The Most Eligible Bachelor Romance Collection: Nine Historical Romances Celebrate Marrying for All the Right Reasons (66 page)

Not a single idea came to mind.

Irie took the accordion folder from Mrs. Norris. After a “Thank you” To his secretary and an “Enjoy your day” To him, she departed the Baker Cattle Company office with a confident swish to her hips he
knew
he’d never seen before.

Mrs. Norris scurried around her desk. She picked up the phone. “Sir, I’ll get Mr. Waggoner on the line.”

“Belay the request.” In six quick strides he reached his father’s door and jerked it open. “Dad, what where you and Irie discussing?”

Dad laid his pencil atop a Double Diamond puzzle in the
Fort Worth Star-Telegram.
He grinned like he’d made another million in cattle sales, which wasn’t likely since Duke did all the buying and selling. “Don’t just stand there. Have a seat.”

Duke didn’t move from the threshold. “I asked you a question.”

“You.”

“Me what?”

“We discussed
you.
It’s good to have a female perspective. Since your mother is no longer with us, I hired Irie to assist in evaluating the characters of The Twelve and advise you in ways to court them. Mrs. Norris has files for the two of you to peruse and study before the ladies arrive. You will begin meeting with Irie tonight to discuss The Twelve, and you will continue meeting every two or three days to take stock of what you’ve both learned about your guests, one of which could be your future wife.”

Duke’s mouth gaped. “You’re serious?”

Dad nodded.

Participating in this ridiculous courtship made shambles of his pride. Knowing he would have to take courting advice from Irie—

Duke gritted his teeth. “How much are you paying her?”

“She’s being severely inconvenienced, Duke. I’m making it worth her while.”

Duke turned on his heels and stalked back to his office, stopping himself at the last minute from slamming the door. He sat on the windowsill and looked at the buggies, automobiles, and pedestrians on the street four floors below. If he had any sense, he would grab his daughter and hightail it straight to Montana, or wherever there weren’t any marriage-minded women and matchmaking fathers.

The elevator door opened, and Irie stepped out into the Farmers and Mechanics Bank’s first-floor lobby, one hand clenching her pocketbook and the other the folder. She never lost her temper. Usually never. Yet the moment Duke had questioned the newness of her clothes, she saw red. If it wasn’t for the generous offer his father had made, she would’ve tossed the folder at his expensively booted feet and said exactly what she thought of him for agreeing to this odd courtship. He was a grown man. He had a daughter to think of. What type of example would he be setting for her by courting twelve women? At the same time!

What type of example was
she
setting by agreeing to help him merely for the payoff?

She couldn’t do it. She wouldn’t. Even if Duke Baker got down on one knee and proposed marriage, she’d refuse. The Baker men took her for granted. Enough was enough.

Irie swung around, fully intent on returning upstairs, but the elevator door had closed. The light above showed it going to the fifth floor. She released an unladylike groan under her breath.

“Miss LaCroix, what a chance meeting this is,” came a charming voice to her left.

Irie turned and, for a moment, forgot to breathe. There stood the stunning Julian Parish—the fireman who wore three-piece suits from Bond Street in London, stood a head above any crowd, and was awarded a pin last Sunday in church for perfect attendance. Upon more than one occasion, her mother had mentioned what an honorable man he was. And single, too! After he walked out of Lake Erie carrying two children who’d tipped their boat, his wet shirt soaked to his body, she and all the other ladies at the Independence Day Social had experienced a moment of appreciation for his selfless actions.

Save for Mr. Duke Baker himself, there wasn’t a more eligible bachelor in Fort Worth than Julian Parish. His beautiful smile could blindside a girl. If she wasn’t moving to San Francisco, she would entertain her mother’s wishful matchmaking. Something about him made her feel utterly, utterly feminine.

“How do you do, Mr. Parish?” she said with a smile.

His heavily lashed gray eyes took on a merry glint. “Very well, now that I see you.” He drew her to the side of the elevator. “I intended to speak to you Sunday, but…” Redness crept from under the collar of his white shirt and rose to his well-sculpted cheeks. He clenched the brim of his black Stetson with both hands. “Would, uhh, would you be interested in having dinner with me tonight at the Westbrook?”

Her heart warmed at her first dinner invitation since returning to Fort Worth. And to the new hotel to boot! If he knew about her past (considering the gossips, how could he not?), he clearly didn’t care. But tonight? She grimaced. She had to discuss The Twelve with Duke.

“I can’t.”

His shoulders drooped. “Sorry to have bothered you. Good day.”

She grabbed his arm, stopping him from leaving. “I meant I can’t tonight.”
Oh, why not. I’m stuck here for another month.
“I would be delighted to have lunch with you tomorrow.”

For a moment she thought he was about to swoop his hat into the air. “Excellent. Noon?”

“Eleven?”

“Even better.” With another blinding smile, he offered her his arm. “Here, let me walk you to the trolley.”

As they walked out of the bank lobby, with Mr. Parish chatting up a storm, Irie counted the number of female gazes turned their way, their attention, she knew, not on her chic albeit simple costume. Who knows, perhaps a spontaneous lunch date would lead to a forever love. Who was to say she couldn’t open her cooking school here in Fort Worth.

She gave him a once-over.

She could certainly do worse than Julian Parish.

Chapter 4

Four days later

T
he setting sun painted an array of pinks and oranges she would have found romantic at any other time. Not tonight. Irie stared wide-eyed at the back of Duke’s perfectly tailored suit coat. Why had she never seen his flaws before? They were myriad. Why was she still helping him, even after vowing to stop every day since meeting with Mr. Baker?

Fifty thousand reasons why.

She slapped her file down on the whitewashed gazebo bench. “Fillies? Really, Duke? They aren’t horses.”

Duke continued to watch his daughter toss what looked to be—from what Irie could see through the roses growing on the gazebo—flower petals into the pond. “I believe I said
if
they were fillies, they would all be thoroughbreds. A metaphor, not an insult. Dad chose well.”

“First of all,” Irie instructed, “you will always refer to them as ladies, metaphorically or otherwise. Second, when you are in a conversation with a lady, you will speak to her face-to-face, because doing so says to her you are interested in the conversation. Ladies like that.”
Including me.
She waited.

He didn’t turn around.

Irie tapped her fingers on the file. Whatever Duke was putting into this courting, it wasn’t his heart. Most of their discussion tonight was spent with him watching Tabitha run about the yard.

Something consumed his thoughts. She’d wager it wasn’t The Twelve. After having spent the last four evenings quizzing him on the information Mrs. Norris had compiled on The Twelve and their families, she was tired and wanted nothing more than to shed her white blouse, gray linen skirt, and stockings for a soak in a warm bath. Baking pies for tomorrow’s charity auction would have to wait until morning. Maybe she would bake an extra one for Mr. Parish and take it to the fire station along with her acceptance of his invitation to attend the opera tomorrow night.

Pro: He was an honorable deputy, as good looking as most men.

Pro: He looked at her when they spoke.

Pro: He wasn’t Duke.

Con: He wasn’t Duke.

Irie sighed. Time and distance were what she—what her heart—needed.

She scooped up her file. “We should call it a night.”

As she approached the gazebo step, Duke spoke in a soft voice. “Why do girls kiss frogs?”

She jolted to a stop.

He turned to face her, leaning back against a gazebo beam. Her breath caught. For a moment all she could do was stare because his heavily lashed blue eyes were focused on hers, looking for what, she couldn’t imagine nor would she have the courage to ask. A wrinkle deepened between his brows. Two feet separated them. She couldn’t remember a time they’d stood this close and actually talked to each other. He smelled of peppercorn and leather, his cologne taking her back to the days when he tutored her in algebra. Her toes itched to move forward, to move closer. None of The Twelve would love him like she would—

Stop. Stop this now. These feelings—this pathetic desire—for him, she refused to let it control her. Not again.

She’d agreed to help him find a wife. She wasn’t one of his choices.

She would never be his choice.

Irie gave him a confused look to hide the tumult inside. “Why do you ask?”

“Tabitha has been kissing the frogs in the pond,” he groused.

She covered her mouth with the folder to hide a smile while she gained control over the brimming laughter. Duke clearly didn’t find this humorous.

“She says it’s how you find a prince,” he added. “Her imaginary friend Misery gave her the idea.”

No, it’d come from the fairy tale book Irie had been reading to her.

A five-year-old kissing frogs was as ridiculous as an eighteen-year-old doing it. Love made a girl do stupid things. So did unrequited love. And when the girl woke up to see the prince wasn’t so charming after all, she realized how stupid she’d been pinning all her hopes and dreams and plans on the happily-ever-after. The embarrassing truth of it all hurt and made her fear—after eight years of being alone—she would never find real love.

“Duke, has it never dawned on you that your daughter’s imaginary friend is a real person?”

He gave her a blank look. Then his eyes widened. “Misery—she’s you. Miss Irie. Well then, Misery, tell me what women think.”

Her heart pounded, pulse raced. She didn’t have to answer Duke. She could walk away. But by the way he looked at her, she knew he needed an answer.

Maybe
she
needed to be the one to tell him.

Unable to bear his scrutiny, she looked to where Tabitha sat on the plush green lawn removing her shoes and stockings. “I think God made girls to yearn for romance more than boys do, although I’m not sure why. We want the perfect prince. We want the happily-ever-after. We want—”
To be seen.

Duke waited for her to finish.

Her eyes were shiny, her chin trembled, and all he wanted to do was pull her into his arms and tell her it would be all right. But the sun was setting. Even though she wasn’t dolled up as she had been that day in his office, the sunset added a glow to her expressive face.

She drew in a breath. Her voice held a renewed strength. “You men don’t realize the power you have over us. Nothing
—nothing
can make us feel more joy, passion, doubt, and insecurity than a man. We kiss frogs because we want to believe falling in love is the answer to our problems. Life will now be wonderful because we found someone to take care of us.”

“Is that why you married the salesman?”

Her lips tightened at the corners. “Yes.”

“If my parents hadn’t removed you from him, would you have stayed?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

He wanted to ask more. He wanted to know the reason for her divorce that no one had ever shared, the reason he hadn’t cared to know until now. But she turned to where he could only see her exquisite profile. She was hurting, and he was to blame. He’d married Janet, and all had been well in his world until she died. True loves weren’t supposed to die young. His did. He wasn’t enjoying a happily-ever-after any more than Irie was.

“Duke,” she blurted, “you need to consider the ladies’ feelings.”

“I am.”

“Really?” She nodded to his left hand. “No woman wants to feel like she’s competing with the memory of a dead wife.”

He slid the silver band off his finger. “There.” He pocketed it and ignored how odd his hand felt.