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 have plans that will keep me busy,” she said with all the confidence she wished she had. “In fact, I have an early morning planned for tomorrow, so I really must say good night.”

  “Good night, then, Octavia.”

  He had leaned slightly closer. Or perhaps it was she who had done the leaning. Emboldened by anonymity, Tavia considered what it might feel like to allow this strong, handsome man to kiss her.

  Oh.

  Kiss her? Tavia’s eyes flew open, and she stumbled back three steps until she was at the door. Heat flooded her face, and her pulse raced as she turned and reached for the handle.

  What was she thinking?

  Any attempt at a graceful escape disappeared when the door opened, knocking her unceremoniously onto her bustle. Thudding down two more steps, she landed in a puddle of skirts and shame at Merritt’s feet.

  “Oh dear.” A sweet elderly gentleman appeared in her line of vision. “Is the young lady all right?”

  Tavia managed a smile. “I’m fine. Truly.”

  “I think you bear seeing to,” Merritt said as he helped her to her feet. “Let’s get you to a doctor right now.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m fine,” she said, first to the gray-haired man and then to Merritt.

  “I am a doctor,” The old gentleman said. “And I fear this is all my fault. Please allow me to remedy this.” He reached past her to shake Merritt’s hand. “Reginald Paulus,” he said. “I fear your wife will be bruised, but I don’t see any sign of trauma.”

  “I’m not his wife,” Tavia said as she wrenched free of the taxi driver’s grip. “And I’m not hurt, I promise.” Other than my pride.

  Pale blue eyes studied her. “I see. Well, if you should need anything, please do call on me. My office is on the corner of Royal and Canal.”

  She glanced over at Merritt and then back at the doctor. “Thank you,” she said. “And good night to both of you,” she added as she allowed the quickest glance at the man who had kept her entertained all day.

  This time when she reached for the door, she actually managed to accomplish the feat of stepping inside the hotel and climbing the stairs to her room. Sleep was fitful, and she awoke several times during the night, not so much due to the bruises forming on her backside, but thanks to the handsome taxi driver who came close enough to kiss.

  Almost.

  Finally in the deepest darkness of the night, she sat up in bed and clutched the blankets to her chest. “Lord,” she whispered into the blackness beyond the mosquito netting that cocooned her bed, “rid my thoughts of that man. I simply cannot be distracted from my purpose. And I simply cannot go home to Father without knowing if I can manage on my own.”

  Sleep finally came then, but with the sunrise came another more pressing issue. What did one wear to claim a job as a typist? Especially when one did not have the least idea how to type.

  Chapter 3

  Rit took one look at the woman seated with her back to him in his office and knew with all certainty she was not a typist. Between her ramrod-straight posture and her less-than-covert inspection of the cleanliness of his desk with her gloved hand, she exuded that same snobbish quality his mother valued so highly in a prospective daughter-in-law.

  And so far this month there had been at least a half-dozen prospective daughters-in-law paraded through his office on the pretense of seeking employment.

  With the memory of last night’s bad behavior still weighing on him, the last thing he wanted to do today was deal with another woman. Not that almost kissing the lovely and mysterious Octavia was awful. It was the opposite. In fact, her apparent lack of experience lent not only a sweetness to their near-kiss but a memory that would last much longer than he’d like.

  His last memory of Octavia would always be of her clinging to that iron rail and trying desperately to remain upright. He’d check in with his pal who owned the hotel and be certain she was taken care of during her stay. Perhaps a discreet guard could be posted to keep her from any danger. Yes, he’d send over a man to handle that.

  But first, he had to deal with the woman now seated in his office. The woman who had apparently been hired to be his new typist.

  Before she turned around and realized he was there, Rit beat a hasty and quiet exit. Though he carefully shut his own office door, he held no such pretension when it came to slamming open his brother’s.

  Rit found the two culprits—his two younger brothers—standing together at the eastern window, no doubt admiring the main ships of the Baker Shipping line awaiting cargo down at the docks. “I demand this farce cease immediately.”

  “Farce?” middle brother Charles said as he offered his customary bland expression, while Asa, youngest by nearly a decade, stared openly.

  Rit closed the door but remained in place. “No matter what the two of you think, I will not be hurried.”

  “Hurried?” Charles said as he took his place behind his desk. “Hurried would be marrying within days of the reading of Father’s will. Or weeks. Months, even. But years, Rit? I don’t call that hurrying.”

  “You might consider trying marriage,” Asa offered. “It can be quite nice.”

  Of course Asa would think so. The kid had been in love with Beatrice Small since they were children in the schoolyard. Asa had married for love, and Rit hoped Bea had as well, though he still wasn’t certain.

  “So can marrying for money, or for a fair share of it.” Charles allowed a pause, though Rit knew he wasn’t finished. “Not that any of us will see a dime of our inheritances until you give up the pretense of looking for true love or the woman God has for you or whatever the excuse you’re offering today might be. As they say in the gossip columns, you’re the last Baker brother. Do something about that for the sake of the company, won’t you?”

  Rit aimed his glare past Asa and allowed it to land squarely on Charles. “Baker Shipping is doing just fine.”

  “Baker Shipping is being threatened by takeover,” Charles snapped, “and you’ve been too busy playing with your horses back on the ranch to care.”

  “I care,” Rit said evenly. “But a decent offer from a man who just might bring enough cash into the company to finally expand is hardly a threat. At least not in my opinion.”

  “Decent or not, I won’t allow anyone to have any part of a New Orleans company our father handed to us.” Charles paused. “Or rather, will eventually hand to us when you finally get around to taking a wife.”

  Rit bit back a nasty retort. “Neither of you need the money. I will find a wife on my own time in my own way. And as to whoever is trying to buy us out, we will listen to what he has to say.” He shifted his attention to Asa. “Set up a meeting, then we’ll vote.” He turned back to Charles. “By secret ballot, so no one can be bullied into voting your way.”

  The bluster seemed to go out of his middle brother while Asa looked not only grateful but enthused by the proposition that he would be in charge of facilitating a meeting.

  Rit let his gaze slowly sweep the room. “Now, I demand one of you go into my office and let that woman know she will not be working for me after all.”

  “I wouldn’t suggest that,” came a voice from behind him.

  Marie.

  Rit turned to see that not only had the only woman who’d been in his father’s life longer than his mother opened the door quietly, but she had also mustered an expression that told him he’d not get past her until she’d said what she came to say. He managed a smile.

  “Good morning, Marie.”

  “Don’t you ‘good morning’ me,” Marie said as she offered Charles a withering look then settled a smile on Asa. “Neither of these two had any hand in hiring your new typist. I did.”

  “But why her? She obviously has never—”

  “Your daddy never questioned my opinions on the business, and it served him well. I’d think you’d do the same.”

  Rit held back a sigh. She was right. Smart as his father was, the real power—and brains—
behind Baker Shipping was Marie O’Shea, the enigmatic Irishwoman who chose business over marriage and a family.

  “Do you have to think about this?” she demanded. “You know I’m just a hired hand around here, so what you say goes.”

  He chuckled as he reached down to give the dear old lady a kiss on the cheek. “I’d say quite the opposite is true. However, why this particular woman? Have you joined my mother in trying to get me hitched?”

  When he felt Marie chuckle, Rit stepped back so as to watch her carefully. Those brown eyes twinkled but gave nothing away. “Young man, the only thing I joined your mother in is believing your father could wear out his welcome then turn around and make you miss him without even trying.”

  “I suppose a woman could claim that about any man,” Charles said. “Most of them do. Regularly.”

  “That’s because the description fits,” Marie said evenly. “Some better than others.”

  Charles shifted position, his expression giving no hint of his thoughts. “That reminds me, Miss O’Shea. You’ve missed the last three meetings to discuss your retirement. Perhaps we could do that now?”

  Marie leaned toward Rit. “See what I mean?”

  Aware of his brothers’ eyes on him, Rit turned his back on the room and drew Marie in close. “As I was saying, I love you both, but neither you nor my mother are going to choose my wife.” He nodded to his brothers. “Nor are they.”

  She grasped his hand in hers, and Rit was struck by the frailty of her arms. “You’re the son I never had, but you ought to know by now I am too busy keeping this ship afloat to go bride shopping for you. Now, if a suitable contender arrived on my doorstep, I might see what I could do to help.”

  “And the woman in my office, is she a suitable contender?”

  “I think she’s just what you need, if that’s what you’re asking.” Marie nodded toward the hall and then slipped out the door with Rit tagging behind. “Do you want those two and your mother to keep trotting brides-to-be through your office, or do you want to get back to the business of running this company?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  She paused and fixed him with an I-know-what-you’re-thinking look. “Anyone can run the ranches, Rit. Not everyone can run Baker Shipping. Your father would have—”

  “Wanted me to look after things here,” he supplied. “That’s the only reason I’m here.”

  “You’re a good son, Rit.” Her expression softened. “Asa will be ready to take over someday. I’ve been helping him along.” She lifted her finger to her lips. “Don’t tell Charles.”

  Rit grinned. Yes, someday Asa would be ready. Suddenly a home on Baker Ranch to do what he loved did not seem like it was a lifetime away.

  “I hope you’ve got a plan for when Charles finds out.”

  “I’ve always got a plan.” She gestured toward Rit’s closed door. “However, as to the young lady down the hall—whose name is Miss Derby, by the way—I believe you will find that she can successfully keep both your mother and your brothers from bothering you with any more prospective Baker brides.”

  “And how will Miss Derby do that?”

  Marie shook her head. “Do I have to explain everything? Now get back in there and make the best of it, Merritt Baker.”

  Tavia allowed herself the briefest moment of indecision as she heard the heavy footsteps pause outside the door. There was still time to change her mind. To end the ruse that had begun with the simplest and rarest of disagreements. To turn around and go back home without having had to mislead a man who was, by all accounts, a decent sort.

  Then Father’s words echoed: “You’ll never manage on your own, Tavia. Let me find a husband for you.” Close behind was the warning she’d learned at her mother’s knee: “Guard your heart, daughter. Any man who knows you are a Derby before he knows your heart will see nothing but your father’s money.”

  She would prove her father wrong. As long as Mr. Baker didn’t require a typing test, she would do just fine.

  “I’m sorry to keep you waiting. Miss Derby, I just have one question. How did you convince Miss O’Shea to…” The man and his words halted halfway between Tavia and the door.

  Odd, but he looked an awful lot like that handsome taxi driver who’d showed her New Orleans yesterday. Tavia shifted her weight and felt the bruise that reminded her of that adventure.

  Surely he couldn’t be…

  “Octavia?”

  He was.

  “Merritt. Is that you?” Her breath caught. Oh no. Mr. Baker would not be happy to find she brought a guest with her to her first day on the job. “My new employer will be here any minute. You really must go.”

  The interloper ignored her to cross the room as if he owned the place. “Your new employer,” he said with some amusement. “And who might that be?”

  “Mr. Baker, of course,” Tavia said as she moved past him toward the door to peer out. Good. No sign of the man at the helm of Baker Shipping. She stepped back inside but left the door open for Merritt’s quick exit.

  Instead, the infuriating man made himself comfortable on the edge of the boss’s desk.

  “I’ll be fired before I begin, if you don’t leave.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Yes, I do. I’m already at a disadvantage because I’ve been hired as a typist and I don’t know the first thing about typing. Imagine how it will go when Mr. Baker comes in and finds I’ve brought you along as well.”

  He reached behind him to pick up a paperweight in the shape of a sailing ship and then held it up to the light. Then came the infuriating grin. “That boss of yours, what’s he like? A grumpy fellow? Someone who wouldn’t want me playing with his toys?”

  “I have no idea, but I’ve heard he’s quite nice. Now put that down.” Tavia snatched the ship out of the taxicab driver’s hands and returned it to the desk then grasped his elbow and led him toward the door.

  “Quite nice? Who told you that? Was it that pretty girl in the mailroom? I hope it wasn’t—”

  “Go,” she said when they reached the door. “Now!”

  “Oh, I see you two are getting along nicely.”

  Tavia looked past the irritating taxi driver to see Miss O’Shea standing just down the hallway. Horror rendered her mute. Apparently Merritt felt no such compunction to keep quiet.

  “Yes, we are,” he told Bridget’s aunt. “We’re getting along quite nicely. Would you mind fetching Miss Derby a typewriter? I believe she’s due a typing test.”

  “Merritt Baker, don’t you start with me. Miss Derby, you’ll do well to learn that this fellow only means about half of what he says.”

  Merritt Baker.

  Slowly those two words sank in.

  Merritt. Baker.

  Her boss.

  “I mean every word I say,” he protested. “The truth of the matter is she only listens to half.” Merritt fixed his gaze on Tavia. “Confused?”

  “A bit,” she managed. “How can you drive a taxicab and run Baker Shipping? That makes no sense.”

  Merritt Baker crossed the room with a purposeful stride. “Sit down, Octavia.” Rather than take a seat behind the massive desk, he faced the window behind it, lacing his hands behind him. Abruptly, he turned to face her. “You are obviously not a secretary, and yet you have convinced someone I trust to offer you the position. How is that?”

  “And you convinced me to trust you, Merritt. How could you let me think you were a taxicab driver when you obviously have all of this?” Her gaze scanned the room and then landed back on him. “You should have said something. I certainly never deceived you regarding who I was.”

  He looked as if he hadn’t considered that until now. “I suppose that’s true,” he said slowly, “but you did climb into my buggy uninvited.”

  “Did I?” She paused to consider this. “I don’t recall. But I suppose it’s possible I might have assumed…”

  “You did assume,” Merritt corrected, “but I did have a grand tim
e playing tour guide.”

  She allowed a smile. “As did I.”

  “And not being recognized.” His grin broadened. “I liked that part, too.”

  Tavia met his gaze. “As did I.”

  Merritt shook his head. “I don’t follow. Should I know you?”

  “I don’t suppose so,” she said. “But there are many places where the name Derby does command attention. That’s why I’m here. I’m spending one month not being a Derby.”

  “Derby,” he repeated. Slowly recognition grew. “Is your father…”

  “Samuel Derby of Derby Mining, Ranching, and Railroad Company?” she supplied. “Yes.”

  “And you are my typist,” he added.

  “Well, of a sort,” Tavia said. “I believe I’ve already mentioned that I do not exactly know my way around a typewriter, but I do have skills that you might find valuable. You see I—”

  Merritt held up a hand to silence her. “First, I want to know how you managed to convince Miss O’Shea to allow you up here in the first place.”

  She straightened a cuff that was not in need of straightening and then regarded him with a polite smile. “Miss O’Shea is a lovely woman. She is also Bridget’s aunt. You might recall that Bridget is, or rather was, my traveling companion.”

  “Yes, I suppose.”

  “Well, when Father and I had our disagreement about whether I was able to care for myself without his assistance, I confided in Bridget that I wished I could prove myself right. Together we concocted a plan that began with a letter to Miss O’Shea. A plea, really.”

  “A plea?”

  “For employment for one month’s time. I shall earn my keep and will take a paycheck that will allow me to prove to my father that I am fully capable of taking care of myself.”

  “And that you don’t need a husband,” he added.

  “You remembered.”

  “When a pretty lady tells me she’s not interested in matrimony, I tend to remember, yes. Especially considering how things are around here right now.”