The Most Eligible Bachelor Romance Collection: Nine Historical Romances Celebrate Marrying for All the Right Reasons (65 page)

Three days later
Hoxie Building—4th floor
7th and Main Streets

Irie twisted the beaded strap of her purse around her white glove as she stood at the walnut desk waiting for Mrs. Norris to return. In all the years she had known Mr. Baker, even during the two when she was employed as his wife’s companion, he’d never requested to see her at his office. From where she stood in the sitting area, Irie could see the two doors leading to his office and that of his son’s.

She eyed the leather button-tufted couch. She should sit. Considering the stately wood-paneled room was warm despite the bamboo ceiling fan and opened side window, she ought to remove the matching hip-length suit coat she wore over her cerulean satin dress. She should.
Don’t move,
she warned herself.

Her feathered hat weighed down.

Don’t touch it.

She’d studied enough etiquette books to know not to fidget.

Her stomach churned. Oh, why hadn’t she eaten something with the orange juice? Because she’d been too preoccupied with worrying about what Mr. Baker wished to discuss. On a Monday morning. In his downtown office. Where no one could overhear. Where her housekeeper mother couldn’t overhear. All the confidence Mrs. Fannie Farmer had instilled in her vanished the moment she read Mr. Baker’s note.

Mr. Baker’s door opened.

Mrs. Norris waved her forward. “He can see you now.”

Before she could count to eight, Irie was seated in another wood-paneled room with her suit coat hanging on a rack next to Mr. Baker’s white Stetson and gray pinstriped coat.

“You are looking well,” Mr. Baker said, rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt. Although she’d only ever seen him wear a three-piece suit and snakeskin boots, she always imagined he’d rather be in denims, chaps, and a well-worn flannel shirt.

“Looks can be deceiving. I’m nervous as a hen being dragged to the chopping block.”

He chuckled. “Your candor is refreshing.”

The tension in her shoulders abated. She smiled at the doting in his blue eyes. He always knew how to put her at ease.

He leaned back in his chair. “Irie, we’ve known each other for how many years?”

“Oh my.” She looked to the rotating ceiling fan as she calculated the years since he’d bought LaCroix Ranch after her father died. “I think I was six months old.”

“Seven, and you squealed to high heaven.”

“My apologies for my infantile uproar.” She matched his smile. “While you have known me for twenty-eight years, I don’t remember meeting you and Mrs. Baker until after you built the first Baker House over on Samuels Avenue and brought Mama up to be your housekeeper. That was in ’95, fifteen years ago.”

“Long enough for us to feel like family, yes?”

Family? Her chest tightened. As much as she would love to consider the LaCroixes and Bakers “like family,” they weren’t. Her mother was hired help. Irie had been hired help. She hadn’t worked to pay back every dime Mr. Baker spent on her college degree and cooking school education because she wanted to; loans had to be repaid. Maybe if her father had been able to expand his 160-acre ranch into a 420,000-acre, seven-ranch conglomeration like Mr. Baker had, then their families could be social equals.

Except her father had died of a snakebite. Even though he had been there in her most desperate hours of needing a father, Mr. Baker wasn’t her father. She’d wanted to believe his actions had been because he loved her like a daughter, but she couldn’t stop thinking it was more about keeping her misdeeds from soiling his name, something for which she couldn’t fault him. A man’s name meant everything in Texas.

Irie crossed her legs and smoothed her silky skirt. “What can I help you with?”

“Duke needs a wife.”

“Me?” she blurted, jerking back in her chair, her shoulders pressed against the cushioned springs. “I’m moving to San Francisco in a week. It’s all been arranged.”

He held up his hands. “Whoa there! Calm your horses. I don’t want you to marry Duke. That would be asking too much from you. I’ve arranged for twelve socialites and their mothers to holiday for the next three weeks at Baker House. Duke has agreed to pay court to each girl with the goal of finding himself a suitable mother for Tabitha. And wife for himself,” he added as if it was secondary.

Irie found her voice despite her shock. “Duke has agreed to marry a woman he will have known but for three weeks?”

“No, no, no, no.”

“I don’t understand.”

His troubled gaze shifted to the opened window through which not a breeze came. “Duke doesn’t want to join the marriage market. He’d rather attend a cattle auction than a ball. He abhors dancing, despite being pretty good at it. I doubt he’s ever sat through an entire theater performance. His wife used to drag him to the trolley parks and to Lake Erie to see the female balloonist. The only crowds he tolerates are those at the stockyards and church.”

Duke Baker a wallflower by choice? This she did not know. He always seemed comfortable making small talk with people he knew and those he didn’t. Not that she had seen him at church, since they attended different ones.

His father continued, “Over these three weeks, he should be able to decide if any of The Twelve suit his favor, and I am praying one will.” His gaze met hers again. “He will make his choice at the Harvest Cotillion.”

“Presuming he makes a choice,” she put in.

“He’ll make one. I’m sure of it.” Said with such pride. “Once Duke sets his mind to something, he doesn’t stop until he achieves his objective.”

She couldn’t argue.

“After the cotillion,” he said, “it’s up to him how he courts the girl. My objective is to help him get started in the race.”

Irie shifted in her chair. “Where do I come in?”

“I need you to be a spy and get to know the girls. A friend of mine says how they present themselves to Duke may be a ruse. I need you to help him see what he would normally not notice.” He paused. “You are like a sister to him. He will trust you to help him weed out the undesirables.”

Like a sister? More like two people who knew each other yet barely spoke. “Sir, my mother is the housekeeper. Why would any of these ladies talk to me?”

He tapped his steepled fingers together. “Yes, I can see where this could be an issue. You want to open a cooking school. Practice teaching our guests. Duke’s next wife should know her way around a kitchen.”

“The Twelve may already know how to cook.”

“Then your job will be easier.”

Irie stood and walked to the bookshelves, the middle shelf empty save for a bronze Remington cowboy and bronco sculpture. She ran a finger along the cowboy’s smooth back, over the horse’s rump, and down its outstretched tail.

Help the man she loved choose another woman to marry. Oh, the irony. But—She nipped at her bottom lip, staring absently at the statue. Maybe this would help her heart to finally let go of Duke. She adored Tabitha. Last thing she would want is for Duke to marry a woman who didn’t like children, would fire Nanny Ruth, and send Tabitha off to boarding school. Not that she expected Duke to make such a foolish choice. He’d demonstrated excellent character judgment when he married Janet Mortimer. But he hadn’t a child to consider back then as he did now. His concern for his daughter could lead him to choose a woman who was no good for him.

Asking her to help him find a wife, though, truly was asking too much. The
least
cost to her would be marrying him herself.

“I know this is a tough decision,” Mr. Baker said, breaking the silence with a voice worn rough by years of riding the range. “Doing this will mean delaying your move to San Francisco. I’ve arranged for a deposit to be made in your name in Hibernia Bank. It includes a pension for your mother so she doesn’t have to work again should she not wish it, and funds to purchase a comfortable-sized home and to cover your cooking school’s expenses for three years while you build your business. I presumed fifty thousand would be enough. I can add more.”

Her shoulders, and heart, sank. She could never afford to pay him back.

“Irie, look at me.”

She turned to face him.

“I know you’re thinking you can’t pay me back. This is a gift,” he ordered. “Hear me? A gift. As a father would give his daughter.”

“I couldn’t accept—”

“You can and you will.”

An ache grew inside her chest. She wanted to believe he viewed her as a daughter, but how could he after the mistakes she’d made? “It’s too much.”

“You cared for my wife during her last years as you would care for your own mother. All I own would not be enough to give in gratitude.” He pushed his chair back from his desk and walked over to her. “Irie, I want your dreams to come true, which includes you and your mother having a future together, not living half a country apart.”

“Does Mama know about your offer?”

“I discussed it with her yesterday.”

This explained why Mama seemed distracted last night during their game of pinochle. Irie hesitated. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

He gripped her hands between his. “Think of this as an investment in hope. In you, and in my stubborn, grieving son. I can’t make the changes I desire in my life until I know Duke and Tabitha have a good woman to care for them.”

Irie held his gaze, waiting for him to say more. He was the closest she’d ever had to a father; for all he had done for her, she owed him this. “How often do I have to meet with Duke?”

“As many times as needed this week as you help him prepare. Mrs. Norris pulled together information for you to go over with Duke before The Twelve arrive next Monday. Thereafter, every couple days or so to compare your impressions of the girls—”

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

“Yes, ladies.” He gave her shoulders a squeeze. “You have guts to correct even me. Duke is in excellent hands.”

Irie returned his smile, yet didn’t feel so confident. She was, however, starting to feel a bit peeved. Duke Baker should get up off his lazy hide and find himself a wife, instead of relying on others to do most of the work for him. His father—God bless his generous heart—was at fault, too, for coddling him.

Chapter 3

H
e had the wrong cows. There could be no other explanation.

Duke stepped outside his office and into a room smelling of spiced apples. He knew this perfume, but from where? “Mrs. Norris, would you get me William Waggoner on the—” His words died at the sight of a female talking with his secretary, who was holding a brown accordion folder.

Mrs. Norris glanced his way.

The unknown female did not.

Women rarely visited the Baker Cattle Company offices. Not that he’d mind if they all looked like this one. In an era where nothing succeeded like excess, the moderation in style and adornment of her fitted blue dress only accentuated her appealing—quite appealing—hourglass curves all the more. Pity the feathered hat hid her profile from view. The matching suit coat draped over her arm suggested she had been here awhile. Meeting with his father? One of The Twelve? He hoped so. He grinned. Yes, for the first time since he agreed to his father’s shenanigans, he actually hoped so.

In a dress that vivid a blue, she had to be a blond. Once again, he hoped.

“You are very kind to do this for him,” The woman finished saying to Mrs. Norris. Then she turned his way.

Duke lost his breath. Hair as black as the jet jewelry his wife had favored. Eyes as brown as the delicious mocha cake he’d eaten three nights ago.

Irie? Irie LaCroix? What was
she
doing here? When did she buy that dress? She didn’t wear gowns to make a man stop to admire the swish of her skirts. She wore—well, at the moment he couldn’t recall what she normally wore, but this was not it.

Duke cleared his throat in hopes of clearing his mind of thoughts of Irie’s swishing skirts. Irie. God have mercy on him for ogling the annoying girl he’d been forced to tutor for a year, not merely for her benefit but to teach
him
how to empathize with his instructors.

“Uhh, Irie, good morning.”

“You are wondering why I’m here,” she said in the candid style of hers that stated the obvious.

He nodded.

“I had business with your father.”

He nodded again. The bodice of her dress was as fitted as the skirt covering her hips. He hadn’t noticed before how—

Her head tilted to the side, and she gave him a strange look. “Is there a problem?”

“Is that a new dress?” Had to be.

“No. I’ve worn it multiple times since returning to Fort Worth.”

“Are you sure?”

A wrinkle appeared between her perfectly winged black brows. She glanced from him to Mrs. Norris, who looked as perplexed as Irie, then back at him. “I’m sure, Duke. Unlike you, I tend to pay attention to what I wear.” Her snippiness was impossible to miss. The Irie LaCroix he knew was accommodating and shy.

He hurried over and took her coat, holding it out for her to put on. “Have I done something to offend you?”

She slid her arms in the sleeves then looked over her shoulder to give him a sweet smile. “Now that’s a fifty-thousand-dollar question. What could you have possibly done to offend me?”