The Royal Wedding Collection

by Rachel Hauck

  “Fine, I tweeted. He was a friend of my brother’s. We used to argue rugby versus football.”

  “So he just happened to call, inviting you to the movie premier with him? Is that why you decided to go to Brighton?”

  “No. He didn’t invite me until after I arrived Really, Gigi, you’re making way too much out of this.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that, thank you.”

  Corina changed the subject. “You’ll be glad to know my interview with Clive is at two today. He’s really looking forward to it.”

  “He’s looking forward to flirting with a beautiful woman who just happened to be the date of Prince Stephen.”

  “We’re just friends.”

  “Fine, but tell me, is he as delicious as he looks?”

  Positively. Corina cleared her voice of all romantic intonations. “He’s okay.”

  “Well, then don’t succumb to Clive’s charms, Corina.”

  “Why not?” That’ll get her off Corina’s scent. “He is yummy, and he’s rich—”

  “So are you.”

  “Gorgeous. Charming.”

  “Is there a point? You cannot convince me you are remotely interested in a two-bit, blockbuster, thriller actor when you have Prince Stephen on the hook.”

  “Gigi, I do not, repeat, do not have Prince Stephen on the hook. He’s an acquaintance. If you print anything about us—”

  “Darling girl, you best pick up the morning papers in your part of the world, because ‘us’ has already been printed.”

  Hanging up, Corina tossed her phone into the mound of ruffled bedcovers and opened her laptop, hands shaking.

  One by one, she brought up Brighton’s papers. She and Stephen made the front banner of the LibP.

  AT LAST A PRINCESS FOR OUR PRINCE?

  Were they serious? One puny outing and they speculated marriage? She surfed over to the Sun Tattler.

  SHE COMES WITH HER OWN TIARA

  “Who writes this stuff?”

  The Informant posted the most salacious headline.

  FINALLY! THE PRINCE HAS A LOVER

  “A lovely image of you, Corina.”

  Corina swung around to find Adelaide bent over her shoulder. “You scared me.”

  “Sorry, sweets, your door was unlocked. Yes, you and the prince make a loverly couple.” She leaned closer to inspect Corina’s Mac. “Aren’t those newfangled computers something?”

  “They’re something, all right.” But Adelaide’s sweet voice comforted Corina’s ruffled soul. “What was I thinking going to the premier with him? What was he thinking? I should’ve just gone on my own. And without that blasted tiara. Look, it just raised everyone’s suspicions.”

  “’Tis not easy to love well, dear one.” Adelaide’s honeyed, granny gaze bloomed into a beacon, steady and strong. “You can play it safe if you choose, but it’s the brave, those who face their fears, who tame the world, who win the day. Walk on waves.” She started straightening the bed covers, shrinking back into sweet innocence.

  “Where did you hear ‘love well’?” Corina got up and tripped alongside her. “And where are the other guests? Am I the only one?”

  Adelaide tugged on the damask bellpull. “Brill will bring your breakfast.” She smoothed the quilt and plumped the pillows. “Yes, you are the only guest.”

  “This is the only room?”

  “If there’s only one guest, there is need for only one room.”

  “Adelaide, do you know the lady in white who sent me here?”

  “She was to help you find your way. You are never alone. We are the keepers. The watchers.” To the window, Adelaide shoved the curtains the full way open and straightened the window seat pillows.

  “Keepers of . . .”

  Brill, the old bear, appeared in the room with a tray of tea, eggs, bacon, and toasted muffins. It smelled divine.

  “Set it there, Brill.” Adelaide pointed to the table beside the chaise lounge. “She’s a busy day ahead.”

  “Does she now?” The old man winked at Corina with a nod toward Adelaide. “Don’t mind her. She can be a bit bossy.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with me ears. I can hear you.” Adelaide brushed her hand over the desk and lamp, then inspected her hand for the nonexistent dust. “Corina, if you spend time fretting over what was, you’ll lose passion for what is meant to be, to see what God has written on your heart. You’ll walk limp, like the prince, and never arrive at your position of authority. Hear me?”

  How did she switch from demure to commanding in less than a breath? “I hear you.”

  “The path to life and love is pressing forward to what lies ahead. Not dwelling on what lies behind. That tiara is a sign to you. Accept it or deny it, but do not fret about it.”

  “Don’t you see, the past is my future? If I don’t reckon with it, how can I go forward?”

  “He called you to walk the waves and you stepped out. Don’t stare limpid-eyed at the shore, now.” Steel. Each word, like a sword, trimming the fat of Corina’s bravado.

  “And if I fail?”

  “You fight. You win the day. Just like King Stephen I and Queen Magdalena. And because of their love, they loved others. Well.”

  Corina laughed, sinking down to her bed. “But I’m not the only one involved here, Adelaide. What about Stephen?”

  Adelaide stood by the door, one step from leaving. “This isn’t about two but one. You. Your heart.”

  “But I can’t love him if he doesn’t love me.”

  “Think on it. Love is vast, rich, textured. If you limit yourself to only romantic love, you will never love well.”

  “You mean love as friends?” The notion settled disappointment on Corina. She wanted to be more than friends with Stephen. Truth was, she couldn’t imagine life without him.

  “This is your journey.” Adelaide returned to the interior of the room, her eyes a portal of power and fire. “I’m only here to help you see.” Then she was gone.

  Corina brushed the chill from her arms as a light rain splattered against the window and her spirit churned.

  She prayed for a long moment before settling down to her breakfast. Sipping her tea, she thought of Stephen. And her crazy journey.

  What was he doing this cozy, rainy morning? Was he thinking of her? It rained every day the first week of their marriage, and they used the time well, cuddled up with the intentions of young lovers.

  Corina finished her breakfast, thinking, praying. Then put aside her musings, gathered herself, wrote and filed her premier piece, then prepared for an afternoon with the incomparable Clive Boston.

  The rain had stopped by the time she arrived at the café a few minutes before two and stepped out of a taxi, the wind catching up the full pleats and thick hem of her red-and-gold sundress.

  Clive wolf-called from just under the café awning. “Gorgeous legs, darling,” he said.

  Corina grimaced, holding down her skirt, letting the ends of her ponytail flutter across her face as she adjusted the strap of her messenger bag. Ignore him.

  “How does it feel?” she said, air kissing his cheek. “To be the star of another hit movie?”

  His blue eyes traced the rim of her scoop neckline. “I’d rather talk about how a grown man wearing makeup and playing pretend gets to spend his afternoon with a beautiful American heiress.” His plastic smile and Hollywood white teeth hid things Corina could not quite discern.

  “For this afternoon, I’m a plain ole journalist.” She scanned the tables under the awning, then moved to see inside the café. Moderate-sized crowd inside and out. “Do you want to go inside or sit out here?”

  “I’ve a table all picked out.” Clive tipped his head toward a cozy spot on the far side of the café, near the street but obscured by a lush array of foliage.

  Corina followed him, weaving through the tables. The few guests sitting outside, with their heads bent together in conversation, seemed unaware of the star power among them.

  Clive whistled at a
waiter, motioning for him to come over. “What’ll it be, love?” Clive said, leaning into her, holding out a wrought iron and mosaic tile chair, his breath too warm and too close.

  She leaned away, her attention on the waiter. “Latte, skim milk.”

  He turned to the young man who’d answered his beckoning. “She’ll have a latte with skim milk. I’ll have English Breakfast tea with cream, thank you, my good chap.” Clive, he flirted with everyone.

  “Right away, sir. You’re Clive Boston, aren’t you?”

  Clive sighed. “This again? No, dear lad, I’m his cousin. The more handsome cousin, but what am I to do?” He grimaced and sat in the chair opposite Corina. The waiter started to say something, then turned for the café door, shaking his head.

  “You’re bad,” Corina said.

  “Just having a bit of fun. Corina, you are more beautiful today than you were last night. That dress is amazing on you.” Clive twisted sideways in his chair and draped his arm over the back, breaking out his big cinema charm.

  He was too much. Really. Ignore him. Corina retrieved her iPad as well as a pen and paper. She’d record the interview but take notes on things that stood out to her—the atmosphere, key statements, Clive’s outfit.

  Dressed for the street, he looked more like a New England blue blood from Yale than a British-Italian actor who grew up in London’s East End.

  His khakis were crisp and pressed, his pale blue Polo, lightly starched. He wore loafers with no socks. And his rogue dark hair waved freely.

  He was a commitment phobic, skittish about domestic life, trading out his women every few years, each one younger than the last.

  Corina launched a recording app, then tapped the screen to open her questions. “I’ve been thinking all morning about how to approach this interview and—”

  “What’s the story between you and the prince?” Clive drew a cigarette from the crumpled packet he retrieved from his pants pocket and touched the end with a lighter flame. He squinted through a slither of smoke, invoking his trademark, smoldering expression.

  “We’re friends. The End.”

  “Very clever. Love, I know when a man is marking his territory, and if we’d been outdoors in the wild kingdom last night, the prince would have pummeled me.”

  “We’re just friends.” She smiled. Okay? Are you done? “I read some of the reviews of the film this morning while writing my own, and I loved what the Liberty Press said.” She read from the iPad screen. “ ‘Boston transcended his pop-icon image to become one of Europe’s most—”

  “ ‘Heroic heroes.’ Yes, love, I read the papers too. What are they teaching film critics today? Heroic heroes? What sort of drivel is that? Can a hero be unheroic?” He arched his brow, anticipating her response.

  “I suppose. If the hero is merely the protagonist. He can want to be heroic but end up failing. King Stephen I faced his fears and the insurmountable odds to defeat Henry VIII and win Brighton. He never backed down.” Corina propped her arm on the table, feeling the breeze of her words. She had to be as brave as the old king to love well. “His mission was so clear to him and nothing else seemed to matter. Not even his own life.”

  “Did I portray all of that in the film?”

  Clive appeared surprised at his own question.

  Corina smiled. “I think so, yes.”

  “Bravo me. I should get an Oscar nod. To be honest, I thought I was a bit too Scott Hunter.” Clive took a long draw from his cigarette.

  “Maybe.” She laughed. “A little.”

  Clive tapped the ashes from his cigarette. “I read up about you too, Corina Del Rey. I’m sorry about your brother. Is that the dark rainbow I see in your eyes?”

  The waiter arrived with Corina’s latte and Clive’s tea.

  “Yes, my brother had the courage of King Stephen I, I think,” Corina said, staring briefly through the leaves toward the busy side street. “But he died doing what he believed in. Fighting for freedom.”

  “Were you close?” Clive anchored his cigarette on an ashtray stand next to his chair and dropped a dollop of cream from a small silver pitcher into his tea.

  She peeled the lid from her latte, letting the hot liquid cool. “Of course. Very. We were twins.”

  “So the rumors are true. The incredibly wealthy, aristocratic Del Reys are a true, close-knit family.”

  Were. Not true any longer. “How is it,” she said, tapping a bit of sweetener into her latte, “that you keep taking over this interview, asking all the questions?”

  “Because you are interesting. I’m a bore.”

  “Not to your fans. Clive, you’ve been ‘radio-silent’ for a decade. Come on, let’s talk about you, this film, and why you are finally sitting for an interview.”

  “You know what I find interesting? You say you were friends with Prince Stephen at uni, yet I’ve never seen you with him. How did you two manage to avoid the press? You’re too tempting, love. Too gorgeous to leave alone.” Clive drummed his fingers on the table, the thin tendrils of cigarette smoke twisting upward. “Then some years pass and, wham-o, you’re on his arm for a very public, very royal, movie premier.”

  Corina tossed down her pen. “So? It happens. Friends reconnect.”

  “It’s just curious. Stephen is rather close to the chest when it comes to women.”

  “Can I quote you?” The air under the awning was warm but pleasant and the sounds of city life—engines, horns, and voices—gave the place and Clive a casual feel. “Clive Boston keeps track of Prince Stephen’s love life.”

  The actor scoffed, watching her over the edge of his teacup. “Quote whatever you like. My questions have a single purpose. I don’t want him angry with me if I ask his girlfriend to dinner.” He set down his cup, reached for his cigarette, and blew a stream of smoke upward, scenting the dew with menthol.

  “Tell you what . . .”, she said. “Let me conduct this interview and we’ll see about dinner.”

  Clive grinned. “You have yourself a deal.”

  Technically, she couldn’t call dinner with Clive a date. She was married. And last night her husband had kissed her. But dinner with Clive might be enjoyable—if she stressed they were only going as friends. When Clive let loose and forgot himself, he was funny and genuine good company.

  “The film . . .” Corina sipped her latte as she scanned her notes. “You told the Times of London that you’d never do another period film. ‘Too exhausting,’ you said.”

  “Excuse me,” a young woman said as she moved in and hovered over their table. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but . . . Clive Boston.” She exhaled all over them. “I’ve seen every one of your movies.”

  “Thank you, love.” He smiled as if she might be his one and only. “Where are you from?”

  “Ohio. Can I please take your picture?” She batted her lashes and cooed. Yeah, cooed. Corina paused the recording and crossed her arms, waiting, puttying her impatience with grace. She’d never interrupt a conversation for a picture with a celebrity. But then she had grown up with the Clive Bostons of the world dining at her father’s table.

  “Picture? But of course. What’s your name?” He set down his tea. “How about a selfie? Corina, love, come round. Get in the shot.”

  “I think she’d prefer just you, Clive.”

  The girl, who said her name was Brooke, hovered next to Clive and held up her phone to snap the selfie. Then he signed a wadded-up receipt she dug out of her bag and offered her several flattering compliments. She blushed, thanked him, then hurried off with a dance and a squeal.

  He narrowed his gaze at Corina, taking up his tea. “Got to keep them happy.”

  “You’re a softy.” She started the recording again.

  “Shh . . .don’t tell.”

  “So why did you do this period movie?”

  “I liked King Stephen I. Brave chap.”

  “That’s it? You liked the guy so you changed your policy?”

  “I read Aaron’s script. It spoke to me.
And of course, I never miss a chance to work with Jeremiah Gonda. Guess you could say all of the pieces were there.”

  “How’d you prepare for the role? King Stephen I lived five hundred years ago. How does one go from jetting around the world watching movies on devices that fit in the palm of your hand to being a warrior with only a sword and a gaggle of determined men?”

  Clive sipped his tea, then took a long, crackling drag from his cigarette. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you? I had that sense from the photo where the two of you were walking off together. Toward restaurant alley.”

  Corina stopped the recording and reached down for her messenger bag. “If you don’t want to do the interview—”

  “Corina, love, don’t be this way. What’s the fun of a one-sided interview?”

  “Our deal was dinner if you let me interview you. Not you interviewing me.”

  “Sorry, darling, I thought you’d ask more interesting questions. ‘How did you prepare for the role?’ The idiots from the LibP ask those sorts of things.”

  “What sort of questions do you want to answer?” She folded her arms, waiting, mentally composing her opening sentence. Clive Boston is a scoundrel.

  “Like why a man with an IQ of one fifty and a degree in astrophysics craved the stage? The limelight?”

  He had an IQ of one fifty? “Why does a man with a high IQ crave the stage?”

  “Because he wants to be loved. Approved. Applauded.”

  “Doesn’t everyone? At some level? So why acting? Why not the world of science?”

  Clive raised his tea for a drink but set it back down before taking a sip. “Because it’s fun to pretend. To be someone else.” He stared at her. “Don’t you think?”

  “Why does my relationship with Stephen interest you so much?”

  “He’s the Prince of Brighton. Love is hard to come by for princes. King Stephen I certainly worked to win his queen. Built that manor for her. Defied his council over her.”

  “Love is hard to come by for most people. True love, anyway. So is that why you’re an actor? To find true love?”

  He laughed. “Good grief, no. If anything, the stage, along with the acclaim, is an actor’s only true love. Besides, what one lacks in love one can make up in riches. The pay is fabulous.”