believe in the God who allowed bad things to happen.

  He’d locked away every memory, his thoughts and feelings with the key of “Why?” If God “so loved the world,” then why did he stomach atrocities such as war?

  Above all, why did a good man like Carlos Del Rey have to die while Stephen lived?

  Either way, answers or not, this had to end. And it wouldn’t until he was back on the pitch with the rugby ball tucked under his arm, an intense defender the only thing chasing him.

  After a moment, he gathered himself and showered. He had a full day ahead with no time to deal with black emotions and haunting, weeping brides.

  But his soul was disturbed, tainted, and he felt helpless to do anything about it.

  In the dining hall, Robert brought round Stephen’s breakfast, then produced an iPad.

  “The King’s Office asked that I confirm your diary this week.”

  Stephen nodded, sipping his tea. He’d always kept his schedule in his head, never bothered with a proper diary. Much to the chagrin of the King’s Office. Though to be fair, Stephen had, on occasion, missed an event. Which did not go well for him. Thus the need for Robert.

  “You’ve Brighton Eagles Fan Day today at The Wellington Hotel. Thomas will be arriving at eleven to drive over with you.”

  “Dressed and ready.” Stephen smiled, biting into his buttered muffin and picking at the sleeve of his rugby jersey. He’d watched the news while getting dressed earlier, and Channel One reported, “. . . over a thousand estimated to be lining Market Street. Many anxious to meet the team as well as a royal prince.”

  As much as Stephen looked forward to the event, being with his teammates, meeting the fans, a crowd of thousands would pose security issues. Though five and a half years had passed without incident, Stephen carried a reflex in his body, ready to pounce should another familiar face, a friend—

  “Sir, did you hear me? Tomorrow, Friday . . .” Robert carried on, reading from his iPad. “You open the youth rugby tournament. Have you a speech ready?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Right here.” Stephen tapped his heart. He didn’t need a formal script to speak to Brighton’s youth about rugby and the importance of sports.

  “Two more items then you’re free,” Robert said, hiding his smile. He knew how tedious Stephen found all this i dotting and t crossing. “This coming Monday evening is the King Stephen I premier, where you are representing the royal family. Do you have everything you need? The palace will send the limo for you at seven. Thomas will go over the security details with you. There’s an after party to which I RSVP’d affirmative, but you’re not expected to make an appearance if you do not wish. I informed the hostess if you did attend, it would only be briefly.”

  “You’re a good man, Robert.”

  “This rather late request came yesterday evening. The Madeline & Hyacinth Live! show asked if you could come on as a surprise guest tomorrow, after opening the rugby tournament. The King’s Office left it to your discretion, though if you can see your way clear to be on the show, Albert believes it will be ‘good PR.’ ” Robert set down his iPad. “However, it is Madeline and Hyacinth, so no telling what mischief they’ve planned.”

  Stephen washed down the last of his muffin with a heady gulp of tea. “Did they say why they want me on?” He leaned toward a yes, even after last week’s #howtocatchaprince Twitter campaign. Given time and perspective, the whole bit was rather clever.

  Only caveat? He didn’t want to be caught in some sort of prank or “Here’s the winner of our contest,” to which he’d have to be princely and sweet to a woman he’d never met. On national television.

  Still, Maddie and Hy were fun, creative, and the heart of Brighton Kingdom’s pop culture.
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  “They say they want to talk about the film,” Robert said. “The royal family, the history of the House of Stratton, and your rugby game.”

  Stephen hesitated. “All right, I’ll do it. But I want a contract with a rider. I’ll not discuss the war or my love life.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  Stephen selected another muffin and reached for the jam. “What’s next? The art auction for the Children’s Literacy Foundation Tuesday?”

  “Very good. Yes. And you’ve not forgotten your weekly dinner with your family Sunday evening.”

  “Got it.” Though he had forgotten dinner with the family before. Stephen glanced at his watch, shoving the big bite of muffin in his mouth.

  Thomas would be here shortly, and he wanted to run through some exercises for his ankle. The bugger hurt more than usual this morning.

  “Your brother rang while you were dressing,” Robert said, closing the calendar on the screen. “He wanted to know how you were getting on with the task. Said you’d know to what he referenced.”

  “The task is in limbo.” Stephen set aside his napkin and headed out of the kitchen toward the closet on the other side of the foyer. He wanted to take a couple of rugby caps he had made, like the ones professional players earned, to Fan Day for the kids. He’d find one or two he felt especially deserving.

  “Is there anything else, sir?” Robert said, trailing behind him.

  Stephen paused at the door. “I don’t believe so.”

  “Nothing to follow up from your trip to America? Perhaps this task His Majesty mentioned?”

  “Got it covered. Oh, set a late supper. I’m going to the stadium for a walk-through for the youth tournament opening.”

  “Very well.”

  Stephen made his way to his office. He had the better part of an hour to do his exercises, clean up his desk, and muse over how to get Corina to sign the annulment.

  But Robert’s questions about America nagged him. Did he know something? Someone? Did Corina call? He felt exposed and vulnerable. And he didn’t like it.