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Something Blue (A Sweet Romance Anthology)
Something Blue (A Sweet Romance Anthology) Read online
SOMETHING BLUE: A SWEET ROMANCE ANTHOLOGY
With stories by:
Teri Wilson
Lacey Baker
Caro Carson
Cassidy Carter
Melinda Curtis
Marianne Evans
Nicole Flockton
Shirley Jump
Makenna Lee
Janice Lynn
Tif Marcelo
Robyn Neeley
Annie Rains
Susan Sands
Victoria Schade
Lizzie Shane
Sasha Summers
Roe Valentine
Copyright © 2022 by Teri Wilson, Lacey Baker, Caro Carson, Cassidy Carter, Melinda Curtis, Marianne Evans, Nicole Flockton , Shirley Jump, Makenna Lee, Janice Lynn, Annie Rains, Tif Marcelo, Lizzie Shane, Roe Valentine, Sasha Summers, Victoria Schade, Robyn Neeley, Susan Sands
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the authors’ imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design and interior formatting by Jaye Rochon at CleverUnicorn.com
Copy editing by Cameron Chafin
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
FOUR ROYAL WEDDINGS AND AN (ALMOST) FUNERAL
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Epilogue
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY TERI WILSON
PETALS & PLAYLISTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY LACEY BAKER
HIS CUSTOM-MADE BRIDESMAID
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY CARO CARSON
SOMETHING BORROWED
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY CASSIDY CARTER
ALWAYS YOU
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY MELINDA CURTIS
LOVE BY ACCIDENT
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY MARIANNE EVANS
THE WEDDING RIVALS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Epilogue
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY NICOLE FLOCKTON
SECOND CHANCE SWEETHEART
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY SHIRLEY JUMP
SOMETHING LOST SOMETHING FOUND
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY MAKENNA LEE
WEDDING AT WINDING WOODS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Epilogue
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY JANICE LYNN
A WEDDING AT THE USO
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY TIF MARCELO
HER PURRFECT PLUS ONE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY ROBYN NEELEY
A WEDDING TO REMEMBER
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY ANNIE RAINS
THEN, AND NOW
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY SUSAN SANDS
ALWAYS & FUREVER
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY VICTORIA SCHADE
WEDDING VEILS & PUPPY TAILS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY LIZZIE SHANE
THE GROOM THAT GOT AWAY
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY SASHA SUMMERS
THE PERFECT FIT
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY ROE VALENTINE
FOUR ROYAL WEDDINGS AND AN (ALMOST) FUNERAL
TERI WILSON
“Here’s the stuff of which fairy tales are made.”
~Archbishop of Canterbury Robert Runcie,
at the wedding of
His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales
and the Lady Diana Spencer,
July 29, 1981
Chapter One
Their Majesties
King Arthur and Queen Caroline
request the pleasure of your company
at the Marriage of
His Royal Highness Prince Nicholas
with
Lady Emmaline Taylor-Clarke
at Westminster Abbey
on Saturday, 7th May, at 11:00 a.m.
followed by a Reception at Buckingham Palace
Tabby
Romance and Cinderella dreams aside, weddings—more specifically, royal weddings—are generally about one thing, and one thing only.
The Dress.
I know what you’re thinking. Yes, it should be capitalized. And no, I’m not a cynic about love. On the contrary, I love love. I especially love the swoony, breathless kind of love straight off the pages of a fairy tale...even if I haven’t experienced it quite yet in real life.
Someday I will. Someday I’ll meet another starry-eyed dreamer like me, and I’ll recognize him right away as my soulmate. Someday it will be my turn to walk down the aisle. Not a royal one, but still. It will happen.
I hope so, anyway...
But I digress—back to the Dress.
In 1981, when a certain aristocratic young lady became engaged to the Prince of Wales, speculation about the bride’s gown reached such a fever pitch that the designers who created the dress installed an actual safe inside their studio. They kept the gown locked up at night to help preserve the gown’s secrecy. In order to accommodate its infamous twenty-five-foot train, the safe had to be installed via the shop’s front window because it was too big to fit through the door. Photographers with long lenses camped out on rooftops of surrounding shops, and paparazzi regularly went through the atelier’s trash. The designers once went so far as to put “decoy” fabrics in pastel shades of lemon and pink in the bin at the end of their workday.
The diversionary tactic worked. The very next morning, the front pages of London’s biggest tabloids claimed the designers were creating a pale pink gown for the new Princess of Wales.
A pink royal wedding gown! Can you imagine?
Thus, four decades later, here we are on the morning of Lady Emmaline Taylor-Clarke’s wedding to Prince Nicholas, second in line to the British throne. The ceremony is set to take place at Westminster Abbey, and every royal reporter in the city, myself included, is positively desperate for a glimpse of The Dress. If I could just get a tiny peek of it before any of my competitors, I’d be a shoo-in for a promotion. I might even manage to get transferred to the fashion page, my ultimate dream job.
But first, I’ve got to scoop everyone else on the dress description. The entire world will be watching when Lady Emmaline exits the Goring Hotel in Belgravia and steps into the sleek Rolls Royce that will carry her to Westminster Abbey. News anchors all over the globe will reveal the designer of the gown in a perfectly coordinated announcement and at long last, the best kept secret in royal fashion circles will be revealed. Unless some stealthy reporter beats them to it.
And that crafty individual is going to be me.
“So you’re here for the wedding, then?” the bartender asks as he slides a mimosa in front of me at the Goring’s posh lobby bar. The reflection of my powder-blue fascinator glitters back at me from the row of crystal chandeliers hanging overhead.
“Yes.” I take a dainty sip. “So exciting, isn’t it?”
The man sitting beside me snorts into his Bloody Mary. He’s dressed down—way down—in a tracksuit with expensive-looking trainers on his feet.
Of course they’re expensive. Rooms at this hotel start at almost two thousand pounds a night. I’m spending nearly all my savings on this little ruse.
It’s an investment in my future, I remind myself. Sure, I could be camped out on the street in front of Westminster Abbey with every other journalist in the city. I’ve got a press pass for this event affording access to the special area near the church reserved for media. But how am I supposed to get an early look at the dress from down there?
I reserved my room at the Goring months before the hotel where the bridal party would be staying the night before the wedding was even revealed. Hedging all my bets, I reserved rooms at every upscale, fashionable hotel in Central London. Last week, when the palace announced Lady Emmaline would be staying here, I knew I’d struck gold. I canceled all my other reservations and plunked down the rest of my savings for an outfit that would help me look the part of royal wedding guest.
Don’t judge. At least I’m not digging through scraps of discarded fabric in the trash bin.
“I gather you’re not here for the wedding, then?” the bartender asks Cranky Tracksuit.
“That spectacle?” he asks, scowling into his drink.
I glare at him.
His gaze flits toward me. His eyes are startlingly blue—so dreamy that I wobble a bit on my barstool, even though he’s clearly not deserving of such a stroke of genetic luck. He just heard me say that I’m a wedding guest. For all he knows, I’m Lady Emmaline’s best friend.
“That’s offensive,” I say and reach for another sip of my mimosa.
“It’s accurate,” he counters. “Any union that involves the bride and groom’s faces being printed on tea towels is a spectacle.”
My face warms as I think about the commemorative royal wedding teacup on my desk at The Courier. “It’s a royal wedding—a public event. That kind of goes with the territory. People want to feel like they’re a part of it. That doesn’t make it a spectacle.”
“You sure about that?” He quirks an annoyingly attractive eyebrow.
Focus. You’re here to get the most important royal scoop in modern history, not ogle a cynical rich man’s eyebrows. “Absolutely. This wedding is just like a fairy tale.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” He plucks the celery stick from his drink. “Fairy tales aren’t real.”
“A man who doesn’t believe in happily-ever-after. How original.” I roll my eyes. Why am I letting this random guy get to me? I have far more crucial things to worry about right now.
He crunches down hard on the celery stick. It breaks with an audible snap. “Just keeping things factual. Fairy tales are pure fiction.”
“Well, in case you haven’t noticed, this wedding isn’t. It’s as real as can be.” I twirl the stem of my champagne glass.
“Indeed.” He nods, looking me up and down. “And you would know, since you’re friends with the happy couple, right?”
Do I detect a note of sarcasm in his tone?
No way. He can’t possibly suspect I’m an imposter. I know for a fact that I look the part. The queen of Spain wore this exact dress to a ribbon cutting last month.
“Close friends,” I say. “The bride and I went to uni together.”
He glances at the empty barstool beside me and then shoots me a knowing glance. Too knowing. “And yet you’re attending the blessed event all by yourself? Where are the rest of your uni pals?”
Who is this guy? MI-5? Royal security?
“You sure are asking a lot of questions, considering you care nothing about this wedding,” I say.
“Touché.” He cracks the smallest of smiles and makes a toasting gesture with his Bloody Mary. “Just making conversation. You look lovely. I hope the wedding is everything you want it to be.”
Oh, it will be. You have no idea, Cranky Tracksuit.
“Thank you,” I say primly and then I check the time on my phone.
Lady Emmaline’s scheduled departure is only twenty minutes away. It might be time to take an exploratory walk around the hotel. She can’t possibly stay hidden between the door to her room and the lobby. If I’m going to get an early look at the gown, it’s got to happen in the next nineteen minutes or so. Waiting for her to pass by the bar is making me antsy.
“If you’ll excuse me, I need to visit the ladies’ room.” I slide off of my stool, leaving my unfinished drink on the bar in case I need to come back and resume my stakeout.
“Yes, ma’am,” the bartender says with a wink while Tracksuit says
nothing, preoccupied by something on his phone.
Good. I don’t have time for his cynicism—or anything else, save for some royal wedding espionage.
I walk briskly toward a door marked with a tasteful WC, for water closet, in gold script. At the last minute, I veer toward the elevator bank just off to the right.
The Goring is a luxury boutique hotel, with just sixty-nine rooms spread out over six floors. Being the most “intimate,” aka small, accommodation on offer, my room is located on the first floor. In the twelve hours since check-in, I haven’t had a single run-in with anyone resembling palace security or a royal bride-to-be, so I’m fairly certain Lady Emmaline is staying on one of the upper floors. Most likely the top floor since that’s where the fancy suites are located.
I punch the button for the sixth floor and take a deep breath as the doors to the lift close with an elegant whisper. The walls of the elevator are mirrored and at first, I’m taken aback by my reflection. I look like I just strutted off the pages of the Hello Magazine special commemorative royal wedding issue. I could get used to this look. Maybe once I’m promoted to the fashion page, I’ll get to wear clothes like this every day.
A girl can dream, right?
But upon closer inspection, I realize that the powder-blue feathers on my fascinator are trembling like tiny, nervous Chihuahuas. Maybe I’m a bit more anxious than I realized about my ability to pull this off.
One thousand, seven hundred pounds. My stomach churns. That’s how much I plunked down to stay in this hotel. Oh, the things I could have done with that gigantic amount of cash. The sum is more than my share of the monthly rent at the minuscule Sloan Square apartment I share with three other girls. This looney-tune scheme of mine must work. I can’t afford to try it again at any of the other three royal weddings this summer.
Four royal weddings. In a single summer! As unprecedented as that is, my bank balance can’t support three more nights of living like a royal wedding guest. I’ve got one shot, and this is it.
The lift dings, dragging my attention back to the present, and I take a deep breath as the doors swish open. But when I step out onto the plush sixth-floor carpeting, the corridor is as quiet and calm as can be. There’s not a bodyguard or bridesmaid in sight. Definitely no sign of the princess-to-be.
I linger for a moment, trying to decide whether I should go door to door in an attempt to hear what’s going on inside—a little stalker-y, even for a journalist—or try my luck on another floor. Choosing the saner option, I dart back inside the lift and press the button etched with a gold number five.