by Rachel Hauck
Corina touched the delicate piece. “And leave it in the limo?” She gave it a light tug. Holy smokes, it was like, glued, to her head.
“The driver and the car are in the palace’s employ. The tiara will be fine in here.”
She ran her finger along the headband, trying to lift the piece from her hair. “I’m a Del Rey. No one should be surprised if a multimillionaire’s daughter wears a tiara.” The band didn’t slip or lift from her head. “Stephen, I couldn’t get it off even if I wanted.”
“What?”
“It’s stuck.”
“How can it be stuck?” Stephen pinched the top with his finger and thumb, giving a light pull.
“Ouch.” She shoved Stephen’s hand away as his door opened. “Never mind.”
Thomas got out first, addressing the security team already on site. “The prince will exit the motor first . . .”
“Thomas was right. It looks good on you.” Stephen’s blue eyes searched hers for a moment. Was he going to say something? Bring up the last time he carried her again? On the night they were married. “Remember, if anyone asks, we’re merely old friends.” He slid to the edge of the seat and stepped into the blaze of camera flashes and choir of voices.
“Naturally,” she said to his back. “What did you think I would say?”
Corina followed him out, emerging into the electric excitement of the media and the fans, blinded by the camera flashes.
“Prince Stephen, over here.”
“Your Royal Highness, what do you think of a movie about your ancestors?”
“Sir, will you be back on the pitch this fall?”
“You, miss, over here. How do you know the prince?”
Corina looked toward the sound of the voice and a flash exploded in her face.
“Are you Corina Del Rey?”
“Corina, come,” Thomas said, shoving the crowd aside for Corina.
Once she cleared the initial stand of photographers, he cut ahead to be with Stephen, and the crowd wanting access to the prince swarmed and pushed her aside.
Darn it. She elbowed her way back in, charging forward to the white press line where Stephen had stopped to talk to reporters.
“I’m looking forward to the film. Jeremiah Gonda is one of my favorite directors. And who doesn’t love an Aaron Heinly script?”
“Do you think the film will accurately portray King Stephen I?”
“It’s a movie, lads. Let’s not make too much of it.” The remark sparked a hearty laugh. “But yes, I think it will capture the heart of our liberator, a warrior and king. Would Clive Boston play any other kind of character? He’s always the swashbuckling hero.”
Corina jammed her shoulder against a wide-bodied photographer and shot him her Miss Georgia pearly whites. “Pardon me.”
Still, she couldn’t make her way to Stephen. He was barricaded by three protection officers. Thomas roamed, checking the crowd. When he saw her, he smiled, giving her a slight nod.
“Prince Stephen, is that your date behind you? Corina Del Rey?” Deanna Robertson from the Informant. Corina knew her from her time at Knoxton. And Gigi knew her. She was probably one of her minions.
Stephen glanced back, and in that moment, his expression, the light in his eyes, deposited something in her. She was one with him. Neither time nor distance, nor the threat of annulment, could change the truth.
And he was part of her.
He held his arm out toward her. “This is Corina Del Rey, an old mate from university. She’s reporting on the premier for the Beaumont Post, but most of you are familiar with the Del Rey family. American entrepreneurs and philanthropists.”
Thomas moved her forward and into another blast of flashes and voices.
“Are you the one who tweeted on the Madeline & Hyacinth Live! show?” Deanna asked.
“Yes, I—”
“—was pulling a prank.” Stephen answered for her, chucking his arm around her shoulder, giving her a buddy-ole-pal squeeze. “We like to quarrel over the merits of that crazy American football.”
“Sounds like a lover’s quarrel.” Deanna was just digging for a bone to chew, wasn’t she? Or did Gigi have her up to something?
“Deanna, quite funny. We’re merely friends,” Stephen said.
“And football is far superior to rugby, of course,” Corina said with a slight curl to her lip.
Stephen laughed, shoving her slightly aside. “Your audacity is both foolish and brave. You speak such things on Brighton Eagles territory?”
“Speaking of rugby, Your Highness . . .”
Stephen fielded a few rugby questions, showing them his ankle without the walking boot, assuring them he’d be playing by the fall.
But Corina witnessed a fault in his confidence. And when he started for the theatre, she caught the slight hitch in his walk.
She hurried to catch up to him, but the protection detail closed in like a steel door and locked her out.
“Hey, wait for me.” But her voice only blended with the shouts and cries already peppering the theatre.
“Here you are, miss.” A tuxedoed attendant held the door for her. “Are you with the prince?”
“Technically.”
The air inside the two-hundred-year-old theatre was cool and crisp, the atmosphere vibrant with music, voices, and clinking glasses.
The walls were propped with faux Greek columns from which carved lion heads watched over them. Corina squeezed and wove her way to Stephen, keeping a keen eye out for Clive. She was to meet him here before the film started. But the scoundrel never responded to her text today.
When she found Stephen, he was surrounded by women. She nudged him with her elbow. “What’s the big idea?”
“I don’t know, what is the big idea?”
“You just left me back there.”
“I thought you were with me.”
“Pretty hard to be when the protection detail boxes me out.” She fumed. Hurt. But not wanting to be. “Just tell them to look out for me, please.”
“Sorry, I thought Thomas was on it.” Stephen turned to his small gathering. “Corina, may I introduce the woman who plays lady-in-waiting, Gillian—”
“Laura Gonda. We know each other.” Corina leaned toward Laura, the director’s wife, and kissed her cheek.
“How are you? I was so sorry to hear about Carlos.” Laura held on to Corina’s hand. “He always made me laugh. Such a waste.”
“We miss him every day.” Beside her, Stephen stepped back, fixed on swirling the champagne in his glass but never drinking. It was this business with Carlos. Every time it came up, he changed ever so slightly.
“How do you know one another?” he said after a moment.
“Laura starred in a movie Daddy coproduced.”
“A fantastic movie and experience,” Laura said, sipping her champagne. “Love the tiara, Corina.” The actress tiptoed up for a better look. “A family heirloom? I remember your mother speaking of crown jewels from Castile, right?”
Corina made a face at Stephen. Ha! “Yes, but this one is not one of ours. It’s on loan from a friend.”
“I’m so jealous. I wanted to wear one, but Jeremiah wouldn’t let me. Something about royal protocol.” She snorted a laugh. “But really I think he’s afraid I might start to act like I’m princess because of this movie.”
“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 tru
th. 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.