by Rachel Hauck
She scribbled a note. Research Clive’s academic life. “So money is better than true love?”
“No, but it’s a nice consolation prize.”
“We have money. Lots of it. But not one red cent of the Del Rey fortune can bring back my brother.” Nor purchase her true love’s heart. “I can’t even buy the details of his death.”
“I’m sorry, Corina. I must sound like an insensitive clod.”
“Don’t apologize. You were just being honest. I’m the one snapping.” Their eyes met for a moment on the level plane of understanding. “So, you have an IQ of one fifty?”
“According to the test. If you can believe those things.” The tone of his voice drifted, sounding more like an everyday man than an arrogant actor.
“And a degree in astrophysics?”
“Says the diploma in the bottom of my bureau drawer.” Clive jerked when his phone buzzed from his coat pocket. “Pardon me, Corina.” Walking toward the street, he talked in a low tone.
Alone, Corina hunted for the image Clive mentioned on her iPad, starting with the Liberty Press. She searched the inside pages, but instead of finding the photo, she found an update. A press release from the King’s Office.
Tuesday, 15 June
12:00 p.m.
The King’s Office responded to our request for information on the Prince of Brighton’s date from last night.
“The Prince of Brighton is not romantically involved with the woman who attended the King Stephen I premier with him. Corina Del Rey, an American heiress and an entertainment reporter with the Beaumont Post, is merely an acquaintance.
The prince is focused on his ankle rehabilitation, eager to return to rugby for the Premiership. “Romance is not important to me right now,” the prince said.
The Prince of Brighton will be in attendance for the Children’s Literacy Foundation Art Auction tonight at the Galaxy.
Corina shivered despite the respite in rain and the sun peeking under the awning. Acquaintance. She’d been demoted from lover to friend to acquaintance.
Dismissing her at the premier was one thing. But issuing a statement?
Clive returned and sat down, his eyes on her. “Everything all right, love? Why so serious?”
Corina popped a smile, exchanging the LibP page for her recording app. “Peachy. And you? Hope the call was good news.”
“Just a friend,” Clive said. “Wanting a favor. Asking if I’d attend the Children’s Literacy Foundation Art Auction this evening. I said, ‘Why not?’ Guess we can do dinner another night. Say, Corina,”—Clive covered her hand with his—“are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes.” She exhaled. “As my granny used to say, ‘I’m right as rain.’ ”
TWENTY
Foot elevated on the stool, his skin blue from drowning his ankle in a bucket of ice, Stephen scrolled through his mental diary, making note of the days ahead, a swath of sun blanketing his office windows.
The light thawed his cold bones though a hardened lacquer baked around his heart. He’d spent the ice session numbing his feelings for Corina.
Last night’s kiss left him jammed up, and tossing and turning through the night. Just as he’d drift away, he’d hear her voice—“Babe . . .”—and feel her touch. Then he’d pop wide awake, wanting her.
At 3:00 a.m., he remanded himself to the media room and watched the film of the summer internationals sent over by Coach Stuart.
Around 5:00 a.m., he fell asleep and dreamt of nothing. Just the way he liked it.
“Sir?” Robert popped into the room. “Teatime.”
“Good man.” Stephen lowered his foot and massaged the blood back into his toes. His ankle always felt strong after the ice. But when his blood warmed, the weaknesses surfaced and his limp returned.
Robert trolleyed in the tea cart, setting up by the chairs. “You’re all arranged for the art auction tonight, sir. The limousine will pull round at seven forty-five. Shall you dress at seven fifteen?”
“That’s fine.” Stephen popped a chocolate biscuit in his mouth. He expected the butler-valet-aide to exit, but when he turned, the man stood by the door. “What is it?”
“Your brother is on his way.”
“Now? Did he say why?”
“No, only asked if you were on the premises.” Robert backed out of the room.
Wonder what he wants? He couldn’t be upset at the morning photos. He was on board with Stephen attending the premier with Corina. Which, when Stephen thought on it, was rather odd.
“Get her to sign the annulment papers,” he’d said. Whilst his actions said, “Be with her.”
Stephen was glad the kiss happened after midnight, in the shadows, without the probing eye of the press. Impulse could indeed be his very good friend. He’d not kissed a woman in a very long time. Five and a half years to be exact. When Corina kissed him good-bye.
“I’ll go.” Tears streamed down her face. “But I don’t understand.”
Silence. If he opened his mouth, he’d break. Tell her the truth. He had to remove her from his life.
“Tell me, do you not love me?”
“Corina . . .” He propped against the wall as she stood by the open door. Otherwise, he’d sink to the floor in a huddled mess.
“Then can you at least kiss me?” She brushed her hand over his chest, moving into him. Passion fired through him.
When her lips touched his, he remained stiff and unyielding. Cold.
Stephen pinched the memory and sipped his tea, searching for the telly remote. Wonder what Madeline and Hyacinth have to say this afternoon? The telly was already tuned to their station.
“Madeline,” Hyacinth said, aiming the front page of the LibP at the camera, “this was all the scuttlebutt this morning, the prince with this gorgeous American, Corina Del Rey.”
“Who tweeted our show Friday afternoon, yet he sat right here, denying anything between them.”
“Hold on, Mads. That’s the beauty of broadcasting live.” Hyacinth held up a blue piece of paper. “The King’s Office released a statement this afternoon, confirming Prince Stephen is not romantically linked with Corina Del Rey.” She sat back with a face and posture that said she didn’t believe a word of it.
“Oh, ladies, please, move on. What about your bloke Clive Boston?” Stephen talked to the TV. Talked to his heart. “Last week you couldn’t get enough of him.”
“Hy, you don’t believe it?” Madeline reached for the paper. “I mean it’s official, from the King’s Office.”
“I think they’re just trying to get us off their scent.”
“Ooh, you think there’s a scent?” Madeline leaned toward Hy, releasing the paper to float through the air. The audience applauded, agreeing.
“There’s a scent all right. And it’s wearing American perfume.”
Hyacinth and Madeline launched into a debate about their prince, the most eligible bachelor in Brighton, probably the world, and, ladies, they were losing him to an American.
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 o
f 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 u
p, 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.”
