Chosen: Gowns & Crowns, Book 7 Read online

  Breathing a sigh of relief at the averted argument, Win beamed as Juliet straightened, then nodded as she turned sharply on her heel, her stride lengthening as she made for one of the paths leading away from the breakfast patio. They weren’t due at the lawyers’ office for hours yet, and this was an unexpected reprieve.

  His lips twisted. Perhaps also not ideal, to be judging the time his fiancée left him alone as a reprieve. But he supposed he could be excused. For very good reasons, he’d sworn never to marry—was only doing it now because his father demanded it, to unlock funds wrapped up in family trusts. But that didn’t mean he had any intention of staying married. He’d only proposed to Juliet, in fact, after she’d begun cheating on him. That she’d waited to consult with her lawyers before enthusiastically agreeing to his offer, had only cemented his decision that she was the right bride for him. They’d marry, they’d divorce, they’d move on. No one would get hurt, and at the rate she was going, Juliet would be several million dollars richer for her troubles.

  A bright, infectious laugh sounded across the room, and despite himself, Win turned toward Marguerite as if drawn by a string. She stood next to a wizened old man who looked up at her as if she was some sort of angel from heaven, staring from her to the plate she was holding in her hands in utter confusion.

  Even as Win watched, Marguerite drew out a chair opposite the codger and seated herself gracefully. He’d never once seen her do that with another guest—not even him, and he would have welcomed it more than the poor woman had any idea.

  Win’s brows climbed. What could they be talking about?

  He’d recognized Dawson Holt immediately, of course, but he hadn’t seen him at the Cypress Resort more than once or twice, right after the place opened. Then again, Win couldn’t remember the last time he’d dined here for breakfast either. He knew very little about the old man, other than the unfortunate rumor surrounding…

  Oh, no.

  Win was up and out of his chair before his mind fully acknowledged what his body was doing. He’d done his research on the Saleri sisters, however, and on their highly dignified and highly public family. The whispers behind the breathless royals commentary was that all three sisters had been long-suffering saints under their ogre of a father, a father who’d quite brainlessly saddled them with the obligation to overturn a century-old curse.

  It appeared the intrepid sisters Saleri had done just that. Which was all well and good except…Marguerite might well presume that she had a special skill in curse lifting.

  And that was a skill of which Dawson Holt was in particular need, if all the rumors were true. Assuming that Holt made the connection between Marguerite and breaking curses, that is.

  If Win had his way, however, Holt wouldn’t make that connection.

  Because if Marguerite started digging around in Holt’s gloom-ridden past, she could very well discover Win’s own dirty family secrets. And though he knew he shouldn’t care—in fact, it probably would be better for everyone concerned if Marguerite did hold Win in the disdain he deserved, both for his family’s indiscretions and for the harm he’d personally caused—he just…couldn’t let her learn such terrible things about him. He couldn’t.

  He headed across the dining room.

  Chapter Two

  “I’m sure you can’t mean that, Mr. Holt. Life’s just too full of surprises to give up on it like that.”

  Marguerite kept her voice light, her manner easy, but inside every alarm bell was going off. She’d seen her share of desolate elderly citizens during her charity work with Garronia’s old and infirm, and Holt fit the bill. His clothes, though expensive, were threadbare, and his face was haggard and grey. He’d looked up at her as if she’d just interrupted his plans for a funeral service, and the entrenched sadness in his gaze cut her to the quick.

  Despite her usual sense of decorum with guests, Marguerite reached out and laid a hand on the chair nearest her. “Shall I join you as you try the torte?” she asked, pulling out the chair before Holt could respond. She seated herself opposite him. “The chef has been most eager for feedback, so eager that he’s rolled the dish out at brunch instead of waiting for this evening. Even if you just take one bite and let me know what you think, it would mean a great deal.”

  Across from her, the old man blinked tired eyes at her, then resettled his gaze on the cake. He’d seemed so taken aback that she would talk to him, and Marguerite wracked her brain for something else to say. She hadn’t seen him here before, she was sure of it. Had he visited the Cypress earlier this summer, right as they first opened?

  Possibly, but Dawson Holt was by no means unknown to these people, the crème de la crème of Charleston society. Constance Gibbs had seemed particularly put out by his appearance, and surely she wouldn’t have formed such an entrenched opinion based on only a few interactions. The kind of disapproval she’d been radiating needed years to build up, Marguerite knew from long experience. She’d encountered similar censure from the matriarchs of Garronia’s high society. There was nothing the idle rich enjoyed more than talking about each other—whether directly or behind each other’s backs. Gossip made the world go ‘round, especially a world as gilded as this one.

  Perhaps that was the tack to take.

  “I shouldn’t tell you this, but I must say I was warned you wouldn’t like the dessert,” she said, darting a gaze to the right as Holt’s face came up again, his beetling white brows lifting on his high forehead. “But I try very hard to form my own opinion about guests.”

  “Who…?” Holt spoke the word in a voice rusty from disuse, the same rattling tone he’d employed when he told Marguerite not to waste dessert on a dying man. But a thread of perverse energy seemed to twitch in him now, and he darted his gaze around the room. Marguerite knew the moment his gaze settled on Constance Gibbs. The man’s slender hand darted out and picked up the delicate fork, and he sliced into the peach torte with gusto, lifting an impressively large portion.

  “You should listen to a lot of people on this island, but she’s not one of them,” he said, his voice clearer now—high and reedy, like a man used to shouting to be heard. He downed the bite of cake almost angrily, then his brows seemed to shoot even higher. He turned startled eyes on Marguerite as his throat worked, then finally managed to speak again.

  “That—that is delicious!” he blurted, clearly awed. “What on earth is it?”

  Marguerite laughed, her delight completely unfeigned. Once again, she felt that shiver of happiness at doing something—anything—that helped brighten someone’s day. She knew how blessed she was, and understood the value of her time and money to charities, her family—even the Cypress Resort, who was happy enough to have her unpaid labor for however long she was willing to donate it. But Marguerite also had lived the past twenty-five years with an innate knowing that she really, well…she didn’t matter all that much to anyone.

  She was the youngest child of a rich and titled family, and the challenges of that family were all well and truly handled by either Edeena, the oldest, or Caroline, the middle sister. There’d never been much work left over, after those two had finished. And whenever Marguerite had tried to help, they’d stopped her almost before she’d gotten started. They’d meant well, of course. Still, a life of beginnings that never led anywhere had taken its toll. Why get too close or care too much, when you could never see anything through?

  But she was a college graduate now, ready to take her place in the world doing…something. Somewhere. Only she had no idea where ‘somewhere’ was.

  And right now, she didn’t need to care. It was one of the best things about her studies in hotel management—there was always someone else’s problems to solve…and you were never supposed to get too close. Helping an old man feel better? Piece of cake. Literally, in this case.

  She beamed at Dawson Holt, whose attention had fully returned to his dessert. “It’s a very old recipe, if you believe the chef—which I don’t, not for a minute. He’ll say every di
sh is something dredged up out of the Old South if I let him.”

  “That’s true, that’s certainly true.” Holt was actually grinning now, forking up another bite of the torte. “But he might not be exaggerating this time. When I was a boy, we had cooks at Holt House who could make the most magical dishes out of Carolina staples—things like tomatoes and sweet potatoes, corn, watermelon—you name it, if we had it in high supply, they were like to outdo themselves finding new ways to serve it. The kind of meals that would be so delicious you didn’t know whether you should laugh or cry.” He sighed, a whisper of melancholy returning.

  Marguerite recalled Constance’s derisive dismissal of the Holt family home, but she couldn’t help but ask. “You lived in a big country house?”

  “My aunt and uncle did. Not direct uncle, of course, actually the parent of a second cousin or something like that, but we still called him uncle. We were very much the poor relations.” He chortled good naturedly. “A plantation house, back in the day, though my family was never much good at farming. Not a lot of land, you see, more a gentleman’s farm than the tobacco and cotton plantations that made the south famous.” He turned his gaze to the ocean, but Marguerite noticed he’d all but finished the cake. She surreptitiously gestured the eagle-eyed attendant for another piece. “Previous generations of the Holts didn’t even manage slaves properly, if you want to know the truth. Tried to release the few that we had even before the war came. When the men didn’t want to leave—they were metalworkers and blacksmiths, and they had a reputation in the area—the family quietly hired them as staff. No one told ever told, no one ever asked. It worked out.”

  Marguerite stared at him, even as she sensed a man striding up with the pastry. “You’re kidding me.”

  “Long ago, long ago,” Holt sighed. He looked mournfully at his empty plate, but before Marguerite could prompt him, a cultured voice cut across their conversation.

  “You seem to be missing a dessert, Mr. Holt.”

  Marguerite snapped her gaze up, her view filled with the very tall, very elegant form of Wyndham Masters III—sans fiancée. Holt, for his part, craned his neck up at Win as well, his brows bunching together over his nose. “Masters! Since when do they have you working in the kitchens?”

  “Since it became the only way I could get an audience with the social hostess,” Win said, with such broad affability it took Marguerite a moment to realize he was speaking about her. She went rigid, then her sixth political sense kicked in, and she glanced at Win more shrewdly. If ever there was a comment sure to make her scurry off, that was it. What was Win’s game here?

  “Well,” she said. “Mr. Holt and I were just speaking of his family home, Mr. Masters. Perhaps you’d care to join us? Unless your fiancée—”

  Up went Holt’s brows again, getting the workout of their life, and even Win blinked before recovering himself. Unfortunately, though, he didn’t excuse himself to find his bride-to-be as she’d hoped he would. “Miss Graham was unavoidably called away, as it happens. Thank you for your invitation.” Then he quickly pulled out a chair and seated himself, the two of them perched opposite Dawson like they were—like they were—

  Pull yourself together. He’s doing this on purpose. Marguerite refocused her attention on Holt, whose small, dark eyes were pinging back and forth between her and Win as if they were volleying tennis balls at each other. And perhaps they were, but she’d been in the midst of a conversation with the old man, and she wanted to continue it.

  “Tell me more about your home, if you don’t mind indulging me. I find these beautiful old estates simply breathtaking.”

  “Ha! Well, Holt House isn’t that, but it was—in its day—a beauty.” Holt got that dreamy look on his face again. “Built foursquare in the grand style, brick and plaster, six windows to a side, three stories tall. Big enough to get lost in, my uncle always said. The grounds, like I said, were no good for farming—too wet. So, the original Holt spent his money the way foolish men throughout time have done, he pleased his wife.”

  Beside her, Win snorted, and Marguerite barely restrained herself from shooting him a glare.

  “Was that a bad thing?” she asked of Holt.

  To her surprise, the man’s profound look of sadness returned. “No…no it certainly wasn’t. It’s probably the only thing that’s saved us, all these long years.”

  This was getting entirely too close to trouble.

  “How is the old neighborhood doing these days, Holt? The Gaines boys still causing problems?” Win asked, knowing this was the kind of bait that no senior citizen in Summerland County could let pass. Ted and William Gaines had been every bit of seventy years old back when Win had been a teenager, and the bane of the genteel acreage Holt House cornered—even though by the time they’d wreaked havoc across the neighborhood, Holt House had long since been abandoned.

  Abandoned, but apparently not forgotten.

  “Them.” True to expectations, Holt’s retort was laden with disgust. Win settled back, his diversionary task completed, and allowed his gaze to roam the room. They were being stared at, which meant that inevitably, he would pay for this, one way or another. Either Juliet would hear about it or his father would, and it was a toss-up as to which would bring him more grief. Juliet would object because that’s what she did best. His father wanted the trust monies released into the marketplace as soon as possible, and anything delaying Win’s marriage would interfere with his plans.

  Win couldn’t gainsay him. He may not be as proud of his family as he once was, but he wasn’t about to let all their money go to complete waste. If he stayed the course and eventually the reins of power shifted to him, he could set about trying to make good what his ancestors had mucked up. He just needed patience—and focus.

  “But how could they say such a thing? Curses are nothing to speak lightly of.”

  Marguerite’s quiet outrage drew Win back with a jolt, and he nearly kicked himself out of his own chair. This was the exact reason why he had intervened in the first place, and here he was daydreaming instead of paying attention.

  “Well, they’re just calling it as it is,” Holt said, and the shroud of sorrow had somehow gathered around his shoulders once again, refusing to burn off in the bright sunlight. “Holt House wasn’t built for misery, though.” He sighed. “It was only supposed to be a place of joy.”

  “But what—” Marguerite hesitated, and Win could almost hear the gears churning in her mind. He closed his hand over hers and both of them straightened at the shock of the contact.

  “I confess I do have need of you, Miss Saleri, if Mr. Holt can spare you. I would like to go over some—arrangements, for an event.” He was lying, of course. Fortunately, most women, when cornered, simply went along with him.

  Unfortunately, Marguerite Saleri was not one of them.

  “Of course,” she said brightly, then turned immediately back to Holt. “But what is it that’s cursed, exactly. Is it the house itself?”

  Win stifled a groan as Holt’s gaze snapped to Marguerite. There was no way they were going to avoid this conversation, he realized. He’d simply have to snuff out her interest after the fact—and pray that Marguerite wasn’t as stubborn as everything he’d read about her older sister, Edeena, who’d been single-minded in her curse-breaking dedication. Judging from the look on her face, however, Marguerite would be equally resolute.

  Holt hesitated. “Well, no—not the house. At least, I don’t think it could possibly be the house. Nothing in the house died. It’s still quite a lovely place, in its way.”

  “Ah…died?” Marguerite’s eyes had widened slightly, and Win’s own pulse quickened. “What do you mean, died?”

  “I mean died,” Holt waved a weary hand. “The flowers, I mean. They stopped blooming. All of them at once.”

  Win frowned, intrigued despite himself. “Flowers? I don’t remember Holt House as having flowers.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Holt said with a rueful smile. “Happened before you were b
orn, before your father was too. I was just a boy myself, but if you read the old newspaper accounts, the Holt House gardens were magic to behold. Wisteria and clematis, and most of all the moonflowers. That was what hit Aunt Priscilla the worst, I think. That’s when she knew she’d lost something special.”

  Holt was beginning to sound like he’d lost a few marbles along with his aunt’s flowers, and to Win’s intense relief Marguerite’s concerned expression shaded a little more worried than curious as well. “Didn’t they try to replant?” she asked gently, clearly at a loss for what to say.

  “Of course, of course.” Another wave of the hand. “Nothing would grow. After…after everything happened, the caretakers of the place didn’t want to dig up the dormant plants for fear they’d ruin them unnecessarily. But year followed year and the flowers simply wouldn’t come back. Other parts of the grounds began to show wear too—wood would get brittle and crack before its time, trees would founder and die. Even the stone walls would crumble when they had no good reason to do so. Like the very will to live had gone out of the place.”

  Win nodded. This part of the story he knew, like everyone in Summerland County. The curse of the Holt House was all about gloom, doom and its broken-down grounds.

  “And you never discovered why?” Marguerite asked.

  Holt shrugged. “I was just a boy when it happened. No one was willing to talk to me. I went away in the manner of most young men, and by the time the house rolled around to me, it had already gone to ruin, mostly. Oh, not in the way Constance Gibbs would have you believe, of course.” Marguerite tried unsuccessfully to stifle a giggle, and even Win grinned as Holt grimaced his distaste for the old woman. “But enough that there’s clearly work that needs to be done. Still, the house is structurally sound, and there’s nothing wrong with the soil. At the same time, there’s no reason for the flowers to keep dying, no reason for the ponds to fill up with muck and the birds to stay away. I’ve had a dozen tests run over the years, and nothing ever came of it. It’s like life gave up on Holt House, and once it did, there was no going back.”