by Rachel Hauck
“You’re kidding.” But her smile told him she loved the wager. “You must not believe in your sport very much, Stephen.”
“I believe wholeheartedly in my sport and this, shall we say, throw down.”
“Deal.” She stuck out her hand.
“Deal.” He hesitated, then took her hand in his. As he feared, her touch blew passion over his dormant fires. He didn’t want to let her go. How easy it would’ve been to pull her into him and reacquaint his lips with hers.
“Professor Reuben’s class. When you sat behind me. That was the first time we spoke.”
“As I suspected. Wrong.” He slapped his hand on the table. Dates were not typically his specialty, but he’d never forget the first time he saw her, spoke to her. He could count every day he spotted her crossing the oval, her hair floating behind her. “Off with you now to the city square.”
“Wrong? I remember expressly—”
“Do you remember the first day of fall semester? Outside the registrar’s office? You came out the door so fast you ran into someone, dropping your books.”
She gasped. “That was you?” She made a face, refusing to believe. “No, that man was . . . nice. He picked up my books, asked if I was all right. Apologized even though it was my fault.”
“Did he say something like, ‘Afternoon, miss. I’m so sorry. I seem to be in the wrong place at the wrong time these days’?”
She crossed her arms with a defiant chin raise. “What was I wearing?”
“Not fair. I’m a man, Corina. We don’t notice outfits.”
Her eyes twinkled as she leaned toward him with smug confidence. “What was I wearing?”
“A pink top. Jeans. Flip-flops.”
She froze, eyes wide. “It was you.”
Stephen popped another puff in his mouth, took a long, satisfying sip of his tea, and pushed away from the table. “Well, we’d best get on with it.”
“You never said anything.”
“Some memories are just mine to treasure.”
“I can’t believe you.”
“Crack on. Enough stalling.” He offered her his hand.
She rose slowly from the table, her eyes like blipping saucers. “You’re serious? You want me to shout in Cathedral City Square that rugby is a superior sport? I’m a woman of society. An heiress. Never mind a journalist for the noted Beaumont Post.”
“I’m the Prince of Brighton and a star winger. If the situation were reversed you’d show me no mercy. We’d best hurry.” He glanced at his thick, jeweled watch. A gift from his paternal grandfather, King Kenneth III. “It’s half past midnight. Timely for the late dinner crowd driving home past the square.” He led her to the door, threading his arm through hers. “What do you say? The roundabout? It’s a central place. Best start warming up your voice. I want this declaration loud and clear.”
“You seriously want me to shout a lie in the middle of the city square. From the roundabout.”
“No, I want you to shout the truth. It’s only a lie to you because you refuse to believe it.”
“Or . . . because it’s actually a lie. At least to me.”
“Corina, really now, warm up your voice. Me-me-me-me-me.”
“Oh, I’m warm.” She crushed her clutch bag between her hands. “My declaration will be loud. And very clear.” She snarled at him, stepping into the night. He muted his laugh. Muted the simmering stirrings of love.
“Don’t be angry, love. To the square,” he said into the night. Thomas and the security team shuffled along beside them.
“Where are we going, sir?” Thomas said. “Corina, your shoes, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Thomas.” She snatched them from him, pausing to slip them on, propping her hand against Stephen’s shoulder for balance.
“We’re off to the roundabout in the city square, Thomas,” he said, walking on when Corina was ready.
“Now? The traffic will be substantial.”
“Of which I’m most grateful.” He glanced at Corina. She was silent. A bit too silent. He could almost hear the cogs of revenge cranking in that beautiful brain of hers.
Stepping off the curb, the five of them dodged the traffic of Bakery Row toward the thick roundabout thoroughfare.
“Again, what is this all about?” Thomas, the ole mutt with a bone.
“Corina is going to declare truth.” He cut across a side street lined toward the park, ducking through the shadows of Victorian brownstones and ancient, thick-trunk trees burdened with leafy fat limbs.
“What sort of truth?” Thomas pressed his hand into Stephen and Corina’s backs, urging them across another side street and finally onto the grassy roundabout in the center of the six-lane Broadway thoroughfare. A river of headlights flowed toward them.
“Just you wait, Thomas,” Corina said. “You’ll see.”
Stephen halted midstride. Something was amiss. “What do you mean, ‘Just you wait’? Not sixty seconds ago, you were protesting.”
“You wanted a declaration of truth. A declaration of truth is what you’ll get.”
“Stephen, sir, please, we’re in the middle of the lane.” Thomas motioned for the other officers to get Corina to the roundabout.
Hurrying as quickly as he could, ignoring the twinge in his ankle—he’d pay for this tomorrow—Stephen landed on the grassy roundabout center, inhaling, deciphering the feelings flowing through him. Fun? Happiness? Joy? All of the above? He’d not felt such textures in so long. “Corina.” He focused on her. “Repeat after me, ‘Rugby is the most superior sport in the world.’ ”
“Rugby is the most superior sport in the world.” Stiff, straight-laced, and staring into the wave of white headlights moving toward them.
“Very nice, but with more meaning.”
“Rugby is the most superior sport in the world.” Corina repeated the words in a flat, meaningless tone.
“Love, listen, I won the bet. Fair and square. Don’t you agree?”
“I was set up.”
“But you made the bet. Face it, you thought you were going to win. So, please, with a bit more vim and vigor. After all, you’d demand all that from me and more. Perhaps a dance or some such.”
“Sir, is this really necessary?” Thomas positioned his team facing north and south on the circle, watching the roundabout, but he was nervous. Agitated.
“Yes, it is. Now . . .” Stephen flattened his palm against the carved marble base of the King Leopold II statue, leaning, taking the weight off of his sprained and complaining ankle. “Which way should she face?” He gazed north, then south, ignoring how the wind brushed her hair against his cheek. Nevertheless, the subtle encounter with her sent a wrecking ball against the wall of his heart.
Meanwhile, Thomas gave low commands to the limo driver through the com in his sleeve. “Pull round to the west corner of the side street. We’ll dash over when this business is done.”
“South I think,” Corina said, turning round, her hip grazing his arm. “More oncoming traffic.”
Another touch like that one and he’d be engulfed. “Well then, give it your best go.”
She inhaled and started to let go, but then glanced back at him. “You know this is ridiculous.”
“I know nothing of the sort. Quite the contrary, this is most antiridiculous. So crack on. Let’s hear it.” He folded his arms, hobbling, balancing on one foot, his heart beating in two directions.
Did he want to merely laugh at what will be her weak declaration of rugby’s superiority? Or take her in his arms and kiss her?
“This will make you feel better?” She asked, glancing at him through the threads of approaching headlights, her tiara sparkling.
“I think so, yes. But you see, it’s the matter of the bet.” He slapped his hand against the base of the statue. Like King Stephen I, King Leopold II rescued Brighton from a Russian conquest in the Great Northern War.
Stephen glanced up at the marble image of his great warrior ancestor. Another man like King Stephen I wh
o fought for Brighton’s freedom with might and courage.
“It’s late. We best get on home. Come down from there. You don’t have to do this.”
“What? Why?” Corina snatched his arm, jerking him round among the shadows. “What about the bet?”
“What do you want me to say? Yelling some trite words about rugby will truly undo the damage that’s been done between us? Why bother?”
“Because some things are worth fighting for. Stephen, since when did you give up so easily? If you want something to change about these last years,” she gripped his arms, shaking him, “do something about it. Come back to me. Let’s work this out.”
“Impossible.” He withdrew from her. “If you only knew.” He stepped off the curb, watching the traffic, Thomas aligning on his right.
“Then tell me!” She lived in a world of subtle secrets between Adelaide and Stephen. It was starting to get on her nerves.
“Corina, to the limo.” Thomas broached no room for protest.
A growl came from her, so low, so vicious, Thomas actually stopped in the middle of the thoroughfare. “I’m so sick of the secrets. So sick of the cloaked meanings and shaded answers. What in tarnation happened in Afghanistan?”
Stephen turned back toward the roundabout. “Please, let’s go.”
Arms stiff by her side, tucked against her shimmering skirt, Corina tipped back her head. “Go Georgia Bulldogs! Go Georgia Bulldogs! Go Georgia Bulldogs! G-E-O-R-G-I-A! Go Dawgs! Sic ’em! Woof, woof, woof!”
Thomas snorted, then breathed deep, swallowing his laugh.
“Corina,” Stephen hobbled back up on the roundabout, “no, no, no!” He clapped his hands, gaining her attention. “That’s what you were planning all along, weren’t you? Not ‘Rugby is the most superior sport in the world.’ ”
Still stiff, and slightly trembling, she belted again into the night. “American football is the most amazing sport in the world.” A few of the motors slowed, honking their horns.
“You do not follow directions well at all, do you?” Stephen said, which, truly, he found was one of her most endearing qualities.
She leaned into him. “Go Dawgs. Sic ’em. Woof, woof, woof.”
“Did you just woof at me?”
“Woof!”
“You’re a welsher. That’s what you are . . . a first-class welsher.”
She exhaled, pushing against him. “Me? A welsher? Look who’s talking. I think you made a promise to love, honor, and cherish—”
Impulse. The spark of his existence drove him to grip her to him, tightening his hand around her waist.
In the ghostly light of traffic, his lips captured hers, the familiar curves of her body beneath his hands. The heat of her skin soaked into every pore.
Her reaction was stiff and cold upon first touch, but after a long breath, she let the tension go and swooned against him, wrapping her hand about his neck, her lips softening, warming.
He was at once home. In the very intimate, enveloping world of her love. And he wondered if he’d be able to escape this time.
What are you doing?
He broke away, the tooting of car horns startling him into reality. Stepping back, he corralled his need to kiss her again with a big gulp of air. He felt buzzed, stunned, encountered by a true force.
“W–why did you do that?” Her breathless question came without guile.
“We best get on, Corina.” He released her and started for the limo. That force? Of a loved woman? Was one he could not combat. He’d tasted it and even the nightmares of hell were not strong enough to resist it. “It’s late.”
But resist he must.
What right had he to enjoy life, make love to his wife, rear children, holiday on the shore, while the families of the men who died for him tottered on, trying to rebuild their lives? Sons and daughters being raised without their fathers. All because of him.
No, he was not worthy of the happiness of her kiss. And that was his burden to bear.
NINETEEN
The butterflies from his kiss lingered with Corina all night, fluttering down to her toes as she dreamed. His kiss was the kiss of a man who had feelings for her. Who perhaps still loved her.
Kicking back her covers with a good Tuesday morning stretch, Corina crawled out of bed and opened the curtains. Perching on the window seat, cradling a small velvet and fringe pillow, she watched a muted dawn gently wake up Cathedral City. Adelaide was right; this was one of the greatest cities on earth.
She exhaled a contented sigh, wrapping her arms around her raised knees. His kiss . . . She’d always have that kiss.
Their honeymoon month had been filled with such kisses and the passions of young lovers—mind, body, and soul.
Stephen was her one and only. Then and now. There would be no one else for her. He’d pledged the same love and devotion to her when they danced to their own symphony atop the Braithwaite. Did he really change, fall out of love with her those silent weeks toward the end of his tour? Did the explosion hurt him that much?
Corina tossed the pillow to the seat, a slow revelation dawning. But of course . . .
He came to Florida with the annulment papers when he could’ve just mailed them with a note. Perhaps adding a phone call for propriety’s sake.
Wait, she had to think about this, process. She paced from the window to her bed and back again, her pale pink pajama bottoms sagging at her hips.
Why, why, did he refuse her? Deny his feelings? Hide the truth?
Carlos. His name seemed to be at the core of things. No matter what Stephen’s intentions when he arrived in Florida, she had set the conditions. Once she threw down the gauntlet of wanting information, it gave Stephen a way out of the annulment.
He wasn’t forthcoming about Carlos because if he gave her what she wanted, she’d sign the papers. She’d promised. So he’d withhold and they’d remain married. He must still love her. That’s why he flew to Florida. To see her and test his feelings. To test hers.
But Corina’s reasoning had weak spots. What if she’d signed right away? Then what would Stephen have done? Or what if she were remarried or engaged?
Okay, good questions. She shoved her hair away from her face. The tiara came off smoothly once she arrived at the Manor, and it waited in its box for Adelaide.
He probably already knew she wasn’t married or in a relationship. “You’re not exactly hiding.”
Corina pressed her hand over her heart, smiling. His words said annulment but his actions said, “I love you.”
A laugh bubbled in her chest. Stephen didn’t want those papers signed any more than she did.
However, proving that provided a set of complications.
For now, she’d have to trust her husband. And whatever intention the Lord of all had on his own heart when he told her to “love well.”
Corina propped one knee on the window seat and leaned against the sill. Brighton was her home away from home. Cathedral City, her city. The sapphire shores of Brighton Kingdom made a beautiful contrast to her Georgia red-clay roots.
For the rest of her time here, she’d help Stephen remember how good they were together. Their love was full of possibilities. Forget wars and disappointments, annulment papers and wounds of the heart. She had to hang on to her man, play the full four quarters, make her own goal line stance.
Corina set her hand on her hip where his rested, and she felt the heat of his touch. Though when he dropped her off last night, he was rather out of sorts and mentioned nothing of seeing her again.
Lord, are you praying for me? You have to show me the way.
Rain clouds darkened the dawn, and the first hint of a morning shower pattered against the pane as Corina loosened the corset strings of her heart and breathed in each tender emotion she held for her husband.
Her musings were interrupted by the hard ring of her phone. Gigi’s ringtone.
“Well, how was it?”
“Wonderful.” Corina lowered her phone and cleared her throat. There
was too much emotion in her voice.
“Wonderful?” Gigi echoed, hard and concrete. “Are we talking about the movie premier or something else?”
Corina ran her hand through her hair. Wake up, wake up. Focus. “Of course the movie premier. It’s late at home. Are you waiting for first editions of the European papers to be posted to the Internet?”
“You know I always do. So, you were just referencing the premier? For a moment it sounded like you were talking about a kiss.”
“A kiss? Who kissed someone?” Corina sobered. No way could Gigi know about the roundabout. “I, however, was talking about the premier. It was wonderful.” She put some of the breath back in her speech. “It was a night of movie stars, evening gowns, champagne. Clive Boston.”
“And royal princes?”
“Yes, right, of course Prince Stephen was there for the family.”
“Tell me, how’d you end up in his limousine? Wearing a tiara, no less?”
“Someone loaned it to me. You saw a picture? In which paper?”
She laughed. “All of them. Where did the tiara come from?”
“A friend of mine, from here, loaned it to me.” Corina pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. Amateur. She should’ve remembered the morning papers. She’d been away from the news game too long and become naive about the world’s digital eye. Not to mention she’d been too distracted with Stephen to remember Gigi.
“The Liberty Press claims you were his date.”
“Not exactly. We’re old friends from uni.” There, she’d clung to the party line.
“Is he the man who came to see you? That night in the parking lot?”
“Gigi, seriously, you’re still on that parking lot thing? Almost two weeks ago and in the dark of night? Please, it was nothing. Listen, it’s still early here. I just woke up. Can I call you—”
“You can run, but you can’t hide, darling.” Gigi’s snide laugh pierced every one of Corina’s love bubbles. “I know about your tweet to the Madeline & Hyacinth Live! show.”