Chosen: Gowns & Crowns, Book 7 Read online

  Table of Contents

  Also by Jennifer Chance in the Gowns & Crowns series

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Wedded

  About Jennifer Chance

  Chosen

  Gowns & Crowns, Book 7

  Jennifer Chance

  Copyright © 2017 by Jennifer Chance

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-943768-28-8

  Cover design by Liz Bemis, Bemis Promotions

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in encouraging piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase/Download only authorized editions.

  Also by Jennifer Chance in the Gowns & Crowns series

  ~ The First Family ~

  Courted

  Captured

  Claimed

  Crowned

  Wedded (Coming soon!)

  ~ The Saleri Sisters ~

  Cursed

  Charmed

  Chosen

  Because love conquers all.

  Chapter One

  Marguerite Saleri pasted on her best smile, then strode confidently across the sun-dappled deck of the Cypress Resort’s most exclusive brunch restaurant. Her steady gaze took in the glistening crystal stemware, the gleaming silver, and the gorgeous china laid out for Sea Haven Island’s trendiest and spendiest clientele. She most assuredly did not look anywhere close to the fern-shaded alcove at the far right of the space, where Wyndham Masters III and his ice pick of a fiancée were perched poolside.

  She didn’t have to look. She could feel the man’s gorgeousness as if he were standing next to her, the way she always did anytime he was nearby. When she’d realized Win Masters was dining in this morning, Marguerite had briefly considered faking a hernia to get out of her brunch shift. Never mind that the gossip was always the best with the late-morning tennis crowd.

  As a visiting tourist from the kingdom of Garronia, she couldn’t get paid for her internship at the posh resort. Fortunately, the back-biting, ruthless but ever so genteel chatter of the high society matrons and their beaux was payment enough, and the best training Marguerite could hope for if she wanted to work in international hospitality. Beyond that, she could learn anything new she needed to know about Charleston society in two passes through the dining room.

  “Oh, really,” the disdainfully elegant drawl of one of the matriarchs caught her attention, and she focused on the older woman, resplendent in her tennis whites and diamonds. Real estate diva Constance Gibbs was holding court with her usual gaggle of gilded doyennes, but normally she reserved this level of hauteur for tales of lookie-loos from the Midwest, the ones who came to dream about buying a home on the shore, but who weren’t prepared for the stiff price tag. “I’d hoped we’d avoid him the rest of the season. He should stay boarded up in his ugly old albatross of a home.”

  Marguerite’s brows lifted, but she knew better than to peer around the room, trying to pick out whoever had drawn the prim lady’s ire. Instead she changed trajectory, angling closer. In her role as social hostess for the Cypress Resort, she no longer had to serve tables, but the constant monitoring of their guests kept her every bit as busy.

  “Holt? I thought he’d put that house up on the market long since,” a second woman said, blotting her lips with a white linen napkin. “I’ve always felt a little sorry for him.”

  Constance pinched her mouth tightly, appearing even more put out. In truth, Marguerite had never seen her react so strongly. The real estate agent was always on the prowl for new clients, and as a result, maintained an almost preternatural expression of good cheer whenever she was at the resort. Not this morning however. “Don’t waste your pity on him,” she sniffed. “He’s spent the last fifty years mooning over his ruined estate, when it should be bulldozed and built over.”

  “You simply don’t have a sentimental bone in your body, do you?” chortled another woman, this one well into her third mimosa of the morning. “He thinks it can be saved, poor old dear. That’s why he can’t part with it. I think it’s charming.”

  “That’s because you haven’t seen it,” Constance shot back. “It’s gone to seed almost as much as he has, and it’s becoming an eyesore. He should be begging me to help him sell the old heap.”

  “Ladies, good morning,” Marguerite said brightly, breaking in on their conversation. “I see none of you have tried the peach torte this morning. That does seem a shame, as the chef was so eager to try the new recipe.”

  “Torte! For breakfast?” The genteelly outraged exclamation from the woman to Constance’s right had the propulsive force of a gunshot, but Marguerite was already waving over a server who carried samples of the dessert out from the kitchen.

  “Surely you could try a piece and let us know what you think?” she asked, noting the still-dark glances Constance was leveling at the far end of the restaurant. “Perhaps I can bring a sample to—” she made a show of turning her head casually. “Why, I don’t think I know him.”

  Constance immediately scoffed. “Don’t bother. He’s as tight as a tick.”

  “Constance!” giggled another of the women, while prim titters drifted up from behind more starched napkins.

  Marguerite took one of the plates from the server while Constance leveled a baleful glance at her. “If Dawson Holt ever actually pays for something so sweet, I declare I’ll faint,” Constance said. “Don’t say you weren’t warned.”

  “Well, hopefully this will cheer him up.” Marguerite turned away, her mood unexpectedly lighter despite the sure-to-be gloomy guest she was about to encounter. This was why she enjoyed hospitality so much after all—helping others. Not truly getting involved, of course, not in any real way, but…

  Marguerite bit her lip as she caught sight of the man that Constance had so disdained, picking him out easily from his fellow diners. He sat at the far end of the brunch patio, staring out to sea, his plate of eggs and sliced potatoes ignored before him. Something about him looked so desperately lonely that Marguerite quickened her step. Perhaps…perhaps he was someone she could help, in some way. She certainly couldn’t hurt, not when he looked so sad. She should at least—

  A dulcet, champagne-saturated voice grated across her nerves.

  “You can’t seriously have ordered that for us, Win. It’s ridiculous-looking.”

  Marguerite’s hospitality-trained reflexes took over well before her outraged lizard brain could react, and she swung to the right so sharply she thought for a split second she’d slide the peach torte off its plate and into the lap of the blonde socialite eyeing her so coldly. Win M
asters’ fiancée was everything Marguerite was not—blonde, blue-eyed and curvaceous, never mind that she was about as charming as a pitchfork.

  Marguerite usually had no self-doubts about her own looks, with her long dark hair and dark eyes, her more or less fit physique…but in front of this woman she might as well be a jar of paste.

  Nevertheless, as the youngest sister of the semi-royal Saleri family, Marguerite had spent the past decade and more navigating prickly political ballrooms from the shores of the Aegean to the banks of the Thames. She could certainly handle the delivery of one harmless breakfast pastry to the Wicked Witch of the West.

  “Miss Graham, Mr. Masters,” she said smoothly, setting down the plate in front of the blonde. She could feel Win’s sharp gaze on her like a physical touch, but Marguerite focused on the witc—ah, on his bride-to-be. “I do hope you enjoy it. Forgive me, but I’ve brought only one fork.”

  “Oh, we share everything,” the mouth-breather—erm, the future Mrs. Masters—said meaningfully, with an arch to her brow.

  “I suspect you were heading for another lucky diner.” Win’s voice was low and quiet, tuned to its usual sultry drawl, but Marguerite was already stepping away. Fortunately, her highly efficient server, noticing her pause at a table for two, not one, now headed their way.

  “Not at all,” Marguerite said. She didn’t look at Win, she wouldn’t look at him. Unlike the chef’s newest confection, Wyndham Masters wasn’t on the menu—even if he was undoubtedly every bit as sinfully sweet as this torte and far, far more satisfying. She didn’t have to look at the man to conjure up his features—tall, slender and breathtakingly handsome, with raven-dark hair and piercing grey eyes, his skin incongruously fair despite the southern heat and sunshine baking everyone around her to a deep, ruddy bronze. Even Miss South Carolina opposite him was sporting a tan, though Marguerite had no idea if it was from the sun or a spray machine.

  “Another piece of cake, Countess Saleri?”

  The use of her title jarred Marguerite out of her mental side trip, and as she glanced to the server she caught sight of Bombelina Blonde narrowing her eyes. Uh-oh. Her title could open certain doors, but others it slammed shut. It looked like Juliet Graham fell into the latter category.

  Marguerite took a second plate off the server’s tray, and offered it to Win.

  “I’ve got another table,” she said, but she couldn’t miss the wave of awareness that swept through her as their gazes connected. It really wasn’t fair, how beautiful he was, and she barely kept herself from staring. “I do hope you enjoy your breakfast.”

  “Just a minute,” his fiancée snapped. Startled, Marguerite turned to the woman, meeting her haughty gaze. “You two know each other. How?”

  “I…what?” Marguerite blinked rapidly, clearly at a loss, and Win silently cursed. Leave it to Juliet to find a way to ruin even the most benign of meals.

  “Forgive us, Miss Saleri,” he began, but Juliet jumped on that too.

  “It’s not Miss Saleri, you heard it yourself—it’s Countess,” she emphasized the word as if it was some sort of insult. Little did she know that it was one of about fifteen things Win found singularly enchanting about this stranger from Garronia, which was precisely why Marguerite was firmly off limits to him, even if he had been free to pursue her. Which he was not. He most definitely, assuredly was not.

  “Countess Saleri,” Juliet continued sharply. “And you didn’t answer the question. How do you know each other?”

  She was technically directing the question at Marguerite, but Win saw no reason to force the poor woman to answer. Nevertheless, Marguerite surprised him. Again.

  “I’ve had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of most of the guests here at the Cypress over the past several weeks, since arriving here from Europe,” Marguerite said. Unless he was mistaken, her accent was ever so slightly more pronounced. “It’s been a remarkable opportunity to meet so many people in such a short time.”

  “Uh-huh. And how did you meet Win?”

  “Juliet.” Normally, Win didn’t care if the women he dated saw fit to throw jealous elbows at the competition. But this time, with Marguerite involved, it bothered him. A lot.

  “Mr. Masters has been gracious enough to join us in a number of events at the Cypress,” Marguerite replied. “At one of those—I confess I forget which—we were introduced.”

  Win could have easily supplied Marguerite with the information that apparently had slipped her mind. The event had been a wine tasting exactly twenty-three days ago, only a few short days after he’d first noticed her at the resort. They’d locked gazes with enough energy to leave him inwardly gasping, and when she’d turned away after the barest words of greeting, he’d felt the wrench. She, of course, had not seemed distressed in the slightest.

  Juliet’s hard tones brought him back to the present. “Well, you haven’t been introduced to me,” his fiancée said sourly.

  “When we’ve been lucky enough to welcome you to the Cypress, I’ve been otherwise engaged,” Marguerite said smoothly. “A situation I’m so glad to be able to rectify today. Are you staying with us the whole day or are you just in for breakfast?” She still maintained a sweet, gracious demeanor, and there was absolutely no hint of irritation, Win realized. Not even as Juliet immediately launched into a recitation of their day’s itinerary. Did the woman truly not care?

  He should be happy if she didn’t, he knew. He’d already done all the research he needed to do on Marguerite Saleri to know she’d be the absolute worst person for him. She was smart and sensitive, and came from a caring, devoted family. She had a long track record of charitable works, as well as an international social profile. Her reputation perfectly matched that of her country. Garronia occupied a fairly small niche on the international political landscape, but its position of integrity and generosity had been firmly established for generations.

  Nobody was perfect, of course, but now that Win had been forced to marry to benefit the family business, he’d decided to find the least perfect mate possible.

  He’d found her, too.

  “Isn’t that right, Win?” Juliet wrapped up whatever she was saying, and peered at him with a shrewd eye.

  His response was automatic. “Of course it is. How could it be otherwise?”

  Though his grin encompassed both women, Win turned to Marguerite, infusing his tone with as much warmth as he could muster. “Countess Saleri, we’ve taken up far too much of your time. Please, accept our gratitude for the lovely…” he stared down at the confection in front of him. What on earth was it?

  “Torte,” Juliet supplied. “We didn’t order it.”

  “Torte,” Win agreed, as he brought his glance back up toward Marguerite’s, he realized he must have caught her unawares, for she didn’t glance away in time. Instead, their eyes connected, and Win felt it again, the surge of want—of need—that rose inside him so abruptly it almost made him shiver.

  Marguerite’s cheeks flared, and she took a quick step back. Had she felt it, too? There was no way he could tell as she turned to Juliet. “We’re delighted to welcome you both again today. And of course, the dessert is on the house.”

  She was gone before Juliet could reply, and Win forced himself not to watch her retreat, knowing full well Juliet was eyeing him again. Instead, he turned his attention to her.

  “So, what do you say?” he asked, lifting the dessert fork. “Seems we’ve spent enough time discussing this dish that we should at least decide whether it was worth the effort.”

  Juliet’s expression soured. “You know we’re expected at the lawyers’ by eleven a.m., and they’ll doubtless feed us there,” she said. “Unless you plan on me making myself sick, I suggest that no, we do not try the torte.”

  “As you wish.” Win dipped his fork into the dessert, his voice once more a slow drawl. The meeting at the lawyers was a delaying tactic on his part, and one for which he wasn’t entirely proud. He could care less about the details of the prenuptial a
greement the good Miss Graham had insisted on—one which accorded her so many benefits upon their divorce, it was obvious she was aiming for anything but marital bliss. That suited Win perfectly. But his father’s attorneys had been in such a state over the document that it had served to prolong their engagement for months. He’d been happy to accede to every new demand Juliet had made, knowing the details of each would take another several weeks to hammer out. What was he waiting for, though? The sooner they got the wedding over with, the sooner the divorce could take place.

  And the sooner he could go back to not worrying that he’d inadvertently destroy another decent woman’s life.

  “In fact, I don’t want to stay here another minute,” Juliet announced, tossing down her napkin.

  He lifted a brow. “But you’ve barely begun your meal.”

  “I’m not hungry,” she said, her eyes going flat and stubborn. “You don’t have to come with me. I’ll have Jenks take me into town, and I’ll meet you later at the lawyers’.”

  Win schooled his face into one of polite understanding. It hadn’t taken him long to realize that Juliet’s impulsiveness was better catered to than opposed, particularly in public. He knew it was simply a by-product of her upbringing—one admittedly quite similar to his own—but under any other circumstance, he would have been suffering a flare of annoyance at her abrupt announcement. Not because she was abandoning him—Jenks would return as soon as he’d delivered Juliet to wherever she wanted to go—but simply because of the drama of the thing. Win had been dating the woman for barely six months, and he’d had enough theatrics to last a lifetime.

  “Of course,” he murmured as she stood. She was truly gorgeous, as evidenced by the stares she received from around the room by men of all ages—and the women too, though their glances were more covert.

  Juliet sensed the attention, and she leaned over to kiss him lightly on the cheek, positioning her left hand to offer full view to the enormous rock she wore on her ring finger. Her mood had abruptly altered too, no doubt due to the notice they were receiving.