“Very funny. My brother, the comic. Inside. Look at the contents inside.” Nathaniel angled forward, flicking the edge of the envelope. “I’ve not said a word to Mum about this because it would crush her.”
In his thirty-one years, he’d crushed his mum many times. But as a young man. Not since his university days. At least not to his knowledge. He’d worked hard to erase his reputation as the screw-up prince. The one who had tried but failed.
“Crush her? What are you talking about?” Dread iced over Stephen as the paper inside slipped into his hand. He swore softly under his breath. “Where did this come from?”
“So it’s true?”
Stephen stared at the gilded certificate with the embossed calligraphy letters. “Sort of. Not really. I mean, yes, we went to Hessenberg, and . . . Where did you get this?”
Memories, feelings, a longing he thought he’d divorced sauntered through him.
“Archbishop Burkhardt had it sent to me by special courier. He’s most concerned.” Miles Burkhardt was the most recent leader of the Church in the Grand Duchy of Hessenberg, Brighton’s North Sea sister island nation. “He came across the certificate in his office, found it in some secret compartment Archbishop Caldwell never mentioned to him. He was sorting things out for a remodel and there it was, presenting itself.”
“Then don’t worry about it.” Stephen returned the certificate to the envelope, his head reminding his heart this wasno big deal.“I never filed with the Court. It’s not legal. And we ended things when I came back from my tour.”
“Ended?” Nathaniel’s furrowed brow irritated Stephen. Did he not understand? “How did it end?”
“I don’t know.” But oh, he did.Liar.“She went her way and I went mine.” He’d reasoned this out so many times to convince himself he did the right thing. To convince himself he didn’t care. Either way, it had to end. So he ended it.
“Stephen,” Nathaniel said, rising and snatching the envelope, “you’re married.”
“No, I’m not. I never filed with the Court.”
“Did you file an annulment with the Church then? Because according to this . . .” Nathaniel waved the marriage certificate like it was some kind of you-messed-up-again banner. “You’re still married.”
“Annulment? How could I? No one knew. You said so yourself . . . This thing,” Stephen flicked the edge of the envelope, “was tucked away in some secret compartment. The marriage was never official.”
“Are you so daft? A marriage performed by an archbishop is automatically on file with the Church. That’s as good as the Court, if not more so.”
“But Archbishop Caldwell never filed it.” Were they to continue this circular argument? It was so clear to Stephen. He was not married. He returned from Afghanistan with a mission to play professional rugby and end his relationship with his wife.
“Are you so naive? You are a member of the royal family. If this certificate says you married Corina Del Rey”—Nathaniel pulled out and examined the certificate—“on three June, six years ago, then you are married, little brother.”
“Impossible.” Stephen paced around the island, thinking, his thoughts colliding with his palpitating emotions. “I’ve not even seen her since—”
“That doesn’t change this signed and sealed certificate. You are married before God and the Church. Unless you petitioned for disillusion. Did you?”
“No!” He cut the air with a wide sweep of his arm. “It was a secret. The archbishop promised to hold the certificate until I came for it.”
“Well, he proved to be trustworthy. Unfortunately, he didn’t pass the word along to Archbishop Burkhardt. Didn’t Caldwell tell you this certificate marries you whether you file with the Court or not?”
No. Maybe. Yes. Stephen scooped his fingers through his hair, leaving his locks to stand on end. Impetuous. It had been a spur-of-the-moment,impetuousdecision. They were in love. He was about to deploy. They had four weeks to be man and wife before he left. They’d keep their secret for the six months he was away, then tell his family and hers, and finally, the world.
He was good at impetuous, on-his-feet thinking. It was when he hesitated that things went wrong. Like that day in Torkham. Like that day on the pitch during 7 Nations, when he hesitated on his sidestep around an England Lions defender.
“Did you love her?”
“I suppose . . . yes.”
Nathaniel exhaled and ran his hand over his hair. “You married an American heiress and told no one?” Fire flamed in his eyes. His nostrils flared. Stephen resented his tone.
“Yes, I married her. What of it?” He snatched the envelope back from his brother. He might be his brother and king, but he was not his father, his conscience, or his God. “As I recall, you liked her.”
“Where is she now?” Nathaniel glanced about the kitchen with exaggeration, hands on his belt. “I see no photographs. No mementos. No evidence she was ever in your life.”
“Because the relationship is over. As for where she is, I don’t know. The States, I assume. With her family. She went home after her brother died.” He wanted to resent his brother for bringing this to light. “Look, we’ll just tear it up and forget about it. No harm, no foul.”
“The archbishop, rightly so, made a copy. And we can’t just tear up a marriage certificate, Stephen. Corina is not your pet. She’s your wife.”
