“Whom I’ve not seen in five years.” Stephen returned to his stool at the island, picking up a puff, then dropping it back on the plate.
“I didn’t realize marriages had statutes of limitations on physicallyseeingsomeone. Unless, of course, she’s passed on. Has she? Died?”
“Don’t be morbid. And it’s rude because you know what happened to her twin brother.” Stephen paced again, his adrenaline spiked, making it impossible to sit still. “And don’t talk down to me.”
“You’re right. I apologize. I’m just put out by this business. I’m not sure where to land. Stephen, what were you thinking? You willingly risked the Brighton throne? This marriage was entirely illegal six years ago. A royal in line to the throne was forbidden to marry a foreigner. What if something had happened to me?” The steam of anger curled Nathaniel’s words. “You are second in line.”
“Please, I was the one shipping off to war. You, the crown prince, were not allowed to go.”
“I could’ve slipped and fallen in the bathtub, hit my head.”
“You cannot be serious.” Stephen accented his mocking laugh with a sardonic edge.
“No, I guess not.” Nathaniel noticed his tea for the first time and took a sip. He made a face. “It’s cold.”
“I’ll freshen the pot—”
“Leave it be, Stephen.” Nathaniel perched on his stool. “Tell me, what happened? Why the secrecy? What was the plan when you returned—”
“I don’t know, Nathaniel. You with your twenty questions. All right, I was in love.” Stephen fell against the kitchen’s counter, crossing his booted foot over his healthy one, a dull ache gripping his ankle. “It was the night of the Military Ball. Corina and I had gone to the top of the Braithwaite Tower. No one was there—it was just the two of us. We were looking out over the Rue du Roi, surrounded by the lights of the city, and in that moment life was perfect. It was nine o’clock. The cathedral bells had just started to chime.”
The wind swept along the avenue, bringing with it the fragrance of the River Conour. Stephen anchored his hands on the upper railing of the Braithwaite, capturing Corina between his arms.
Her hair brushed against his cheek, and he felt as if he were drowning in the pleasure of her.
Turning her to him, he delicately traced his finger along the curve of her jaw, then raised her chin and touched his lips to hers. So soft, so sweet. It awakened a deeper, more powerful hunger. Stepping back, he knew what had been whispering in his heart for the last few months was real.
He loved her. He wanted to marry her. But he was shipping out in four weeks for a six-month tour in Torkham with his RAC flight.
Behind him, beside him, before him, the synchronized cathedral bells began to ring out.
One, two, three . . .
Then she said it first. The words his heart burst to share. “I love you, Stephen. You are my prince.” Her light laugh wound around his heart.
Four, five, six . . .
Then he knew what he wanted more than anything. He didn’t think or hesitate, because he knew what was right. Dropping to one knee, he gazed into her hazel eyes with the flecks of gold.
Seven, eight . . .
“Marry me, Corina Del Rey, because I love you so very much.”
Nine.
“What? Marry you?” Her voice resounded in the silence. The June air swept around them, scented with honeysuckle.
“Yes, tonight. We can catch the ferry to Hessenberg.”
“Hessenberg? But why? How? Brighton law forbids you marrying a foreigner.” Her voice quivered as she exposed the truth.
“But yet, here you are in my arms.”
“I love you and I don’t understand the law, but Stephen, I won’t be responsible for toppling any part of the House of Stratton.”
“Indeed not. I am capable of that all on my own. Darling, I’m going to war in thirty days’ time. If that is not a threat to the House of Stratton, I don’t know what is. Certainly not a prince marrying the woman who has captured his heart. So marry me. Please. The archbishop there is a good bloke. I’m sure he’ll marry us.” Or at least he believed so.
“You really want to marry me?”
