The Most Eligible Bachelor Romance Collection: Nine Historical Romances Celebrate Marrying for All the Right Reasons (74 page)

Though her prayers had never been limited to the four walls of a church building, they tumbled forth now in this place. Prayers of thanksgiving for God’s blessings, petitions of forgiveness for her transgressions, and finally, for divine help in seeing her through her current plight.

A plight that had been caused solely by her own stubborn pride.

Tavia sighed. Whether that realization had come from the Lord or from Tavia herself, it was yet the truth. She must write Father at once and apologize. Mother, too, perhaps, if Father had told her. And then, once Bridget returned in a few weeks, she would go home.

Another sigh. Yes, home.

But home to what—after the apology to her father, that is? To a marriage arranged by Father, one that would be nothing more than a business contract between bride and groom?

Tavia lifted her gaze to the beautifully painted ceiling and considered the heavenly Father who was not bound by cathedral roofs or business arrangements.

If I am to marry, might I find a husband who sees me for who I am and loves me? And would You allow me to prove that I am capable of taking care of myself?
As the prayer winged heavenward, peace settled like a warm blanket around her.

Gradually Tavia became aware of Merritt seated a respectful distance away. He remained still and quiet until she rose. They filed out of the cathedral and into the early afternoon sunshine.

With a firm grip on her elbow, he guided her around the vendors, shielded her from the beggars, and finally delivered her back to the taxicab. When he climbed up beside her, he hesitated before grasping the reins.

“Yes,” he said softly. “It is beautiful. One of my favorite places in New Orleans.”

Tavia reached over to touch his sleeve and then thought better of it and moved her hand back into her lap. “Thank you for bringing me here. It is magnificent.”

Her comment was rewarded with a smile. “I think so, too. But there’s so much more to see. Now hang on, young lady. We have much to cover before you turn into a pumpkin.”

Her heart jolted. “What did you say?”

Merritt offered a confused look. “I said we have much to cover before you turn into a pumpkin. It’s just something my governess used to say. I believe it’s from ‘Cinderella.’”

Governess? A taxicab driver? Tavia longed to ask but knew she would not.

“Yes, I recognize the quote. It’s something my father used to say when I was a little girl.”

“So we have Cinderella and a love for the cathedral in common,” he said as he snapped the reins. “Shall we see what else?”

Tavia grinned. “Yes, let’s.”

Hours later, Tavia’s feet felt like they were floating as Merritt handed her to the ground in front of her hotel. The sun had long ago set over the backs of the closely clustered buildings, but she’d barely noticed the passage of time.

She’d lost count of the number of places her new friend had taken her. Each stop on her tour of New Orleans had erased more of her doubts as to whether she might enjoy spending time in this city.

Merritt had been the consummate guide and gentleman. Not once had he asked her anything further about herself, nor had she inquired as to his story, either. Rather, she spent the day playing tourist and trying to ignore the fact she did so on the arm of a very handsome and apparently very desirable taxi driver.

For on more than one occasion, she’d noticed women watching them openly. The barbed stares of the bride brigade had been impossible to miss. Not that she blamed them.

A clock began to chime as Tavia reached for the rail behind her. Moonlight slanted across her escort’s handsome features and puddled between them on the wooden planks of the sidewalk Merritt had called a banquette. Her balance suddenly felt off-kilter, and she reached behind her to steady herself against the iron railing.

“Thank you, Merritt,” she said. “I had a wonderful day.”

“So did I, Octavia.” He nodded toward the end of the street as the chimes continued. “Say, are you hungry? I know this great place over on Magazine Street that serves gumbo better than I can get at home. And that’s saying something.”

Hungry? She was starving. Why hadn’t she noticed? She could easily spend another few hours being entertained by the taxi driver’s easy banter. And yet this ruse had gone on long enough.

“Thank you, no,” she managed. “I really must say good night now.”

He looked as reluctant as she still felt. “Yes, of course. Good night, Octavia.”

Tavia watched him hesitate a moment longer and then turn to walk back toward the taxicab. Today had been perfect. Magical, almost—if she believed in magic, which she did not. When Merritt disappeared around the back of the taxicab, she let out the breath she did not realize she had been holding and headed up the stairs toward the hotel’s front doors.

“Octavia, wait!”

She halted at the now-familiar voice and turned to see him sprinting toward her. “I just wondered if…” Merritt stopped at the bottom step, putting them eye to eye. He looked away then swiftly returned his attention to her. “New Orleans is no place for a woman alone. What will you do until your friend returns?”

She would be a typist at Baker Shipping, of course. That had been part and parcel of the reason she’d abandoned Denver and her comfortable life. She needed to know that she could take care of herself without her father’s money or influence. Surely God would hear her prayers and allow her to know.

“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

R
it 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.”