The Most Eligible Bachelor Romance Collection: Nine Historical Romances Celebrate Marrying for All the Right Reasons (68 page)

Duke circled the table looking for a better angle. Found one. With a little tap of the cue ball, the green-striped ball eased past a solid-green one and fell into a pocket. Dad walked to the hearth, mumbling, the carpet muting the sound of his boots.

Duke leaned against the table, holding back his amusement at goading his father. “We should’ve assigned each girl a color. The Hightowers only wear blue, the Diaz girl yellow, the Rayburn one pink, the Sharps purple, and so on, and so on. Sure would make it easier to remember.”

Dad leaned his cue stick against the hearth then sank into a chair. “First meetings are always the hardest, son. By week’s end, you’ll have it all down. What you need to do is think about what it is you’re looking for… in a wife,” he said pointedly. “Not just to be Tabitha’s mother.”

Now
that,
after three hours with The Twelve, was something Duke knew for certain. “For starters, I’d like to be able to have a conversation that doesn’t include fashion advice for women or miniature poodles.”

Dad nodded in understanding. He crossed one knee over the other. “Eliza Rayburn is an expert on cattle, didn’t she tell you?”

Duke frowned. “No, she didn’t.” Of anything, this would have caught his attention. “I’d also like a woman with her own thoughts and opinions, and the courage to express them.”

“The Cartwright girl speaks four languages. Graduated TCU last May with two degrees.” When Duke said nothing, Dad added, “The carrot-topped one who spent more time talking to Irie than to you.”

Duke chalked the tip of the cue stick again. The redhead did seem taken more with Irie, which didn’t surprise him. Unlike the other women in their elaborate coiffures, Irie had worn her glossy ebony hair knotted at the back of her head in a simple yet chic bun. A rather unadorned Appaloosa amid ribbon-tied thoroughbreds. How had he never noticed before how stunning she was? Save for Eliza Rayburn, Irie had a golden glow to her skin that made the other girls look pasty white.

Dad slapped the armrests of his chair. “I see your smile. I knew a girl would catch your eye. Linny Cartwright is a good choice. She…”

While Dad rambled, Duke stared absently at the billiards table.

Watching the two women speak with such ease during dinner and afterward in the garden had filled him with envy. He’d barely been able to eat supper, his stomach in knots over what to say. Irie, though, graciously welcomed each of the house party guests by name when they arrived for the meal, showed them where to sit, and answered any questions they had, even coming to his rescue when he’d forgotten a name. If he could have found a way to keep her by his side all evening, he would have. He suspected The Twelve (and their equally cinched mothers) were dress-to-the-minute women who, like sheep exactly, followed the ever-changing fashion trends and clothed themselves as replicas of each other, their own types and personalities having no influence. Irie’s high-waisted, black-beaded dress reminded him of those innovative corset-free gowns his wife used to favor after she had Tabitha.

Only, his wife would have never managed the crowd like Irie had tonight. After Janet birthed Tabitha, her bubbly personality changed.
He
had to be the gregarious one—be what wasn’t natural for him—because of her new apprehension of crowds. He’d pretend she was dragging him to social events in order to keep everyone from knowing about her panic and thinking the worst of her. He’d loved his wife, but being a social butterfly had been exhausting.

The next woman he married would be strong where he was weak.

Was it asking too much for one of The Twelve to be more like Irie? Confident and kind. She didn’t cower before any of the imposing mothers or glare in jealousy at the grand costumes of the other girls. She wouldn’t wear perfume in hopes of being kissed by a practical stranger. When he struggled with the temptation to flee the room, she somehow knew and would give him a reassuring smile. If she could teach The Twelve to cook with just half the skill she had, the eleven he didn’t choose wouldn’t lack for suitors.

She was the type of woman he wanted his daughter to become.

What he needed was to marry a woman like Irie.

Maybe Linny Cartwright was the one. Irie clearly liked her, which counted for much in his book. Before going to bed, he’d study her file. Tomorrow he’d have Mrs. LaCroix ensure Miss Cartwright sit next to him during supper. He ought to spend time getting to know the Rayburn girl, too. A girl who was an expert on cattle would make an excellent wife. And he needed to give equal attention to each of the other girls to find what he could have missed tonight. Choosing a wife wasn’t as simple as buying cattle. They had feelings he needed to be respectful of; after all, they were each some man’s daughter.

Content with his decision, Duke leaned over the table and went through the motion of hitting the blue-striped number ten. An easy shot. He drew the cue stick back and—

“What would you think,” Dad interjected, “of asking Irie to play hostess every night? One of the mothers mentioned to me this evening how helpful it would be.”

The idea should have been appealing. Irie would make everything so much easier for him, but what about for her? Considering what his father was paying her to help, she would feel obligated to agree to whatever they asked of her. They were already imposing on her enough. She would’ve arrived in San Francisco today if Dad hadn’t enlisted her. Duke knew
he’d
never asked Irie if she wanted to help him court The Twelve, or even how she felt about helping. Doubtful Dad had asked either.

The most gentlemanly thing Duke could do was not put Irie in a situation where she couldn’t say no. And give her an opening to step out of his life so she could resume living hers, no matter how much he appreciated her being in his home.

Duke straightened, resting the butt of his cue stick on the carpet. He looked to his father, whose eyes had taken on an alarming strategic gleam. “I think it’s a costly idea.”

“If it’s a matter of her not having enough evening gowns, I’ll give her additional money to buy some.”

“Not
that
kind of costly,” he countered, “and no, you won’t.”

“What female wouldn’t want a reason to double her wardrobe?”

“Stop, Dad!” His irritation at his father was compounding by the second. “You’re asking too much of her. You and Irie have done enough for me. I found a girl to marry once without your assistance. I can do it again, understand?” He waited until his father nodded.

Duke turned his attention back to their game. Why did he ever agree to this? Courting twelve women at one time was a prodigious amount of work. And foolish.

Lord, this is the biggest mistake of my life.

But he had to see it through. It was the least The Twelve deserved for trekking all the way to Fort Worth. They had to know their odds of being chosen were one in twelve.

He drew his stick back and… sniffed—spiced apples? Paying the enticing and strangely familiar scent no mind, he struck the cue ball. With a crack, it slammed into his striped target, the force causing the ball to hit the pocket and bounce back. He stared in shock.

“Now how did you miss that shot?”

“I have no idea,” Duke mused.

A knock sounded on the door frame. “Might I interrupt this tête-à-tête?”

His heart leaped. He looked to the threshold. “Irie!” he said, smiling. “We were just talking about you.”

She stood there, holding a sheet of stationery and staring at him as if he’d lost his wits. Her brow furrowed.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“You’ve just never looked happy to see me.”

Duke winced. She actually believed that. “I’m always happy to see you.”

She didn’t look convinced. Her worried gaze shifted to his father, who was now standing. “Sir, as you requested, I did my best tonight to be an ambassador between the ladies and the family. From what they said, I believe they all had a delightful time meeting Duke and are looking with anticipation to the next three weeks. Mrs. Rayburn suggested—” She paused then blurted, “I do hope you two aren’t planning on asking me to attend every dinner.” She touched the beaded bodice of her dress. “This is one of the only two evening gowns I own, and I do not deem it practical for me to spend money on clothing I will have no use for in the future, even if the money is yours.”

Chapter 6

A
horrible, horrible silence pervaded the room.

Irie drew in a steadying breath after having voiced the fear that had begun the moment Mrs. Rayburn had mentioned Irie being an ambassador each evening.

Mr. Baker opened his mouth then closed it. He looked more uncomfortable—and guilty—than Duke did. Both men had removed their dinner jackets, loosened their ties, and rolled up their sleeves. The cowboys they were still wore their boots. The pair was much alike. If the moment wasn’t so tense, she would have smiled.

Duke shifted the billiards stick to his other hand. “Irie, I couldn’t have made it through this evening without your support. Dad and I have agreed you should focus your time and thoughts on doing what you love—teaching others to cook.”

Irie took a moment to stare at him to see if he was joking. His expression remained serious, his eyes with such concern and kindness, as if he cared. About her. She swallowed the awkward lump in her throat. “Your father is paying me to—”

“Help me,” Duke interjected. “And you’ve gone above and beyond what you two initially agreed upon. The only help I need from you from this point on is teaching The Twelve what you learned at cooking school.” One corner of his mouth tipped up in such a devilish manner. “Trust me, I can find a wife without help, which I should have begun months ago.”

Irie didn’t move. Where had this self-assuredness come from? Two hours ago he’d stood like a Thanksgiving turkey amid The Twelve and their mothers. As much as she relished feeling like he needed her, this was the Duke Baker she’d first fallen in love with, not the grieving husband she’d seen since returning home. Her chest verily ached.

I just can’t keep loving you. I can’t.

Irie folded the stationery she held, gave it a firm, albeit crooked, crease, and entered the dimly lit room that smelled of leather and oak. “Seeing you mentioned cooking, is now a convenient time to discuss a few things?”

“Of course.” Mr. Baker motioned to the chair next to his.

“Thank you,” she murmured. Once she sat, he claimed his cue stick from the hearth and moved to the billiards table. He paused long enough to give Duke a pat on the back as they passed each other, with Duke moving to the hearth.

Duke sat in the vacated chair. “What’s the paper for?”

She handed it to him. “This is a list of whom I’m teaching and when. The ladies are excited about the opportunity for cooking lessons and quite appreciative of the copy of Mrs. Farmer’s cookbook in their welcome baskets.”

“Baskets?” The Baker men uttered in unison.

“Mama didn’t discuss this with you?”

Both men shook their heads.

Irie sighed. She couldn’t fault them for not having a hostess’s mind-set.

“The idea wasn’t mine,” Irie clarified. “When I served as Mrs. Baker’s companion, she would design welcome baskets for her guests, which I filled.”

As Mr. Baker stood in the light of the lamp over the billiards table, tears glinted in his eyes. He dipped his head then turned his attention back to the game.

Duke said nothing.

Probably thinking of his wife and how she would have created an even more welcoming gift for The Twelve. Irie cringed. If his wife were alive, The Twelve wouldn’t need to be here.

“The baskets,” she added, “also contained a copy of the
Star-Telegram
and items representing Fort Worth, including a map of the city and directions to popular shopping venues, churches, and Lakes Erie and Como should the ladies wish to venture out on excursions of their own. I included a ribbon-tied bundle of lavender from the garden and a dozen cookies of mixed variety. Tabitha wished to include a frog but agreed to do drawings instead. Mama suggested we also include a short history of the Baker family. Next week each lady will receive a bouquet of bluebonnets from O’Reilly’s Greenhouse. I’ve yet to decide upon a surprise for the third week.”

Mr. Baker awkwardly cleared his throat. “How thoughtful.”

Duke looked at her in a considering manner. “You always go the extra mile. What else about you have I never noticed?” He said this as one would about a paragon of virtue, which she wasn’t.

She shifted in her chair under the intensity of his gaze. “This week I will teach The Twelve to make hors d’oeuvres for everyone here to enjoy; next week bakery items for the public library’s weekly book clubs; and lastly, a luncheon for the fire department. Duke, do let me know before you leave for the office in the morning if any of these times conflict with your afternoon activities with the ladies. I’m adjustable.”

Crack.
Then a ball sank into a pocket.

“One down,” Mr. Baker said. “Seven to go.”

As Mr. Baker circled the billiards table, Irie lowered her voice so he wouldn’t hear. “You
did
plan events where you could speak with each girl individually?” she asked Duke, knowing full well he hadn’t. The man was as predictable as the rising sun, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Since the day she’d begun quizzing him, he hadn’t seemed wholeheartedly committed to the courtship.

He stared at the paper. “I was planning on putting in full days of work. During the evenings and weekends, I’d manage the girls—”

“Ladies,” she corrected.

He looked up. “Huh?”

“Tabitha is a girl. The Twelve are ladies.”

Mr. Baker cleared his throat, drawing her attention to the disappointment in his eyes. “Irie, you told me he was prepared. I trusted you to see he was.”

Irie winced. He’d heard everything she’d whispered to Duke. “Sir, I never said he was prepared,” she said in her defense. “I told you I’d discussed the ladies with your son per our agreement. He is a thirty-year-old man. If he isn’t going to put forth the effort to get to know the women you brought here for him to court, then the fault is his own. I can only do so much.”