A slow perspiration started across his forehead, heat sinking into his face and neck. And how did he repay her? With an abrupt end and cold silence.
“It’s odd . . . this thing between us.” In the quiet moments, his heart popped open on its own. A small thread unraveling in his carefully brocaded emotions. “Married but not married.”
“Very odd.” She leaned on her elbows and dipped her puff in her tea again.
“I’m sorry.” His clipped confession floated out on a cloud of shallow emotion. He could offer a world of apologies, but would it still be the balm her wounded heart demanded?
She sighed. “Can we just enjoy this?” She offered up her half-eaten puff. “Why spoil the evening with the conversation we’renotgoing to have?”
He smoothed his hand over his napkin. “All right. But tell me about the business of you tweeting during Madeline and Hyacinth’s show.”
She pinched her lips, but her laugh leaked through. “I don’t know . . .” Her golden-brown eyes snapped. “I felt ornery.”
“What were you trying to do? Alert the media?”
“No,” she said with a defensive air. “I wanted to alert you, then watch you proclaim the glories of your boorish rugby.”
His laugh rolled. “Boorish rugby.” He slapped his hand over his heart as if truly speared, then regarded her, awash with humility. How did she offer him such patience and kindness? It disrupted him. Knocked at his soul.
“Yes, boorish. I mean, what’s it all about? Running up and down the field in a line, tossing the ball behind you?”
“It’s about being the most superior, toughest sport in the world.”
She made a face, wrinkling her nose. “Yeah, I’m not getting that.”
He snorted, pressing his fist to his lips. “Rugby is far superior to your American football, darling.”
From across the room, Thomas spoke out. “Careful, Corina, you’re talking to one of the world’s best wingers.”
“Thank you, Thomas,” Stephen said, puffing up, anchoring his arm on the back of his chair.Indeed, one of the best.It felt good to have someone proclaim his excellence in front of his wife. Not that “wife” mattered in the long run.Don’t let loose too much, mate. She’s going back to America.
“Best winger in an inferior sport. Does that really even count?” Nonchalant, she shoved a puff in her mouth, chewed, and swallowed before going on. “Thomas, I thought of you more as an honest man, speaking the truth. Even to your prince.”
“I am, ma’am.”
Oh, now the lass was just begging for it. “Tell me how many countries play your brand of football?”
She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Over a hundred and seventeen nations play in the Rugby Union. And your American football? A dozen, perhaps?”
“See, that’s why it’s superior. It takes time, talent, training, money to play. And since when did quantity equate with quality?”
Thomas laughed. “She has you there, sir.”
“Hush, or you’ll be on palace foot patrol.”
Thomas winked at Corina and headed for the door. “I’ll just join the lads and leave you to it, Corina.”
“Stephen,” she said, leaning toward him once Thomas had gone, holding her teacup in her long, slender hands. His lips buzzed with a desire to kiss her fingers. “Have you everplayedAmerican football?”
“You mean the game with the lads under a helmet, wearing all sorts of protective gear? No. A game for the ladies.” He caught her mid-sip. She snorted and spewed a small shower of tea. “Ah, lovely. Spitting on your date.” He brushed his tux with exaggeration.
“Not my date.” She dabbed the table with her napkin. “No, you made that clear. Anyway, why do you think they wear the gear? Because—”
“They’re weak,” he said, letting the date comment slip past, choosing instead the soft ground of a sporting debate. “And I said I was sorry.”
“Weak?” She jutted out her chin with a challenging gaze. “And oh no you did not.”
