The Most Eligible Bachelor Romance Collection: Nine Historical Romances Celebrate Marrying for All the Right Reasons

by Amanda Barratt, Susanne Dietze, Cynthia Hickey, Shannon McNear, Gabrielle Meyer, Connie Stevens, Erica Vetsch, Gina Welborn

“I never thought of her being one of The Twelve. She’s family,” Dad muttered. He ran a hand through his hair. “When did this happen?”

  Duke shook his head. “I don’t know. One day she was Irie, the shy girl I used to tutor in algebra. The next she was this captivating woman rejecting my marriage proposal because I wasn’t what she wanted.”

  “You proposed?”

  “Yesterday. At the stockyards. You don’t have to look so mortified.”

  Dad mumbled something under his breath. “You proposed to a woman at the stockyards. Can you fault me for being aghast at my own son’s lack of romanticism?”

  Duke cringed. “In hindsight, I see how it wasn’t the best location, or timing, but I was desperate,” he said with a groan. His chest ached. “She’s the wife I want. I’ve lost her. I’ve been stuck in a rut of grief, thinking if I could just find a mother for Tabitha, all would be well. I never considered my happiness. I want Irie by my side.”

  “She’s here,” Dad said brightly.

  Duke turned to the entrance. His heart leaped and—heaven help him—he gasped like the besotted turkey he was.

  There stood Irie, in a red satin evening gown with silver metallic netting over the bodice and skirt. White elbow-length gloves. A jeweled choker circled her neck. Black strands of hair cascaded from the simple bun at her nape.

  Grand gesture.

  He had to think of a grand gesture. But not just any one. It had to be something Irie would find romantic. Something significant to her, yet would show his love was real. Think, think, think. When she was instructing him on how to find ways to court The Twelve individually, she’d said something. Something about gifts, words, and actions should convey the love you bear for those to whom you give, act, and speak.

  His fingers tapped the ribbon stripe down the sides of his slacks.

  Pursue.

  He frowned at the almost audible response. This was one of those times he needed a more specific heavenly answer. Maybe God had given him one in the form of Linny Cartwright. Irie deserved to be properly wooed, pursued, and courted. One hour, one day, one week wasn’t enough time to court a lady properly. For two people who had known each other for fifteen years, he still didn’t know the reason for her divorce, and she didn’t know what he had gone through during the last years of his marriage.

  Her gaze shifted around the room then settled on him. A little curve to her lips. A little tilt of her head. Then her smile shifted into a look of concern.

  Usually he looked so devastating in his evening attire. What had Duke so frazzled? It had to be the horde of people in the ballroom. She’d help him until she found one of The Twelve to stand by his side. And then she’d find Julian to break things off.

  Irie took a step toward Duke.

  “Miss LaCroix,” came a male voice to her left. “It’s time I met the woman who taught my girls to cook.”

  She turned to see the four Hightower girls surrounding their burly father. “How do you do?” she said and shook his proffered hand. She glanced over her shoulder.

  Duke was gone.

  She turned back to the Hightowers and listened to the doting father praise her teaching skills. For the next two hours of the cotillion, she listened to gratitude from each of The Twelve’s parents, including Eliza’s mother and Mr. Baker, who cheerfully announced his engagement and congratulated her on her mother’s. Julian never appeared. Nor did Eliza. Linny Cartwright had disappeared, too.

  Needing a moment alone, Irie made her way to the refreshment table. She reached for a cup—

  “Don’t.”

  She turned to Duke, whose forehead glistened with sweat. “Where have you been? People have been asking about you.”

  “I—” He motioned to the doors. “Can we talk where it’s quieter?”

  Irie looked about the ballroom. The music played. People danced. Those who weren’t dancing milled about the room in conversations of their own. They could spare a few minutes of conversation.

  She nodded. He offered his arm, and she looped hers around his, laying her white-gloved hand on his black sleeve. In moments they left the Baker House ballroom and strolled down the corridor to the sunroom. Irie started to pull her hand away.

  “We’re not there yet,” said Duke, grabbing her blue knitted shawl from the back of a chair.

  “Where did you get my shawl?”

  “Your mother.”

  He draped it around her shoulders, keeping his gaze on hers. Then he took her hand and led her through the opened french doors to the gardens and the inky starlit sky. They strolled in silence down the brick path winding through the yard, past the noisy frog pond, and to the candlelit gazebo. A white cloth covered the cast-iron table set for two. A coffee urn and a buttercream-frosted cake sat in the middle.

  “Duke,” Irie said, her heartbeat increasing, “what is this?”

  He turned to face her. “You seem to like tea parties with my daughter. I thought maybe you and I…” He grinned like a little boy asking his mother for an extra dessert.

  Irie’s breath shortened. Duke Baker was actually wooing her. “Where did you buy a cake at this time of night?”

  “Oh, I”—his cheeks reddened—“made it. Cook did have to show me a few things, and it may have eggshells.”

  “You baked me a cake?” She tried to keep the note of hopefulness out of her voice. Tried to ignore her heart beating painfully against her ribs. Tried to forget he still held her hand.

  He nodded. At once his scent, his nearness, his heated gaze surrounded her, chasing away the chill of the cool evening air.

  “Why?” she whispered.

  “I love you, Irie. I’m desperate to prove it.”

  For a moment she was struck dumb. “You love me?”

  “I was wrong for proposing to you yesterday, and I’m sorry. You deserve better.” His voice choked. “I began courting The Twelve thinking I only needed to find a mother for Tabitha. God showed me I needed much more. You captivate me. From this day forth, I’m going to die for you every day, in little ways and big ones, until God takes away my breath.” He released his hold on her hand and took a step back. “Irie LaCroix, will you do me the honor of giving me time to court you properly before I ask you to marry me?”

  Something deep in her heart broke open. Joy poured forth. He loved her. She could see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice, and knew he baked a cake probably with eggshells in it because he loved her. Tears welled in her eyes.

  “I will, but”—she paused—“there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

  He grinned. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, too. That’s why we need time to court without any spoken commitments made.”

  “How about we meet for lunch a week from today?”

  “Agreed,” he said with his gaze focused on her lips.

  Her heart raced even more. “Are you going to kiss me?”

  His gaze refocused on hers. “I would very much like to. But I haven’t earned the honor. When I do…” One corner of his mouth tipped up in such a devilish manner, so like the Duke she first fell in love with thirteen years ago. “Well, Misery, where do we go from here?”

  Irie gave him her own mischievous smile. “I suppose we start with cake.”

  “Now I know I love you.” Duke pulled out a chair for her to sit.

  As he settled in his chair across from her, Irie poured coffee into the teacups. “You do know a proper courtship lasts at least a year?”

  “This is Texas.” He winked then cut them both heaping slices of cake. “Six months.”

  Irie sipped her coffee to hide her smile. Six months would do quite nicely.

  ECPA-bestselling author Gina Welborn wrote public service announcements until she fell in love with writing romances. Baker’s Dozen is her fourth Barbour novella. A moderately obsessive fan of Community and Once Upon a Time, Gina lives in Oklahoma with her pastor husband, their five Okie-Hokie children, a box-Lab, two rabbits, four guinea pigs, and a fancy Russian dwarf hamste
r named Tom Bob Deucalion.

  The Final Baker Bride

  by Kathleen Y’Barbo

  Dedication

  To those who wander.

  Not all are lost,

  and none escape our gracious Father’s watchful eye and loving care.

  Chapter 1

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  May 1889

  A train whistle sounded. Octavia Derby glanced up at the massive clock and then reached into her handbag to retrieve the envelope she had prepared for this moment.

  “It’s time for you to get back on the train.” She pressed the envelope into Bridget’s palm.

  Bridget shook her head. “Oh miss, I mustn’t take this. You’ve already been so generous.”

  Tavia brushed away the comment with a swipe of her hand. “It’s for your mother, not you.” Another round of train whistles split the air between them. “Hurry now. You’ll miss your train.”

  Bridget reached to touch Tavia’s sleeve. “Now remember, you’re staying at the Monteleone Hotel. Tomorrow you have an appointment with Miss Marie O’Shea at Baker Shipping. Do you remember what you’re to tell her?”

  “That her niece Bridget wrote to her about me and that I am fully capable to take on any menial task she might offer.”

  “Perhaps not all that.” Bridget smiled. “I think simply that I wrote to her on your behalf will suffice. Auntie Marie wrote that she has a position as a typist available for you.”

  “Of course.” Tavia exchanged good-byes and then watched Bridget scurry away. The Irishwoman disappeared inside the railcar, and then a moment later, she reappeared at a window.

  “Miss Tavia!”

  Tavia hurried toward her as the steam from the train rose around her. “Yes, what is it?” she said as she batted at the sodden air.

  “Your trunks! You’ll need to fetch them.”

  Tavia shook her head. “Fetch them? How? Where?”

  The train’s big wheels jerked forward. “Over there.” Bridget pointed. “Remember, you’re staying at the Monteleone, and you will need to hire a taxicab for transport. But first, find a porter and tell him…” The remainder of her statement was lost in the screech of wheels and blast of the train’s whistle.

  Tavia let out a sigh and turned her back on the disappearing train. She could do this. She would do this. All she had to do was find a porter. Over there. If she could just figure out what a porter was.

  But she did know what her luggage looked like, and she spied it a few minutes later unceremoniously stacked with all the other various bags, boxes, and trunks in a corner of the station. She found a rather thin fellow in a uniform who vaguely resembled Father’s butler, Vargas.

  “I need my luggage, please. The two Louis Vuitton trunks and the bag.”

  Thankfully, the fellow was much stronger than he looked, and a moment later, he was shadowing her toward the exit. Father always offered a few coins to the men who moved their things between conveyances, so she opened her purse and reached for the first two pieces of money she found.

  Apparently her gratuity was generous, for the fellow’s sour expression quickly turned congenial. “Where’ll I be depositing these?” he asked as he struggled to move the decrepit trolley over cobblestones.

  “Depositing?”

  “Yes ma’am. How will you be leaving the train station? Perhaps you’ve got someone here to retrieve you?”

  Oh dear. “No,” she said slowly, “but I will need to find my way to the Monteleone Hotel. How does one accomplish this?”

  His quizzical look almost made her smile. “Well, miss,” he said as he scratched his head, “most folks either take the streetcar or they hire a taxicab.” He shifted the burden of the trolley to the other shoulder. “Under the circumstances, I reckon I’d hail a taxicab if it was me. Seeing as how you’re not exactly traveling light.”

  A taxicab. Of course. She’d ridden in a taxicab once in Paris. The ride, though completely unsanctioned and undetected by her mother, had been quite entertaining for her and her friends.

  Tavia looked around the station. Every sort of carriage, wagon, and buggy crowded the street in both directions. Most were filled with persons of various social stations and dubious intentions, or so it seemed.

  Except one.

  “You there.” Tavia waved to the driver of what appeared to be a decent taxicab. “You’ll do. I wish to be dispatched to my hotel immediately.”

  Though hers was not the first offer Merritt Baker had received while waiting for his driver to retrieve his trunks from the train’s conductor, it was the most brazen. And tempting.

  If he had been the sort who could be tempted by a pretty face and an attractive offer. Which he was not, or he would have already married one of the many society gals his family insisted on introducing to the last unmarried Baker brother on a regular basis.

  Oh, but she was a beauty. Not nearly tall enough to reach the top of his shoulders, and pretty as any woman he’d seen, this gal certainly did not look like the type who plied that sort of profession.

  Honey-colored curls teased her neck and cascaded down her straight back, tamed only by a feathered confection of a hat that must have set one of her customers back a minor fortune. Her scarlet traveling dress brought out the fire in her eyes and set off rosy cheeks and lips that looked as though they had been recently kissed.

  While he watched, those lips formed a frown as the little lady gestured to a porter burdened with two trunks and a traveling case stacked on a trolley. Before he could protest, the porter hefted one trunk to his buggy and was reaching for the other.

  “Hold on here,” Rit said. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  The porter spared him only a brief glance before returning to his work. “Just following orders, sir.”

  “Well, I order you to take those bags off my buggy before I take them off for you.”

  Ignoring him, the porter tossed the final bag atop the others. “I reckon you ought to take that up with the lady.” And then he was off.

  “I’ll do that.” Rit turned around to see the lady in question had already situated herself in the buggy and appeared quite irritated that he hadn’t done the same.

  He stalked around the buggy to the side where she sat like a queen awaiting her coronation parade. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

  “Waiting far longer than I ought. Are you always this reluctant to conduct business?” Those sea-green eyes gave him the same measuring up she’d just given the buggy.

  He gave her the same look right back. “What makes you think I plan to conduct business with you, ma’am?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said with a swipe of her hand. “Of course you will. This is a taxicab, is it not?”

  “A taxicab?”

  Rit waited for the change in expression that would indicate the woman was joking. It never came. Was it possible this woman actually believed the Baker Shipping buggy was a New Orleans taxicab? Apparently she did.

  “You’re serious,” he added to be certain.

  “Quite. I’ll be going to the Monteleone. Have you heard of it?”

  “I have.” Considering Baker family friends owned the place.

  “Then please come around and do your job. I have traveled quite a distance in the most atrocious circumstances. I actually had to sleep sitting up. All the way from Houston.” She shuddered and then straightened the plume on her hat.

  There wasn’t anything waiting on him back at the office except his brothers and more work than he cared to attend to. Not with memories of the Texas ranch he’d left this morning still riding hard in his thoughts.

  Oh, why not?

  “One minute, ma’am.” Merritt tipped his hat to her and then loped over to meet his driver. “Hire a wagon to get my things home,” he said. “I’ll be using the buggy for a while.”

  “Yes sir, but I’m supposed to deliver you to Baker Shipping. What will I tell your brothers?”

  Rit reached into his pocket and
retrieved a day’s pay for the man. “Take the afternoon off. After you deliver my bags. I’ll handle my brothers myself. Tomorrow.”

  He returned to the buggy and climbed onto the seat beside the young lady. She looked up at him, wide-eyed and pretty, and his heart did a little giddy-up.

  “Belle callas! Tout chaud!”

  His passenger jumped at the sound of the street vendor who stood less than an arm’s length away. Her eyes went wide as the elderly woman with the colorful scarf lifted the basket from her head and thrust it toward her.

  “Belle callas! Tout chaud,” she said again.

  “What does she want?” came out as a frightened squeak as the gal scooted toward him.

  “She’s selling rice pastries.” He retrieved his coins and reached past her to the woman. “Deux callas, s’il vous plait.”

  The callas vendor broke into a broad toothless smile as she tucked the payment, extravagant by any standards, into her pocket and then handed over three pastries. “Lagniappe,” she said with a wink. “And may the bon Dieu bless you with a long life and many children.”

  His passenger sat very still until the old woman sashayed away. Even as her call echoed around them, Rit saw the little lady beside him was shaking.

  “They’re harmless for the most part. Here.” He offered her a rice pastry. “If you were on the train from Houston, I’d wager you haven’t had a decent meal in quite some time.”

  “Thank you, but I think not.” She was still shaking.

  “It’s all right, ma’am,” he said. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  Fire blazed in her eyes despite the fact she still looked like a scared rabbit. “I am not afraid. I’m just…” She looked away. “It’s just not what I’m used to, that’s all.”

  “You don’t travel alone much, do you?” The words came out before he could figure out why.

  She swung her gaze back to meet his. “No,” she said softly. “Not much.”

  Unless he missed his guess, the correct answer was not at all. Something strange and protective rose up in him.