by Rachel Hauck
“Why not?” Corina said. “My grandmother used to say every little girl should play princess now and then.”
“What’s going on over here?” Actress Martina Lord peered over Laura’s shoulder.
“Martina.” Laura looped her in a hug. “I was just telling the prince and Corina that Jer refused to let me wear a tiara tonight.”
Martina’s gaze flitted to Corina. “Well, at least Corina pulls it off well.” She offered her hand. “Good to see you.” Martina played Magdalena, warrior and first queen of Brighton Kingdom.
“You know Martina as well?” Stephen asked, sounding a bit put off.
“We met in Atlanta.” Corina kissed the lean cheek of the southern-born-and-bred actress. “I can’t wait to see your portrayal of Magdalena. What an exciting character to play.”
“I hope I did her justice.” Martina reached for a drink from the passing server. “She was quite a woman, strong in battle but fierce in love.” She held up her glass, glancing around the group. “To the royal—Wait, Your Highness, Corina, you don’t have a glass. Server, pardon me.”
Corina smiled. Martina was so deliciously and boldly southern. In short order, she had champagne in Stephen’s and Corina’s hands.
“Now, my toast. To the royal family of Brighton, the House of Stratton. May you reign another four hundred and fifty years.” She bowed to Stephen. “May you find a love as true as King Stephen I did.”
Laura raised her glass. “And to Queen Magdalena for her love, beauty, strength, and perseverance.”
Corina raised her glass with a side glance at Stephen. “To the House of Stratton,” he said, sweet, low, a bit somber.
Martina waved her hand between the two of them. “We’ve established how we know each other. How do you two know each other?”
“We met at uni.” He smiled at Corina, breaking off whatever bothered him moments ago.
“Uni?” Martina made a face. “What’s a uni?”
“University,” Corina said. “I did some postgrad work at Knoxton. We were in the same course.” She wanted to slip her arm through his, kiss his cheek, and tell him everything would be all right.
“I see. The same course.” Martina gave the word a flirty tone, trying to make something naughty out of it.
“A leadership class.”
“Prince Stephen, you cad.” Clive Boston, larger than life, barged into the tête-à-tête with savoir-faire and a wild mop of blond hair.
“Clive.” Stephen shook his hand. “I hear you gave a stellar portrayal of my ancestor.”
“Of course I did. It was the role of a lifetime.” His brown gaze skimmed past his costars and landed on Corina. “Corina! There you are. I hear you’ve been hunting me down.”
“With a sawed-off, double barrel.”
Clive laughed, too loud. Too much. “Clever girl. I like clever girls.”
“Are we still on for tomorrow?”
“For you, gorgeous, anything. Is that tomorrow?” By his exhale, she could tell he’d been drinking. By his slur, she could tell he’d been drinking a lot. Clive squeezed past Stephen, roping his arm around her. “Why have we not been in touch more?”
“Her brother died, you cad,” Laura said. “She’s been mourning.”
“Easy there, Laura, I’m just asking.” Clive cut a dark glance at Corina. “Wasn’t that some time ago? I remember hearing it on the news.”
“Five and a half years.” She shrank back from the actor’s close encounter and created her own space.
“I’m terribly, terribly sorry, Corina. I’d love to talk about it.”
“Oh my word.” Martina rolled her eyes. “Clive, you’re such a lousy flirt. And stop drinking like a fish. What are you, twenty?”
“Martina, don’t be jealous.” Clive chucked Corina under her chin. “True beauty moves me. I can’t help it.”
“Then move out of the way, chap.” Stephen clapped his hand on Clive’s shoulder, removing him from the inside of the circle. “Give the woman air to breathe.”
“Your Highness, if I didn’t know better, I’d accuse you of being jealous.”
“Not at all, but you’re drunk and rude.” Stephen mimed tipping back a drink, implying Clive was sauced.
“Begging your pardon, I am not drunk. Well, maybe a wee bit.” He held up his thumb and forefinger, giving Corina a sly smile. “I told you, true beauty moves me.”
“Yeah, and it moved you all over the set with the extras,” Laura said.
“What’s this?” Clive pressed his hands to his chest, feigning hurt. “My friends ganging up on me, ruining my chances with this amazing woman?”
Corina raised her hands. “Clive, your reputation is safe with me. Now, where do you want to meet? I’m free all day.”
“Two o’clock. The Strand Cafe. I’ve been dying for one of their sandwiches.”
“Perfect. I’ll see you then.” The Strand was on the other side of Maritime Park, not far from the Manor. Just a quick taxi ride.
The theatre staff was making rounds, whispering to the cast in a low tone, gathering them to the other side of the lobby, and Corina found herself alone with Stephen.
First thing out of his mouth. “Be careful with Clive.”
“I’m well aware of Clive’s ways. The question is why do you care?”
Stephen set his untouched champagne on a passing tray. “Just because we’re going our own ways doesn’t mean I want you to end up with a bloke like Clive.”
“I suppose it’s none of your business, but thank you.”
“We are friends, aren’t we?”
“So you say.” She passed her champagne flute to one of the servers. “We meant too much to one another to be otherwise.”
A photographer passed by, snapping their picture before either could protest.
“Your Highness?” A man in a tuxedo cut through the crowd, bowing when he stopped in front of Stephen. “Welcome to the Royal Theatre. Your box is ready.” He motioned for Stephen to go through, closing in behind him without the slightest glance at Corina.
Before she could maneuver in behind the prince, the protection wall cut her off again.
Corina exhaled. Okay, just follow the usher inside. Stephen’s dark head rose well above the others, so she could follow him to his box.
But at that moment, the theatre lights flickered and the entire throng waiting in the lobby shoved toward the doors, filling the wide, carpeted stairs. She lost sight of Stephen and had no idea which set of stairs, behind which doors, led to the royal box.
Hanging back, Corina waited for the other guests, movie watchers, and her fellow media members to fill the theatre. Then she stood just inside the main doors, searching the balcony and the second tier and grand boxes for sight of her royal man.
“Miss, you must have a pass to get in.” One of the ushers gently tugged on her arm. “The film is about to start. I need you to remove yourself.”
“I’m here with the Beaumont Post to cover this premier.” She opened her clutch. “I have the invitation right—” No, no, no, she’d left it in her room. The tiara business got her all flustered.
“Unless you can produce press credentials or an invitation, I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.”
“I can’t leave. I came with the prince. I’m Corina Del Rey.” One of those names had to pull some weight with this kid.
“The prince is seated with his party in the royal box. If you don’t leave, I’ll have to call security.”
“I’m his party.” She fumed at him and jerked her arm from his grasp. “Okay, I’ll go, but if you’ll just talk to the prince, he’ll tell you—”
He laughed. “I am not to disturb the prince for every crazy who claims she’s with him.”
“Look,” Corina said, pointing to her head, “I have a tiara.”
Then he appeared. “Corina.” Stephen leaned over the ornate, carved banister. “This way.”
“What took you so long?” Corina freed herself from the usher and started up the
stairs.
“Begging your pardon, Your Highness. I didn’t know.”
“I tried to tell you,” Corina said over her shoulder and down the banister.
But the usher was gone, ducking through a set of double doors.
“I thought you were right behind me,” Stephen said.
“I got shut out. Again. Can you please talk to Thomas?”
“When I arrived at the royal box, I had to stand for a reception line. He was watching the entrance.”
“Never mind. We’re here now.”
When they were ensconced in their seats, she faced the screen, feeling ridiculous. Perhaps it was time to reckon with the raw truth. He wasn’t going to change. He wasn’t going to sweep her off her feet again, declaring his love. He didn’t want their marriage restored. He wanted to move on. Without her.
She was never going to truly be the wife of Prince Stephen.
EIGHTEEN
He lost sight of her during the movie’s after party. She was cool toward him when he caught up to her after the showing. But rightfully so. He’d left her behind, and for the life of him, he couldn’t reckon with his rude actions.
After all, he did invite her to the premier. But suddenly she felt all too close, too real, and the memories of her soft skin beneath his and the flame of her kisses nearly distracted him from the opening scene where King Stephen I and his men rose from the southern bay like sea monsters, surprising King Henry VIII’s army as they slept on the beach.
As the film credits rolled and the audience rose to their feet with abandoned applause, the theatre spotlight swung to his box and Corina stepped into the shadows.
He walked with her to the after party, but he was swarmed as they entered the room, and she was gone.
Stephen perused the food table, choosing a smoked salmon on toast point hors d’oeuvre.
Impulse. That was his superpower. What he did well. When he hesitated or overthought something, people got hurt. Joy became sorrow. Peace became war. Friends became enemies.
So tonight, when Corina suddenly appeared to be the perfect wife for him—comfortable in his world, acquainted with the likes of Laura Gonda and Martina Lord, and charming the “wow” out of Clive the cad—he panicked. Moved away from her because his impulses stirred.
Marry me. Again.
So Stephen created distance between them. He didn’t blame her for being upset. Finishing his hors d’oeuvre, Stephen moved through the crowd, greeting guests, who prattled on about how “it was such a fabulous film.”
But he was ready to go. This wasn’t his scene. Despite his rugged, rugby-man reputation, any and all exploits with wine, women, and song were merely unchallenged legend.
Why disappoint people with the truth? The Prince of Brighton was a homebody. A wounded, unworthy man.
He’d tried numbing his pain with drink after his tour but quickly discovered he had to choose. Be drunk or be disciplined.
Modern rugby demanded he stay fit and on top of his game, mentally and physically. Drinking made him the opposite. Rugby turned out to be his only true salvation.
Just over his shoulder, he saw Corina working through the crowd, the people responding to her. She looked divine under her sparkling tiara. Bravo for defying royal protocol.
“Sir?” Thomas tucked in next to him. “It’s nearly midnight.”
“I’m ready to go.” After midnight, the music changed dramatically, and previously well-mannered citizens with a sense of decency lost their minds, and maybe a piece of their souls, with raucous music, strong drink, and backroom antics. “Let’s collect Corina.”
“She’d said she’d take a taxi.” Thomas shouldered his way through the crowd, making room for Stephen, nodding to the protection officers waiting by the door.
“Not again.” Stephen stepped faster. He’d just seen her, so she couldn’t be too far.
“The limousine is coming round,” Thomas said.
Through the doors and into the clear cool night, illumined with roaming spotlights, Stephen slammed into the wall of tenacious paparazzi.
“Prince Stephen, this way. What did you think of the film?”
He quickened his gait. “Quite splendid.” Where’d you get off to, Corina? “For a moment, I almost called Clive Boston ‘Granddad.’ ”
The laughter slipstreamed along the night air.
“Your Highness, where’s your lady friend?” A photographer ducked under the media rope and ran alongside him. “Corina Del Rey, if I’m not mistaken. Are you two an item?”
“No, we’re not.” Clear enough? But the truth of the matter gnawed at him. They were an item. A couple. Man and wife. Why couldn’t he just say it? Be free of it? But we’re getting an annulment.
Because then the “why” questions would come.
Thomas intercepted the photographer, urging him to move on, just as Stephen spotted Corina at the taxi stand, her hand raised, hailing a cab.
Breaking away from the protection detail, his tightly wrapped ankle tired and burning, he limped toward her.
“Stephen, where are you going?” Thomas’s voice barreled after him.
“For a stroll.” Stephen linked his arm through Corina’s and, without a word, moved her away from the curb and into the shadows of the giant spotlights. “You were going to leave without saying good-bye.” At the curb, Stephen checked the motion of the traffic, then dashed across the thoroughfare as headlights from the oncoming lane sped toward them.
“Gee, Thelma, what’s your hurry?” Corina pulled away from him but kept up with his stride.
“I’m in the mood for some puffs.”
“Puffs? At this hour.”
“Puffs are grand at any hour.”
Thomas appeared off Stephen’s right shoulder, relaying commands through the com tucked into his jacket sleeve. “Bring the limo round. Heading east on Bakery Row.”
“Home of the best bakery and eateries in all of Europe.”
“Thomas, how could you box me out? I thought you of all people—”
“Sorry miss, my duty is to the prince. When we’re in large crowds—”
“Blame me. Not Thomas.” Stephen slowed as they stepped up onto the sidewalk, into a triangle streetlamp glow. “Is it too late to apologize?”
“For what?” She sighed, glancing away. But he caught the soft sheen in her eyes. “I’m starting to think you’re right. We should’ve never happened.”
“I’m sorry, Corina. I just don’t want a lot of prying questions. What do you say? A box of Brighton’s best pastry? A cup of hot sweet tea with thick cream?” He loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar, pointing to the lights of the old Franklin Bakery. “We came here on our first date, remember? You had your first taste of puffs.” They’d gone to dinner with friends. His mate Harry had leaned over during the first course and said in no small whisper, “Marry her. And I’m not kidding. Find a way.”
She drew up, slowing her step. “They weren’t my first puffs. I vacationed here as a kid. Please tell me you’ve forgotten the stories of—”
“Yes, your maid, Ida Mae, trying to converse with the locals.”
Corina laughed low, a melody that lingered with him longer than the movie’s dynamic score. At least in this moment. “She’d come in from the shops. ‘I declare, Horatia, but I think I got yet another weddin’ proposal.’ ”
“Because grocer colloquialism said, ‘If ya make me a spry dish with what here I’m selling ya, I’ll make ye my bride.’ ”
“Which meant, ‘I’ll give you the best house deal next time you come into the shop.’ ”
Their laughs blended with the sound of the night, the scuff of their heels. Corina stopped, leaned on his shoulder, and popped off her shoes. “Ah, finally. They were killing me.”
“Thomas!” Stephen snapped with a flare. “Carry milady’s shoes to the motor car.”
“Oh good grief, I’m not going to ask the man to carry my shoes.”
Thomas held up his hand. “I don’t mind at all.”
Corina dropped the spike-heeled shoes to his palm. “Then thank you very much.”
With a light press of his hand on her back, Stephen urged her forward. “That night we dined at—”
“Ten Bluedon Street.”
“Precisely. Then we went for puffs.”
“Franklin’s has the best in the city, so much so they never close,” he said, leaning to see around her sheen of hair. “Come on, I mean, you’ve spent the better part of the night with me.”
“Yes, and I’m starting to be concerned for my reputation.”
He laughed. He liked who he was around her. Relaxed, himself, unaware of his princely stature. But yet, didn’t she make him want to be all he could be as a royal?
“So, a walk to Franklin’s for a box of puffs?”
“I don’t know . . .” She chewed on her bottom lip in contemplation, and he thought he might just slip her into his arms and taste her lips.
“Tell you what . . .” He retrieved his mobile. “I’ll ring your brother. Ask his permission.” He dialed as she laughed. “Carlos, chap, this is Stephen. Yes . . . your sister . . . doing splendid. We’re debating going for a box of puffs . . . at Franklin’s . . .” He glanced at her in the ambient light of 10 Bluedon Street and his heart slipped a little over love’s edge. “Might I have your blessing to coax her along? All right, sounds like a fair offer. A box of puffs, chocolate, for the brother.”
“Carlos, you’re a rotten big brother.” She held up her finger and mouthed “by one minute.”
“He says a man has to eat.”
“I miss him,” she said, chewing on her bottom lip, like that night so long ago.
Her soft confession speared his heart. Clearing his throat, he walked round her. “Puffs it is, then.” What was he doing? Let her go. Be done with it. Did he think he could dance around the truth forever? That he’d not impulsively spill it all?
No matter how he sliced it, Corina Del Rey came attached to her brother, and alive or dead, he would always be a part of their relationship.