A Bride for a Bargain © 2015 by Amanda Barratt
Love’s Reward © 2015 by Susanne Dietze
A Doctor’s Agreement © 2015 by Cynthia Hickey
The Highwayman © 2015 by Shannon McNear
Four Brides and a Bachelor © 2015 by Gabrielle Meyer
The Most Ineligible Bachelor in Town © 2015 by Connie Stevens
The Archaeologist’s Find © 2015 by Erica Vetsch
Baker’s Dozen © 2015 by Gina Welborn
The Final Baker Bride © 2015 by Kathleen Y’Barbo
Print ISBN 978-1-63058-876-2
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-63409-337-8
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-63409-338-5
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Scripture quotations marked NIV are taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
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Contents
A Bride for a Bargain by Amanda Barratt
Love’s Reward by Susanne Dietze
A Doctor’s Agreement by Cynthia Hickey
The Highwayman by Shannon McNear
Four Brides and a Bachelor by Gabrielle Meyer
The Most Ineligible Bachelor in Town by Connie Stevens
The Archaeologist’s Find by Erica Vetsch
Baker’s Dozen by Gina Welborn
The Final Baker Bride by Kathleen Y’Barbo
A Bride for a Bargain
by Amanda Barratt
Dedication
To my mom.
Without your prayers and support,
this story would never have come into being.
Thank you for reading my books and always being there for me.
I love you more than words can say!
Chapter 1
New York City
1898
You’re fired.”
The words bit through her sleep-dazed brain with the intensity of a thousand bullets. Machines whirred, orders bellowed, and Mr. Hunt stood over her, a superior smirk on his beefy face.
Ada McClane blinked the gritty feeling from her eyes. Straightened her stance. Sweat slicked her palms, dampening the skirt of her work apron.
“Please, Mr. Hunt. I’m so sorry. I was up late last night and…” Her words stumbled over each other.
“None of your excuses!” Mr. Hunt held up a hand. “Falling asleep while in charge of valuable machinery is a serious offense.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” She should be used to the noise of the factory after three years. But even now the din of machinery, like hundreds of booted feet stomping in unison, made her head throb.
“Sorry won’t suit. You’re dismissed, and there’s an end of it. Collect your things and get out.” He turned and walked away.
She rushed after him, grabbing his shirtsleeve. This couldn’t be happening. She had to convince him to change his mind. Their very livelihood depended upon it. And with Teddy weaker by the day…
She wouldn’t go without a fight.
He wheeled around, scowling. “I thought I told you to go.”
“Please, let me explain. My brother is very ill. I was up late last night tending him. I promise it won’t happen again. Give me another chance.”
“Never.” He leaned so close she could smell the stench of onions on his breath. “Little enchantress. Distracting every man here with that face of yours.” Pain shot through her arms as he gripped her shoulders. “It’s time your lot learned the hard truth of life. Batting your eyes won’t always get you a ride on Easy Street.”
“But I don’t—”
“But you do.” He chuckled. Then shoved her away from him. “Go!”
Her stomach coiled tight. She swung her gaze this way and that. Surely there was someone to aid her. No. Only her fellow workers. Powerless to change a thing.
For at the largest sweatshop on the Lower East Side, Ralph Hunt ruled supreme.
She turned away, her shoulders slumped. It was no use. She’d been fired. Mr. Hunt had gotten his chance at last. The man hated her because she’d rejected his many overtures. Yet until now, her work had been flawless, and he’d never had reason to complain.
“May we never meet again,” she muttered as she started for the door. “You no-account, sneaking cad.”
Outside, the afternoon sun bathed her skin. She took a deep breath, a medley of odors assailing her. Brine from a fishmonger’s stall, smoke from the factory chimneys, and the rotten stench of decaying garbage.
She walked away from the factory and the Lower East Side. She should return and face Teddy, but not now. Enduring the brave smile on his wan face, the feel of his spindly arms around her, his words of empty reassurance…
Coward.
Why this, Lord? Our apartment is falling to pieces, my brother is ill, and now I lose my job. Why can’t something good happen for a change? Just one thing.
She stared up at the clouds. God loved her, of that she was sure. But sometimes His silence in moments when she needed Him most sent doubts creeping in like cold air under a door.
She stepped in a puddle of refuse, wetness seeping through a hole in her shoe. She hadn’t had a new pair in three years, what with medicine the doctor prescribed for Teddy, rent, food, coal. Her old brogans would suit just fine if only they didn’t expose her stockings to a soaking every time she accidently stepped in the garbage lining the streets.
A fine carriage rattled past, the thick curtains ajar. She caught a glimpse of the elegant lady within, her face shielded by an enormous flower-bedecked hat. No doubt the hat alone cost more than what the factory paid in a year.
Still, oh to be rich. To have enough food to fill your belly, enough coal to warm your hands. To wear gowns not made of feed sacks and shoes that didn’t pinch.
Paradise, for sure and certain.
An impossible dream.
She kept walking, leaving the Lower East Side behind for good. Trudged along block after block until she reached the wide, gated entrance of Central Park. The graveled paths, rows of neat trees, and robin’s-egg blue sky, put her in mind of the family farm in Malone. It was worth the walk to come here and leave the city behind. Lose herself in what-might-have-beens.
Once inside the park, she sank upon an iron bench, breathless with exertion. Teddy would love it here, if only he could stand the walk. Though he didn’t remember the
farm, it ran through his veins just as it did hers. The longing for fields to roam, forests to explore…
If Mother and Father were alive, they never would have left. They’d still be breathing fresh air and eating homegrown food. Not in this hateful city where you were nothing but a grain of sand in a rapidly shifting pile.
She covered her face with her hands and gave in to the luxury of tears. Sobs clogged her throat, shook her shoulders, but she didn’t care. Life had whipped her too many times.
And she was tired of fighting back.
There were days when landing face-first in a den of stinging ants sounded more appealing than being rich as Croesus.
Today was one of those days.
Brring.
On the third ring, Geoffrey Buchanan reached across his mahogany desk and picked up the telephone.
“This is Geoffrey Buchanan speaking.” He cradled the receiver under his chin. Across the room, one of his office staff added kindling to an already blazing fire. Sweat trickled under his collar. He tugged at the tie noosing his neck. The moment he left work he’d yank it off quicker than one could say “freedom.”
“The man from the Times is arriving in ten minutes, sir.” A wave of static punctuated the last words.
“That soon?” He flicked a glance at the clock. Two thirty already.
Blast!
Time sure did fly when you were having fun. That is, if going over last month’s books and drafting letters to foreign agents counted as fun.
“I’m afraid so, sir.” Apology laced his secretary’s tone. “You’ll be meeting them in the foyer?”
The ache hovering near the edges of his temple turned into a throb. Confounded pressmen. He could hear them now, pestering about the railroads, his latest Wall Street successes, his stance on politics. Not to mention their less than subtle inquiries about which lady he favored in this year’s social scene.
What he wouldn’t give to be home. Not his overwhelmingly glamorous Fifth Avenue town house, nor his mother’s mansion in North Carolina, but home. His simple cottage near the Hudson River. Where he could tinker with motorcars to his heart’s content. Where it didn’t matter whether he wore a suit from Henry Poole and Co. or preferably, a practical pair of trousers and a polo shirt. Where he could simply be himself. Something he was woefully out of practice at.
“Mr. Buchanan?” His secretary’s voice crackled on the other end.
“What?”
“You’ll be doing the interview today?”
He rubbed his forehead, the headache sending circles dancing before his eyes. Duty. Always duty. Responsible. Dependable. Practical.
Oh, how he hated it.
“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 BUCHANAN RAILROAD OFFICES. 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
Are 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, wh
ile 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.
The Most Eligible Bachelor Romance Collection: Nine Historical Romances Celebrate Marrying for All the Right Reasons Page 1