The Royal Wedding Collection

by Rachel Hauck

  Melissa returned to her desk while Corina packed the last of her things. She’d not been at the Post long enough to acquire much. When she finished, she started through the bull pen toward Gigi’s office, her flip-flops smacking.

  “May I have a word?” Corina said, peeking inside the door, finding Gigi and Mark in a head-to-head convo.

  Gigi jumped, startled. “Goodness, I didn’t hear you come in.”

  Mark stood, papers in hand. “Corina, welcome back. How was Brighton? We were just talking about when to run your piece on Clive. Maybe before the American premier. Your article on the Brighton premier was excellent.”

  “Gigi this is my last minute working for you and Beaumont Media.” Corina got right to it. “I’ll write the interview with Clive from home and have it to you by Friday. However, the rights will remain mine. I’ll be offering the story, with additional pieces of Clive’s life, to other news outlets by next week. So if you want a scoop, which apparently is very important to you, you’d better run his story in this coming Sunday Post.”

  “Mark, will you excuse us?” Gigi said, her glance on Corina, steely and unwavering.

  Mark leaned toward Corina as he passed. “I didn’t know anything about this.”

  “I’m not suing if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “Oh, thank heaven.” The door clicking behind Mark sounded like a sigh of relief.

  “He’s a peach, isn’t he?” Corina said, arms folded, facing Gigi. “How’d you find out?”

  “You know I can’t reveal my sources.”

  “So the source keeps his or her privacy while mine and Prince Stephen’s get splashed all over the front page, stirring up the entire Brighton Kingdom?”

  “The question is why did I have to get it from a source when you sat not thirty feet from me for the last six months?”

  “It was none of your business, Gigi.”

  “What? We’re family.”

  “No we’re not. Family wouldn’t do to me what you did. Besides, my parents didn’t even know. They found out in your paper”

  “Now that is not my business. That is yours.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “You can’t ask me that, Corina. Is it not true?”

  “It was true.”

  “Then I’m sorry, but when the Prince of Brighton marries, in secret, it is my business. It’s the world’s business. It’s what I do.” She smoothed the palm of her hand over a new addition to her office. A marble pelican. “I’m lawyered up, in case you’re wondering.”

  “I told you, I’m not suing. I don’t need your money. Why didn’t you tell me the paper was floundering?”

  Corina caught the edge of Gigi’s surprise on her expression. “How did you find out?”

  “You know I can’t reveal my sources, Gigi.”

  “Ah, touché. Your father?”

  “I’m leaving now, but I want to say thank you for giving me this job, for bringing me out of my fog. But I do not thank you for running that story. You wonder why I didn’t tell you? Why didn’t you have the decency to talk to me?”

  “Turn my back on the scoop of the decade?”

  “Good luck with everything, Gigi.” Corina reached for the door. “And you might want to check with your infamous source. The Prince of Brighton is no longer married.”

  Hoisting the printer-paper box on her hip as she exited the elevator for her penthouse condo, Corina felt a swirl of sadness and excitement.

  Old life passing away, a new life ahead of her. She was pressing on. On the ride down U.S. 1 for home, she had a hankering to talk to Adelaide, reclining in her comforting wisdom.

  In the lobby, Captain was on duty and came around his desk to greet her. “A delivery came for you while you were out. I escorted the courier up to your apartment. It was a rather large box and I didn’t want to leave it down here.”

  “A large box?” Stephen. He sent her the Pissarro. “A wooden crate? Perhaps containing something like a painting?”

  Captain thought a moment. “It was wooden. Square. I suppose it could’ve contained a painting.” Captain popped a smile. “Did you purchase a painting, Miss Del Rey?”

  “Yes, but not for me.” Really, did he despise their time so much he didn’t even want the Pissarro? “Thank you, Captain.”

  “Anytime, Miss Del Rey.” He touched his hand to the brim of his hat. “Is it true? What the paper said? You’re a princess?”

  Corina pushed the elevator button, clinging to her dignity, not willing to break down in the lobby in front of Captain. “No, I’m most definitely not a princess.”

  The doors pinged open and she almost longed for the slither of remembrance that used to cross her soul when she heard that sound. That she had a secret. That she’d caught a prince. That she’d been wildly in love.

  The elevator arrived and she stepped in, pushing the 9th floor button. Her prince did not want her, nor her gifts.

  She fell against the side of the car and let her tears go. Now that their secret had been exposed to the world, she’d lost her connection with him, how the slightest ringing, tinging sounds took her back to their love. If he truly returned the painting, then that was the end. They’d have nothing left between them.

  She’d not intended to cling or manipulate. Only to bless him. And yes, perhaps, remind him. But . . .

  Oh Lord, loving well is so very, very hard.

  “There you are, Corina.” Neighbor Mrs. Putman scooted down the corridor in her robe and slippers as Corina stepped off the elevator.

  It was five in the afternoon, but Mrs. Putman often wore her bed clothes for days. The widow of a former Harris Corp executive, she spent her mornings drinking coffee and reading, her afternoons watching the Soap Network. “A very large package was delivered for you.”

  “So I heard. Captain told me.” Corina adjusted the printer box on her hip as she unlocked her door.

  “A crate of some kind. The kind used for expensive things.” She crossed arms and raised her delicate chin. “Did you buy yourself something expensive?”

  “No, I didn’t buy myself anything expensive.”

  “Someone did. Perhaps . . .” Mrs. Putman leaned toward her. “Your prince?”

  Corina laughed. What else could she do? Besides, the woman made such a comical face. “Mrs. Putman, I do not have a prince. I’m not a princess and my life is not a soap opera script. I’m just a regular, ordinary, run-of-the-mill American heiress.”

  “But the story in the Post said you’d married a prince. In secret!”

  “We’re not married.”

  “It was a lie?” Her eyes narrowed in skepticism.

  “Let’s just say it’s not true.” Corina crossed over her threshold, dropping the printer-paper box to the floor. Mrs. Putman peered inside, her nose raised, scanning the foyer for the box.

  Corina eased the door closed. “Have a good evening, Mrs. Putman.”

  “Not so fast.” The woman pressed her hand to the door. “I want to know what’s in that box.”

  “As do I.” Corina leaned on the door, inching the woman further into the corridor.

  “You let me know when you open it. My husband sent me a box like that once and it contained a lovely portrait of our daughter.”

  “What a very special gift. I’ll be sure to let you know what it is.” The woman was like a dog with a bone.

  “Why can’t I watch you open the crate?”

  Corina sighed. She felt for Mrs. Putman. Widowed and alone, her children scattered across the country, busy with their own lives. “Tell you what, come for tea tomorrow at ten. You can see what’s in the crate.”

  “Tomorrow at ten?” The woman pinched her expression. “Won’t you be at work?”

  “No, I won’t. I resigned. Tomorrow at ten?”

  “Yes, t–that would be lovely.” Mrs. Putman’s glossy eyes reflected the truth. She was lonely. And she was grateful.

  When the door was shut, Corina faced the box leaning against the fo
yer wall. It was a painting crate all right. A bit deeper than she’d have thought, but no doubt, Stephen had shipped her the Pissarro.

  How he managed to get it to her so quickly was a feat for princes and kings.

  Worse, why’d he returned it. Her tears surfaced again. Did she want the Pissarro? All those memories hanging on her wall instead of her heart?

  Digging the hammer out of the kitchen junk drawer, Corina laid the box on the floor, questions pounding her heart. Did she want to open it? Was she fortified enough to fall into the imagery and sensation of the Rue du Roi?

  Whispering a prayer, she aimed the hammer, prying open the lid. If nothing else, the Pissarro would remind her of the night atop the Braithwaite when she caught the heart of a prince.

  She’d regale her grandchildren with her story.

  When the lid lifted free, Corina anchored it against the foyer wall. She expected to find a mound of bubble wrap but instead found layers of packing and tissue paper.

  Kneeling beside the crate to discover what lay beneath, she gasped when the white sheen and feathery beauty of the Luciano Diamatia emerged.

  “Oh, Mama.” Corina lifted the gown from the crate, new tears rising. A pink envelope dropped to the floor by her feet. Reaching for it, Corina found a simple note inside.

  Corina, please forgive me. Your loving mama.

  A laugh bubbled over Corina’s tears as she hurried to her room, Diamatia’s voice, with all of his inflections—rolling r’s and slurred s’s—paraded across Corina’s mind.

  At their first meeting, the renowned designer walked around her, musing aloud.

  I see a swan. A glorious swan!

  Standing in front of her bedroom mirror, Corina held the gown against her, aching to try it on.

  Please fit, please fit.

  Mourning and grieving wreaked havoc on a girl’s body.

  Corina spread the gown across her bed, found her phone in her purse, and dialed home. Ida Mae answered with a curt, “I’ll get your mama.” Bless sweet ole Ida Mae.

  “So you received the gown?” Mama said with more emotion in her voice than Corina had heard in years. She drank from her tone as if she pulled a cup of water from a deep well.

  “Thank you so much, Mama. But what made you go after it?”

  “The story, in the Sunday Post . . . about you and the prince.”

  “Oh, I see.” How to tell her the marriage was annulled? “Mama—”

  “Your father told me the rest of the story. I’m sorry, Corina. I truly am. Nevertheless, when I read the article I realized what a lovely, capable woman you are and how lucky any man would be to have you as his wife. Especially Prince Stephen. So, I hunted down the dress and hired a special courier to deliver it to you. Besides, you were right, it wasn’t mine to give away.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” Corina stood at her bedroom window, the subtle hues of the fading sun soaking the June evening, a sense of enrichment swelling in her.

  “Say you’ll wear it. And soon.”

  “I married Stephen in that dress.”

  Mama was silent for a moment. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to see it.”

  “I’m sorry you weren’t there, too, Mama.”

  “But I’m sure it was all terribly romantic.”

  “Terribly.”

  “I’m trying, Corina, I sincerely am.” Mama’s long sigh brushed Corina’s heart. “Be patient with me.”

  “Always, Mama. Always.”

  They said good-bye, and Corina fell back on her bed, lying next to the gown, exhausted and exhilarated.

  Thank you, Lord. Thank you. Being loved well felt rather grand.

  Corina soaked in his presence, feeling his descent the moment she raised the dress from the crate. She didn’t always understand the invisible brushes against her arms or the gentle taps against her forehead that made her blink, but they were him. Her God. Breaking in and reminding her he was there, watching and waiting.

  If one wanted to love well, learn from the Master. Corina understood that life was a journey and if she’d trust him, Jesus would carve out her way through the wilderness. Be her light in the dark.

  Tears streamed down her temples, gathering in her ears. She was a rich princess tonight. Not because of Daddy or Prince Stephen.

  But because Jesus was her King.

  After a moment, a gurgle of joy blipped across her spirit. Corina sat up, wiped her eyes, and brushed her hand over the gown.

  “Let’s see if you still fit.” She shimmied from her shorts and T-shirt and with a trembling inhale, stepped into the silk and glory of the gown.

  Raising the gown over her hips, and fitting the skirt just below her waist, she smiled. It fit. As perfectly as the day Luciano delivered it. The strapless bodice clung to her with satin tenderness and the flowing, feathery skirt flared out from her hips, floating, like a swan on a pond of sunlight that pooled on the bedroom floor. The hem just kissed the tips of her toes.

  Oh, oh, oh, so very glorious!

  Corina turned in a small circle, arms wide, her heart exploding in her chest, freedom firing through her. She’d shed her grave clothes. Gone from death to life.

  She was so grateful to the pain of her journey that brought her to this moment in God.

  I want to love you well, love you well . . .

  When the doorbell chimed, she jumped, hand over her pulsing heart, her healing moment with God interrupted. Who could that be? She didn’t want to leave this place of peace and promise.

  Corina leaned out her bedroom door. “Hello?” She waited, listening. “Mrs. Putman? I’ll see you tomorrow at ten.” She waited another moment. “Okay?”

  The doorbell chimed again. With a bit of attitude this time. Oh for crying out loud. Corina started across the hardwood, her bare feet thudding. a flash image of her lonely neighbor crossing her mind.

  Well, there was no reason they couldn’t have tea tonight. Corina was a bit overdressed . . . She laughed as she reached for the door. She in a rare designer gown, Mrs. Putman in her robe and slippers.

  “Ta-da!” Corina swung the door open. “What do you think—” But it wasn’t nosey ole Mrs. Putman waiting in the corridor. “Stephen.” Her legs buckled with hot, surging adrenaline. “W–what are you doing here?” Her Stephen. Was on her doorstep. His countenance as bright as a full moon.

  Without a word, his gaze fixed on her, he crossed the threshold, scooping her into his arms, kicking the door shut behind him. “I’ve missed you.” His warm, sweet breath brushed her cheek.

  Corina shivered and fell into him, her hand resting on his chest as she drank in his presence. “W–what are you doing, Stephen?”

  “I came for you.” The mischievous glint in his eye beamed ten times brighter than she remembered. She couldn’t look away. “You said something to me that I didn’t respond to properly. I want to do that now, Corina.”

  Tightening his embrace, he cupped his right hand along the curve of her neck, brushing her shoulder with his firm, warm hand. His eyes searched hers.

  Fire coursed through her. “What? Stephen, please . . . What are you doing here?”

  He bent toward her, his lips whispering past hers with a barely there kiss. Corina moaned and melted into his thundering heart. “I just wanted to tell you—” He swallowed hard to catch his next breath. “To tell you that I, um . . .” He brushed her lips again, a half kiss that drove her past her final fears.

  She gripped his shoulders, holding on, losing herself in the power of his persuasion. She didn’t need to know why he was here, just that she was in his arms and the power of his passion spoke for his heart. She responded in kind. Raising on tiptoe, she pressed her lips to his, finishing what he’d started.

  I love you, Stephen!

  He answered, hungry and eager, falling against the foyer wall, bringing her with him.

  When he raised his head for a breath, his blue eyes like the summer sky, his smile brighter than the night stars, he brushed his hand over her hair. She th
ought he might speak, but he drew a breath and kissed her again with the pleasure of a man satisfied.

  The skirt of her dress swayed, brushing the tops of her toes with delight.

  The kiss thawed into a hug, Stephen cradling his face against her. “I love you, Corina.” His baritone confession was luxurious. “I love you so much.”

  Corina tipped her head back to see his face, brushing her hands over his delicious hair because she’d been aching to do it since he came back into her life. He was hers. All hers. “What happened to you Prince Stephen of Brighton?”

  “You happened to me. I have so much to tell you. Let’s start with this,” he walked through the foyer, pointing to his left ankle. “Healed. Miraculously. Haven’t worn the boot in two days.”

  “You’re healed?”

  “Miraculously.”

  Corina leaned in for another kiss because she could, because she was thirsty for him again. Would she ever fill up?

  “I went to see Archbishop Caldwell and—”

  “And you came to God?” Corina’s heart jumped at the prospect of Stephen being God’s man. All the way. Emptied of his pain and bitterness.

  “No,” he said, kissing her hand. “He came to me.”

  “How? And why did you go to see Archbishop Caldwell?”

  “To ask him why he married us that night.”

  “And what did he say?”

  Stephen chuckled. “I’m not really sure, love, but I found myself on the floor, weeping, repenting, being washed and healed inside and out. My ankle stopped hurting, and all the locks on my heart opened. I fixed to fly here as soon as I could.” There in the foyer, he bent to one knee, pulling a ring from his pocket. “Marry me. Please. Again.”

  A sputter of joy tickled her lips as she knelt in front of him, as he slipped the diamond and platinum ring on her finger. She regarded him for a moment, then kissed him with the kisses of grace and peace. “Yes, I’ll marry you again. And again. The ring is beautiful, Stephen.”

  “A jeweler friend of Nathaniel’s opened his shop yesterday for me. I wanted to ask you more properly this time. And I wanted a ring that was just yours and mine.” Stephen walked her into the living room, falling into the recliner, pulling her along with him.