She loved their show. They were just getting started when Corina lived here. She took a break every afternoon to watch the show. Carlos was keen on Hyacinth, meeting her once at a party, but he didn’t pursue her because he was deploying.
Dipping her bread into the soup—her taste buds were so happy—Corina was about to take a bite when Madeline announced the day’s surprise guest, “Ladies and gentleman, Prince Stephen.”
Corina choked on her bread, then burned her tongue with a gulp of hot tea.
Stephen. Her heart yearned. He looked . . . amazing. Tall, straight-backed, broad-shouldered, wearing a blue blazer and jeans. Not the baggy kind either. The kind that accented his muscled legs.
And his hair, so thick and wild, bouncing about his head, the free ends going their own way. Gelled or free, his hair made her want to bury her fingers in the dark strands.
Aiming the remote, she upped the volume, listening, laughing, furrowing at the tense look on his face when the hostesses mentioned the War Memorial.
Something bothered him about the war. Something about the event that sent him home surly and dark.
Now Madeline was introducing a Twitter game with the hashtag #howtocatchaprince.
On impulse, Corina scrambled for her phone, nearly toppling her dinner tray. She listened to them reading the tweets, laughing, shaking her head. These people had no idea.
She opened her Twitter app, hesitating. Should she? No, it was too risky. But something about being in this place made her want to break out, shine the light. Edge the tip of their secret into the light.
However, it might also tip off Madeline and Hyacinth. No one knew about their marriage. But that’s because no one went looking. Their relationship had been whirlwind and private. The Military Ball had been the first time anyone had ever seen then in public together. And they made sure the media knew the prince and the heiress were nothing more than friends.
But if she tweeted, she’d tip him off. Why not? Let him know she was lurking about. At the very least, it might motivate him to contact her. Maybe deliver the news she demanded about her brother.
She inhaled, thinking. The tweets were rolling on the screen. Some of them were quite funny. What could she say that was both innocuous and telling? Sports. They were always debating the merits of American football versus rugby.
Their first kiss was after a debate on the rugby field. He was teaching her how to pitch the ball and she kept trying to pass like a Georgia Bulldog QB.
“Now you’re just being obstinate.” He swung her up in his arms.
“No, I’m trying to show you how to really get the ball down the field.”
Their eyes met, and she slid down his body, her feet never touching the ground. He brushed one hand against her face, brushing back her hair, then lowered his lips toward hers.
Trembling so, she lost her hold on the rugby ball. It hit the ground with a thud.
“Are you going to kiss me?” Her heart churned in her chest, making her words wispy and barely audible.
“If you’d stop talking.”
When his lips touched hers, time stopped, and she was lost in the heat of his passion and the power of his arms holding her. Then his hand slid down her back and rested on the curve of her hip. She drew him closer, letting go, telling him what words would not suffice.
I’m yours, Stephen Stratton. I’m yours.
Mercy . . . The memory stirred the dim and dull swaths of Corina’s passions and her feelings for Stephen.
With a glance at the TV and a fortifying bite of Adelaide’s heavenly soup, she decided to do it. Tweet.“Tell him Americanfootball rocks rugby.”Adding the hashtag #howtocatchaprince, she hit Send.
Sitting back, she waited, pleased with herself. She’d hidden in the shadows of secrets and death long enough.
THIRTEEN
That’s the way, Leslie.” Stephen skip-hopped around the Eagles’ practice pitch with Leslie and a few of her teammates Saturday afternoon. Her Watham 2 Warriors team had won their test and advanced in the tournament. “Keep your legs moving.”
He laughed, applauding her on, feeling the thrill of her run. She ran untouched across the try line, setting the ball on the ground, celebrating with her friends as they ran after her, bringing her down to the pitch and piling on.
After the Warriors’ victory, Stephen joined their bench for a congratulations, creating quite a stir with their mums, and the lasses begged him to play.
“I can’t, loves. My ankle. But how about some of my best tips for making a try?” They screamed—something boy rugby players never did—with hearty agreement. These girls were all courage.
