by Rachel Hauck
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.
Thomas stood next to him. “A good bunch, eh?”
“A very good bunch.”
“Are you thinking of Corina?”
How did he do that? Was Stephen so transparent? “No.” Lie. “Just that . . . Well, it’s of no matter. Ready?” He was hungry. And his ankle needed rest.
Stephen walked with Thomas to the car in silence, the summer afternoon full of the sun and wind, of shouts from the stadium, of victory and loss.
He was about to slide into the passenger seat when he heard her voice. “Stephen?” When he turned, Corina offered him a bold wave and a “Surprise!” shrug. He squinted through the light bouncing off the many windshields.
“Corina?”
“It’s me.” She took a step in his direction.
“How did you find me?” Stephen panned the sea of cars jamming the car park.
“I heard on the news you were here, so I caught a taxi. Then when I arrived, a man in blue coveralls told me you were at the practice field. I just started walking this way, and then”�
��she pointed toward the practice field—“you came walking out. Hi, Thomas.”
“Afternoon, Corina.” Thomas leaned on his door, smiling, shooting Stephen a look. One he preferred not to interpret.
“You caught a taxi from America?” Stephen said, trying to make merry, ease the tension between them. Well, the tension gripping his chest at least.
She pulled a face. “Very funny. I flew over yesterday. The King’s Office sent Gigi an invitation to the King Stephen I premier, and she felt I was the only one suitable to take her place.”
“You flew all the way over for the premier?”
“And to interview Clive Boston.”
“Clive?” The image of Corina sitting down with flirty, womanizing Clive sparked a green flame of jealousy. “I thought he avoided the press.”
“Apparently he’s agreed to an exclusive with the Beaumont Post. Shows how far he’s fallen.”
“Ha! More likely he heard you’d do the interview and he can’t resist a beautiful face.”
But did he blame Clive? Look at her, with those amber eyes and raven hair. She was stunning. And for the time being, his wife. Stephen fidgeted. This emotional trip was not one he should be taking. She was his wife on paper only and free to do what she wanted. “Congratulations on the interview.”
“I’m half convinced he’ll stand me up, but we’ll see.” She remained in the same spot, staring at him without wavering.
Stephen leaned against the car, arms folded, his left ankle propped on his right. “So it was you, wasn’t it? The tweet?”
“I couldn’t resist.” Her smile faded. “But I see you were quick to deny me.”
“No, I said you weren’t my date. What did you expect? For me to reveal the full monty? ‘Yes, Hyacinth, I know Corina very well.’ ” He arched his brow. “If you know what I mean.”
“Har, har, but you could’ve said we were friends.”
“To what end? It’d only put them onto us. Corina, we’ve annulment papers on the table. We can get through this with no scandal, no hounding paparazzi or media. With no disgrace to either one of us. Speaking of which, I think you should just go forward and sign them.” There, that was rather princely, commanding. Getting the job done. Little Leslie had inspired him.
“Oh really?” She stepped closer, bringing her fragrances, her aura with her. “Well I think you should go forward and give me the details on Carlos that I want. So do you have any news?”
Stephen pushed away from the car, fired with frustration. “We cannot keep going round this mountain. You know what I know.”
“Are you saying you know nothing? Because that’s what I know.”
“You keep beating this dead horse, love. There’s nothing more to tell. He died a hero.”
“I’ll be here for about a week, in case you happen across anything more specific.”
“I won’t, but good to know.” He folded his arms, staring at her, slapping bricks around his feeble, toppling heart.
“So, you really have a date for the premier?”
“Yes.”
“No.” This from Thomas. Traitor.
“Ah, I see.” Corina adjusted the strap of her bag as well as her stance. “Thomas, are you free that evening?” she said. “I’m in need of an escort.”
Stephen stiffened. What? She could not attend the premier with Thomas. They’d make a terrible couple.
“I’m honored, miss, but I’m the date of His Highness.”
“So you don’t have a date-date?” She leaned toward Stephen. “Just Thomas?”
“I’ve a date.”
“Really?” This from Thomas again, who walked round the car to join Corina. “Who? Don’t say your mum.”
“Why not? She’s a great patron of the cinema.” He flipped his hand toward Corina, then leveled his gaze on her. “And a Clive Boston fan.”
“Okay, Sir Blue Eyes,” Corina said. “Don’t get your knickers in a wad.”
Sir Blue Eyes. The nickname slammed him like a defender and smacked his heart to the pitch, and he desired what he hadn’t had in over five and a half years. Intimacy. Corina.
But with using the strength of every internal force, Stephen closed the cracking door of his inner soul. He could never be with her. A life of hiding the truth from the woman who had shared his bed crushed his sense of worth and reason. But if he told her, she’d never want a life with him. She’d hate him. And he’d deserve every negative emotion she could muster.
To him, there was no solution. There was only the canyon between them with no way across or around.
Distraction. He needed a distraction. Change the topic. “How did you say you found me again?”
She pointed to the southwest corner of the car park. “A man in blue work coveralls.”
Stephen shot Thomas a visual query. “Does any of the crew wear blue? I thought all the uniforms were green.”
“They are. I’ll check into it.” Thomas ducked into the car for his phone, dialing, walking off, leaving Stephen to face Corina alone.
Her yellow summer dress and pale orange clogs accented her olive-brown skin. She was lovely, and when the breeze laced a wisp of her dark hair across her eyes, he ached to touch her.
“You’re here,” he said from the depth of his soul, his voice low and intimate.
“I am.” She didn’t soften or step back. She held her ground with confidence. “Last time I was here at the stadium, you told me we were over. Why did Afghanistan mess you up so much, Stephen? Or was it me? Did you realize something you couldn’t love about me?”
No, no. She was entirely lovable. “I was rather jacked up after Afghanistan. It wasn’t you.”
“Isn’t that what they always say? ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’ Which is generally never true. It’s always the you in that scenario.”
“They? Who is they?”
“You know, they? People.”
He patted his chest, laughing low. “Well not this people. Look, it was and is all about my last days in Torkham. Nothing to do with you.” Well, not in the manner of finding her unlovely or undesirable.
Until his ankle injury and Nathaniel bringing round that silly marriage certificate, Stephen knew who he was and where he was going. Now his world felt inside out and upside down. Nothing made sense. He craved things he’d checked off on his life’s list.
“Your flight? It went well?” He found casual conversation less painful.
“Yes, the new first-class seats are marvelous. Still, they couldn’t prevent the man sitting behind me, with the worst breath, from leaning around and breathing on me.”
“He was hitting on you.” Lucky bloke.
“No, I think he—”
“Please, Corina, darling, have you looked in a mirror lately?”
“Yes, and I see the same face I’ve always seen. I see Carlos’s eyes. We looked nothing alike of course except we had the same eyes.” She exhaled, folding her arms. “I want him back, you know.” She raised her gaze to his. “But he’s not coming back. I miss him.”
“I–I know you do.” Because Stephen missed him too. Along with Bird and the rest of the lads who died that day. “Corina, I’ll see what I can do.”
“That’s all I ask.” She smiled, and it was worth the price of his promise. He’d talk to Nathaniel. See what tidbit the Defense Ministry would allow him to tell.
“You’re at The Wellington then?”
“No, they lost my reservation.”
“Did you demand a room anyway? You are Corina Del Rey.”
“Ha, very funny. And yes, I actually tried that, but the clerk said they were all booked this weekend.”
“Then where are you?”
“At this little inn. The Manor. Tucked in between Gliden and Martings.”
“The Manor?”
“I’d never heard of it.”
“At Market and Crescent?” Stephen stepped toward her, a blip of concern for her safety.
“Please tell me you’ve heard of it. The proprietors are sw
eet and kind but very odd. I wanted to hightail out of there in the worst way, but I don’t know, I felt safe. Peaceful.”
“Corina, there’s nothing between Gliden and Martings. The Manor, at least the one I’m thinking of, was torn down centuries ago.”
“Well, maybe this is a different Manor.”
“Granted, I don’t know every inn and hostel in the city, but I know that intersection well. Some of the boys and I used to play rugby Sunday afternoons in Maritime Park. Across the avenue. They barely squeezed an alley between Gliden and Martings, let alone an inn.”
“Well, not today. I’m telling you, that’s where I’m staying.”
He didn’t like this. Not one bit. “Corina, I’m going to have Thomas check this out. Something is amiss.”
“Stephen, it’s fine.” She moved from her spot, closer to the car. “As odd as it seems.”
From her bag, her phone rang. “Excuse me.” Corina pulled her gaze away from his. “Hello?” She turned her back to Stephen.
He waited, watching, swimming through the cold waters of his soul. This was his chance. Persuade her to sign the annulment documents. Charm her. Be kind to her. Give her some detail about Carlos. Once she signed the papers, he’d be free. By fall he’d be back on the pitch. Life would return to a normal routine.
She hung up and spun round. “That was your brother.”
“Nathaniel?” Stephen frowned. “What did he want?”
“To invite me to dinner tomorrow night. He’s sending a car for me.”
“Dinner?” Nathaniel, you clod. Inviting Corina to family dinner. As if she were his brother’s . . . wife. “How did he know you were in the city?”
“Your sister-in-law saw my tweet on the Madeline & Hyacinth Live! show. She called my office.”
“That Susanna, clever girl.”
“I accepted the invitation.”
“You do so at your own risk. You do realize Mum never held hope for me marrying. She might fall at your feet or something.” Where was he going with this? Mum would fall at his feet once she met Corina properly and beg him to tear up the annulment papers. But Mum only knew snippets of the events in Afghanistan. That her son was wounded in a blast and men died. She didn’t know Corina’s brother had been one of them.
