How to Catch a Prince by Rachel Hauck (22)

Gigi

Her nose for news itched like a flea-bitten hound. Gigi pushed away from her desk and walked toward the window, hands on her hips, watching the river lap against the embankment.

The front page of the Informant ran a grainy image of Prince Stephen at a fund-raiser last night, and don’t you just know, Corina Del Rey stood in the background.

Something was up, yet something also lurked beneath the surface.

Not to mention her boots-on-the-ground minions were failing her left and right. Not one had any intel on Corina or the prince.

Reaching for her phone, Gigi fired off a text to Corina.

ART AUCTION? W/ PRINCE. DO TELL.

NOTHING TO TELL.

Gigi paced to the window. Twin sailboats glided down the river toward the arched causeway, cutting through shards of sunlight.

She was just going to have to be persistent. Back at her desk, she fired off an e-mail.

GB

Wednesday evening, as the sun set over the country estate, Stephen bent over the makeshift boules court.

A bit of Joplin ragtime played from under the lawn tent, where Mum and Henry reclined, holding hands in the space between their chairs, listening to music and watching the game.

A breeze chugged up from the surrounding valley, cool and sweet, fragrant with the dewy, dark earth of Brighton. Caught in the current, Corina’s long, free hair billowed behind her back as she looked on, waiting for Nathaniel and Stephen to set up the court.

The drive to Parrsons from the city this morning had been pleasant, as if they’d determined without words to just be, forgetting the difficulty between them.

But being around Corina reminded him of why he adored her. She challenged his carefully carved spaces. She made him laugh. She made him want to be more, to test his boundaries, to be the man he was meant to be.

“Okay, we’re ready,” Nathaniel said with one last inspection of the court.

Susanna stepped foward, tossing the metal boule ball in her hand. “I say girls against boys.”

“Susanna,” Corina protested with a wave of her hands, “I’m horrible at this game. I couldn’t hit that little red jack-thing if I was standing over it with a hammer.”

“I’ll take my chances.” Susanna’s expression made Stephen laugh. She was so utterly American. I’ll take those odds and win anyway.

“Susanna, really, I’m horrible.”

“Sounds fair to me.” Nathaniel kicked four balls toward Stephen. “Winners earn bragging rights. Without one word of complaint from the losers.”

“You’re on, Mr. Big Stuff.” Susanna shook on the deal, giving Nathaniel’s hand a hard squeeze. “Georgia Girls verses Brighton Boys.”

“Wasn’t there a song about that?” Stephen said, snapping his fingers, humming, laughing.

“Not yet,” Susanna tossed him a wink. “Now, move aside men. Corina and I are going to practice. Corina, sugar, all you have to do is roll the ball to the red jack there in the middle. Feel free to knock the guys’ balls to kingdom come.”

“Susanna, really.” Corina ran her palms down the side of her shorts, nervous. “I’m horrible.”

“Corina, you’re not supposed to smack talk yourself. Come on.”

Stephen strained forward with each of Corina’s boule rolls, willing the ball toward the jack. But she was right. She wasn’t very good.

“All right,” Susanna said, popping her hands together, her voice every bit like Coach Stuart’s. “You’ll get it. Let’s practice again.”

“Enough practice. Let’s play.” Nathaniel moved to the top of the playing lane.

Stephen watched his prim and proper brother, the disciplined King Nathaniel, grinning. The man was every bit as competitive as his wife. And twice as competitive as his brother. No way did he want to lose this little lawn tourney. He bowed toward his wife. “Ladies first.”

“We’ll take it.”

Stephen captured Corina’s hand as he walked past and whispered, “You can do this.”

“If you say so.” Her response was soft against his soul, her warm gaze peaceful. “But I’m not proud. I’m willing to let Susanna carry me.”

He laughed, releasing her hand, and joined his brother. Another time, in a life undisturbed by war, this game would be Brighton princes against their princesses.

She was his wife but not his princess. An honor he’d robbed from her.

“It’s ladies against the gents, I see.” Mum walked out from under the lawn tent and joined the women. At fifty-eight, she was graceful and elegant in her linen slacks, cashmere sweater, and pearls. The Queen of Brighton, having lived with Dad for over thirty years, first as he was the crown prince, then king. After his death, Stephen wasn’t sure she’d ever laugh again. But she’d found a new joy in Henry’s love.

“We’ll play one round for bragging rights. The rest for fun,” Nathaniel said. “Mum and Henry will be discrepancy judges. Henry, remember I’m your king and this close to approving your new young businessmen project.”

“Oh my word . . . blackmail?” Susanna huffed, roping an arm of solidarity around Corina. “Never mind. We’ll win anyway.”

“Susanna, please.” Corina verged on begging. “You overestimate me.”

But the game was under way and Corina was to bowl first. Stephen crouched along the side of the court. “Get as close as you can to the jack. Give it a little hook when you—”

She paused with a sigh, glancing over at him. “Will you shut up? You’re making me nervous.”

Nathaniel muffled his laugh, pressing his fist to his lip.

Stephen rocked back on his haunches. “Fine, then, show us what you got, Del Rey.”

Her roll barely made it halfway, but Susanna more than made up for it, bowling within centimeters of the jack. She would be tough to beat.

Corina cheered and slapped her partner a high five.

But Nathaniel’s roll knocked Susanna out of play. “Oh, Stratton, you are going to pay for that one.”

“Bring it, Stratton.” Nathaniel snatched Susanna for a kiss and Stephen glanced away, hiding his envy.

Stephen hadn’t easily warmed to Susanna’s American flavor—she reminded him too much of Corina and what he’d lost—but now he couldn’t imagine the family without her. He glanced round to Corina, catching her eye, smiling.

“Stephen, you’re up, little brother. Show them how it’s done.”

The competition rocked between Nathaniel, Stephen, and Susanna—who was single-handedly defeating the men. With ten balls played, two remaining, Corina crouched for her final turn, spinning the ball in her palm.

“Just like walking the runway . . . it’s a beauty pageant . . . a beauty pageant. Going to sing a song . . . easy-peasy.” She released the ball, gently, and with a slight spin.

The metal piece rolled down the lane at the perfect speed, curved around Nathaniel’s ball, and lightly kissed the jack. Then stopped.

“I did it!” Corina jumped, screaming, gaping at Susanna, who wrapped her in a celebratory hug.

“The beauty pageant queen brought her A game.”

“Love, you did it.” Stephen said, wishing he were free to sweep her up in his arms and kiss her. “I knew you could.”

She tipped her head back, arms wide. “I love boules.”

“Stephen, come on, mate. You’re up.” Nathaniel slapped his back. “We’re still in this. For all the bragging rights.”

“R–right.” But he didn’t want bragging rights. He wanted to see the expression on Corina’s face when the girls won.

As he bent to roll his ball, a comfort he’d not felt in five and a half years coursed through him. He was coming home. The rest of the way around the bend.

Corina knelt on the ground, singing. “Miss it, miss it, now you have to kiss it.”

Susanna laughed. “Oh my gosh, I’ve not heard that in years.”

“It’s the only talent I can bring to this game.”

Stephen peeked at her. Oh, he’d kiss it all right.

Mum stood with Susanna near midcourt, watching, while Henry came alongside Nathaniel, cheering. “Come on, lad. For the gents.”

“Don’t you dare go easy on her,” Nathaniel said.

“Never you fear.” Balancing on his good foot, Stephen aimed and rolled his ball with gentle perfection. If he calculated right, his roll should bump Corina’s and stop just shy of the jack.

“Come on, come on.” Nathaniel paced alongside the court with the ball. “For all the bragging rights.”

Stephen watched Corina, yelling at the ball, tussling with Nathaniel, laughing, singing at the ball, “Miss it, miss it.”

She had to win. Stephen sent his own wishes toward the boule. Come on, stop!

The air over the lawn dropped to a whisper. Motions slowed. Sounds were muted. Colors bleached.

Then it happened. Stephen’s boule stopped just shy of Corina’s. He exhaled, falling off his heels onto his back, stretching out on the grass.

Susanna and Corina erupted with shrills and shouts, launching into some sort of wild winning ritual dance—must be an American thing—that had the Queen of Brighton bumping hips with her daughter-in-law. No, her daughters-in-law.

Nathaniel stood over Stephen, offering his hand. “We gave it our best, say, little brother?”

“Absolutely, our very best.” Stephen stood, his gaze, his heart, every sense in his body fixed on Corina. He had to tell her. Everything. He was sick of hiding, fearing, living for her in his own head. If she hated him, then she hated him.

At least they’d both know the reason why.