The Most Eligible Bachelor Romance Collection: Nine Historical Romances Celebrate Marrying for All the Right Reasons (2 page)

“Sure, sure. I’ll be right down.” He hung up and leaned back in the padded leather chair, taking in an office the size of his mother’s drawing room. Twin fireplaces flanked opposite sides of the oak-paneled apartment. Rich Turkish carpets cluttered the floor. A painting by Reynolds hung above the mantle across from him. The desk he sat at could, if needed, make an impressive battering ram.

He stood, stretching kinks from his neck. Gave a cursory glance at his appearance in the mirror, setting his tie straight, combing back errant strands of his dark hair.

He took the lift down to the first floor and made his way through the foyer, his polished leather shoes tapping the black-and-white marble. As expected, three pressmen, all alike in baggy suits and carrying identical notepads, waited. Like three ravenous wolves licking their chops as they watched a hapless sheep.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” He put on his signature smile, the one his mother said could break any female heart in America and beyond. Best to keep smiling and get it over with.

“Ah, Mr. Buchanan. At last.” They, too, pasted on smiles—patronizing ones. “We won’t take much of your time, precious as it must be. We only have…” The tallest of the three tapped pencil against paper. “A few, short questions.”

Geoffrey nodded. “Short questions, yes.” He forced back a grin.

“How would you say the railroads are doing since last month’s coal shortage?”

“Be confident. Be cool.”
His father’s words drummed in his brain.

“Never better.” He folded his arms and smiled a cocky smile. Least said, soonest over.

The pressman waited, eyes expectant. Geoffrey said nothing.

“Is it true you’re considering entrance into the political scene?”

“No,” was all he gave in answer to that inane rumor. Politics had been Father’s forte. Not his. Although he’d taken on the mantle as head of the family, he wouldn’t add anything else to his pile of responsibilities.

“How are you enjoying society this year? Any young lady in particular you fancy? Rumor has it you were spotted driving down Fifth Avenue with a certain Miss Tremaine at your side.” One of the pressmen waggled his brows.

“Miss Tremaine is a lovely young lady and undeniably the season’s brightest star.”

The pressmen exchanged looks as if he’d just given them a nugget of gold.

“Do we hear wedding bells, Mr. Buchanan?”

Not on your tintype, Mr. Curiosity.

“No comment. Now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have other matters that require my attention.” With a parting smile, he sidestepped the group and made his way through the glass double doors bearing the letters B
UCHANAN
R
AILROAD
O
FFICES
. He’d put in enough work for one day.

Outside, the city boiled over with life, a great bubbling cauldron of sights and people. He caught a glimpse of the Astor carriage clattering down the street, the footmen bedecked in their signature maroon livery. The pungent aroma of chestnuts from a nearby vendor teased his senses, tempting him to purchase a bag, but he forged ahead. He had to think.

The best place to organize his thoughts—Central Park.

A slice of countryside in the city, a place to be alone and contemplate.

He quickened his steps. The letter within his pocket burned like a brand.

Mother’s blasted house party. An annual event held at the family masterpiece in North Carolina. Hosted for one reason alone.

To find him a suitable wife.

Or maybe two. Mother did enjoy showing off the family silver.

If only there was a way to wrangle his way out of it. Or at the very least, something he could do that would allow him freedom from his dreaded enemy—the marriage-minded miss.

He used to go with expectations high, hoping against hope to meet the one. Not anymore. Those hopes had dried up like the Sahara Desert on year three of Mother introducing him to yet another batch of women who wanted him only for dollars and cents. Foolishly perhaps, he still dreamed of more. The moment when he would look into the eyes of a woman and see not mere greed for his millions, but a love for himself…

Then, and only then, would anyone hear wedding bells.

Chapter 2

A
re you all right, miss?”

Ada gasped. She swung her gaze upward and glared at the intruder through a haze of tears.

“I’m fine.” The words rasped against her raw throat.

“Pardon me for saying so, but you look anything but fine.”

She dried her eyes and gave the person a cursory glance. A tall man, probably over six feet. Eyes bluer than the stream near the farm. A gray pinstripe suit that looked straight out of
The Gentleman’s Magazine
encased his broad shoulders, a gold watch fob dangling over the vest. Sunlight caught the glint of a signet ring, the warm rays accentuating his coal-black hair.

Everything about him oozed money. Since rich stiffs didn’t bother to acknowledge her existence, that meant he was either crazy or dishonorable.

In either case, she’d better go.

“Truly, I’m fine.” She hiccupped, wincing at the juvenile effect that a bout of tears always brought on. A half-torn piece of newsprint cluttered the ground. She picked it up, shredded pieces off a corner, and flung them onto the dirt. Anything to still her shaking hands. To avoid looking into those summer-day eyes, while her own were undoubtedly puffy and red.

“Do you realize you’re demolishing Geoffrey Buchanan’s face?” Amusement lit the man’s tone.

“What?” She flattened the newspaper. Sure enough, a picture of Geoffrey Buchanan stared back at her. Wall Street wonder. Eligible bachelor. Richer than a man had a right to be.

Another gasp escaped.

The man in the paper and the man standing in front of her looked… identical.

Couldn’t be.

Not only had she gotten sacked from her job, but she’d also nearly beheaded a picture of one of the most famous men in New York. While he stood right there and watched.

This took the ticket for tale of the year.

“You’re Geoffrey Buchanan?” Her words came out, a whisper.

He nodded, grinning.

“Good gracious!” She shot to her feet, fire braising her cheeks. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t recognize you at first. You look…”

“Ten times more princely in real life?” His grin deepened. “Don’t worry. The
Times
has a dreadful artist.” He leaned closer. “But don’t tell the press I said so.”

“That wasn’t what I was about to say.” She resumed her seat on the bench, wishing for a breeze to fan the heat from her face.

He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it on the grass, then sat, looking up at her. “You know my name, but I haven’t had the pleasure of hearing yours.” His voice could charm a tightwad into handing over their wallet. Deep and well modulated, with the slightest hint of a British accent.

“Ada McClane.” She pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes.

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Ada McClane. I promise to give you full benefit of my years of lessons in how to bow to a lady, once I stand up.”

She laughed, in spite of herself.

“Now, Miss Ada McClane, what were you crying about?” Those blue eyes—cobalt really—watched her intently.

She shouldn’t even consider telling him. After all, what did he know of poverty? Geoffrey Buchanan, with New York City in the palm of his hand? Who didn’t have to ration out a loaf of bread to make it last a week or stave off creditors with paper-thin promises. The mere thought of how much food undoubtedly resided in his kitchen, this very moment, made her mouth water.

Yet… he looked at her. Not through her, but at her. With a stare that no doubt had every debutante in Mrs. Astor’s Four Hundred falling in heaps at his feet. Inviting her to pour out her heart and be understood.

After all, what girl of her acquaintance could say they’d had a tête-à-tête with the King of Railroads?

“I got fired from my job today.” She swallowed hard, the memories rushing back. Mr. Hunt’s look of triumph, the dread in her stomach like a lump of lead. “I fell asleep while operating one of the machines. It was just for a moment, but he saw.”

Geoffrey Buchanan simply nodded.

“I wouldn’t care so much, but there’s Teddy.”

“Teddy is?” Surely this man had better things to do than listen to her tale of woe. But he studied her as if this were the most engrossing conversation he’d ever heard.

“My brother. He’s… not well. He’s had a cough for the past six months. The doctors say it’s consumption. The medicine costs almost all my wages, and doesn’t seem to do much of anything. And what with the rent on the apartment and food and all… Well, you see, I can’t afford not to be earning.” She twisted her hands in the skirt of her dress. Now he would recoil as if she were dirt under his feet. He, with his fine life, probably didn’t know a thing about how people like her earned their bread.

Instead, he rubbed a finger across the bridge of his nose, as if in thought. “What your brother would truly benefit from is a sanatorium. The air in New York—”

“Is revolting.”

“Exactly.”

“I would do anything to send him somewhere else, but travel costs money, and I haven’t got any.” She stood and brushed at her skirts, preparing to walk away. Surely now, he’d be glad to be free of their conversation.

He picked a blade of grass and stared at it. She bit her lip. One didn’t walk away from Geoffrey Buchanan without so much as a word.

Suddenly, he looked up. “Anything?”

“What?”

“You said you’d do anything.”

“Anything honest and honorable.” Was he suggesting some kind of fling? Did he think her “one of those girls”? Who he could take advantage of just because she happened to be poor and desperate? If he did, she would show him a thing or two. One of which would include a bloody nose or a black eye.

Still, the glare she aimed his way didn’t ruffle him in the least. He only smiled, his gaze lit with a strange excitement.

“Then listen closely, Miss Ada McClane.”

“Why?” She narrowed her eyes.

“Because I’m about to make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

In business, it was common practice when each had something the other wanted, to strike a bargain.

He, sound man of business, was about to strike one with Ada McClane.

Even though she watched him like an angry hawk, her eyes ablaze with outrage.

Still, he had to try. She needed his help.

Heaven knew, he needed hers.

He cleared his throat, studying her. Honey-colored hair barely contained in a messy knot at the nape of her neck. Pink cheeks. Full lips. A slender frame swallowed in a sack-like dress.

Her eyes. Wide and expressive. The color of emeralds. Fringed by long, thick lashes. He’d always thought the phrase “eyes are windows to the soul” trite. With Ada McClane, it was dead true.

In the right clothes she could pass for a debutante worthy of Mrs. Astor’s scrutiny.

And win the admiring gazes of every man in the room.

“What kind of offer?” She looked at him as if he were about to suggest something despicable.

“Strictly business. However, if you agree, you’ll end up with enough money to send your brother away. Not to mention the job I’ll give you. A good position in one of my offices.”

“How much money are we talking about?” The gruff tone of most investors seemed friendly compared to hers.

He teased her with a grin. “Say, a thousand dollars?”

Her jaw dropped. She muttered something under her breath. Then, “If you’re intending to pay me that much, it must be the worst job in the world.”

“Not quite.” He laughed. Dash it, she didn’t mince words. “In fact, I think you might enjoy it.”

“What is it?”

“I need you to pretend to be madly in love with me for three weeks. So much so that you’ve agreed to marry me.”

She gasped.

“My mother is having a house party at Meadowbrook Hall, her North Carolina retreat. This year, as usual, it’s designed specifically to find me a wife.”

She gave him a look that clearly conveyed she thought he was crazy. Overhead, birds trilled, and across the park children laughed and played, the sound infectious. Carefree. The way he hoped to be if she accepted his offer. Though honestly, she’d be daft not to. After all, it was a thousand dollars.

“All I have to do is pretend to be your fiancée?”

“For three weeks.”

“But why? Surely you could get hundreds of girls to do it free of charge.”

“Well, Miss McClane, it’s very simple.”

She scrunched her nose, as if she doubted it.

“My mother has been trying ever since I was twenty to marry me off to any skirt with a family name and fortune. But you see, I don’t want that. A woman who married me merely for the Buchanan wealth could never love me, and I believe firmly that marriage is only a success when it is founded on mutual respect and devotion. Any other way would be settling for something less, and I don’t intend to settle. Ever.”

He took a deep breath. He’d carried those thoughts around in his heart for years but had never voiced them to a single person. Why had he suddenly felt compelled to spill his secret into Ada McClane’s lap?