The Most Eligible Bachelor Romance Collection: Nine Historical Romances Celebrate Marrying for All the Right Reasons (10 page)

Her breath caught. No. It couldn’t be. Her traitorous heart played tricks on her. She had to stop seeing him in every face, every form.

He came closer.

Her heart quickened.

Geoffrey. There was no mistaking the determined step, the wavy hair.

And as their gazes met, that mesmerizing smile.

He stopped a few feet away, his hat in his hands.

“That boy said his sister was up here.” His words were quiet. “I hoped it might be you.”

She nodded, taking him in. He’d changed in three months. His posture more relaxed, his eyes less troubled. Still as devastatingly handsome as ever.

As dangerous to her heart.

“What are you doing here?” She ran her hands across her skirt. Was her hair still neat, or tangled by the breeze? Thank goodness she’d worn a becoming lace blouse and cherry-colored skirt.

“Discussing with the owners the prospect of opening another facility near here. For those who can’t pay for treatment.”

“So you’ve turned philanthropic?” Oh, how she’d missed teasing him.

“I’ve found God.” He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Or rather, He found me.”

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” She took a step closer. Reached for his hand before she could reconsider. Entwined their fingers.

“I’m certainly glad to see you again. Ada…”

“Geoffrey—”

He held up a hand. “No, let me speak first. After I found God, I asked Him that if our being together was right, He would let us meet again. And look, we’re here together. So much time has been wasted, and I don’t want to wait another minute.” He dropped to one knee. Tears shimmered in her eyes. “For the second time, I want to ask you to marry me. But this time, it’s for real. Become my honest-to-goodness fiancée. Let me make you my wife.”

Wife. He was asking her to marry him.

Everything in her begged to say yes.

He reached into his pocket and removed a box, opening the lid. With unsteady fingers, he took out a diamond ring. Gold, with two hearts twined together.

Her breath faltered.

“I’ve been carrying this with me almost since you left. Hoping against hope that if God decided to intervene, I would somehow, someday, have the chance to give it to you. Will you take it, Ada?”

There could be no hesitation. God had brought them together that day in Central Park and again here on Saranac Lake. He had a purpose for their lives. And they were meant to be lived together.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Oh Geoffrey, yes!”

He slipped the ring on her finger then stood to his feet. Encircled her in his arms. Captured her lips with his.

Their breathing melded together, his touch gentle, yet possessive. Calling her his with every movement. Every touch. He wove his fingers through her hair, loosening it from its pins, and she wrapped her arms around him, lost in a kiss so much more than physical contact. A joining of two hearts. Making them one.

She took a step back and smiled slowly.

“I love you, Ada McClane.” The words lingered in the air, magic in their sound.

“And know this, Geoffrey Buchanan. I love you. Not because you are rich, or famous, or eligible. But because you are you. And because I’m so deeply, madly, and totally in love with you that it wouldn’t matter if you spent your days cleaning gutters in the Lower East End.” She laughed.

He took her hand in his, emotion in his gaze. “Walk with me along the beach. I’ve got half an hour before my meeting, and I want to spend every moment of it with you.”

“Then what?” They joined hands and started along the shoreline.

He leaned closer and brushed his lips over hers once more. Heedless of whoever was watching, they kissed. Living and loving in the most perfect of moments.

He slipped his arm around her waist and smiled. “After that, I’m all yours.”

She leaned against him. “What about me?”

He trailed his finger along her cheek, a thousand promises in a single look. “You are and always shall be… forever mine.”

Forever mine.

Forever his.

Amanda Barratt has won several awards for her work and enjoys writing about eras such as Regency and Victorian England, and the Gilded Age. A member of American Christian Fiction Writers, she lives in northern Michigan with her family, where she reads way too many old books, watches period dramas to come up with new plotlines, and dreams of taking a trip to England. Amanda loves hearing from her readers on Facebook and through her website
amandabarratt.net
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Love’s Reward

by Susanne Dietze

Dedication

For Karl, who believed in this enough for the both of us.

Whatever you do, work heartily, as for the Lord and not for men, knowing that from the Lord you will receive the inheritance as your reward. You are serving the Lord Christ.
C
OLOSSIANS 3:23–24 ESV

Love is love’s reward.
J
OHN
D
RYDEN

Acknowledgments

Many thanks to Debra E. Marvin, Gina Welborn, Anita Mae Draper, and Ruth Reid for helping with various parts of the story; to my fabulous editors Rebecca Germany and Ellen Tarver; to my amazing agent, Tamela Hancock Murray; and to my family who cheered me on while I wrote. And to the Lord Jesus, who taught me so much about His provision and steadfastness as this story unfolded. I’m grateful for all of you.

Chapter 1

San Francisco, California
May 4, 1896

N
ever, in all my days!”

Daniel Blair paused on the bottom stair, hesitant to step into the morning-bright foyer with Mrs. Beake in such a mood. His landlady shook her graying head and dropped something onto the credenza with an indignant huff. Another soggy newspaper? Wilted produce, or mail delivered to the wrong address?

His pocket watch reported it was past nine already. He didn’t have time to commiserate with her over a deliveryman’s blunder. He didn’t even have time for breakfast. But Mrs. Beake was in such a state, he hastened into the foyer with as cheerful a smile as he could manage on so little sleep. “Good morning, ma’am.”

His landlady’s glare could curdle milk. “It is hardly good, sir.”

Worse than he thought. Wilted produce
and
a soggy newspaper. “What’s happened, if I may ask?”

“As if you’ve no inkling.” Her tone dripped vinegar. “What sort of home do you think this is?”

“A fine one.” A beautiful house with a breathtaking view, the edifice appealed to his architect’s sensibilities. A covered porch, three stories, and a mansard roof featuring two oeil-de-boeuf windows overlooking the street—he couldn’t have designed the place better himself. It was the perfect dwelling for now, until he could get around to building his own home.

The way she scowled, however, this might be his last day under her exceptional roof.

What had he done? He was up on his rent. He was quiet. He’d also been keeping odd hours, thanks to his work. Perhaps he’d been more than a bit inconsiderate of his landlady.

“Forgive me, sleeping through breakfast. I worked until half past two last night, er, this morning. Most discourteous of me not to inform you I’d struggle to be at the table by seven.”

“A trifle, compared to this.” Mrs. Beake pointed at a basket on the credenza, her bony fingers trembling as if the hamper had contaminated them. “You know my rules.”

No vices. No females or pets. Easy for him to avoid. “Ma’am?”

A rap sounded against the front door. Mrs. Beake jutted her chin toward it. “You’ve got another one, Mr. Blair.”

He rubbed his temple. “I’m sorry. Another… what?”

“Another girl.”

He turned around. Darkening the stained-glass panel was a smallish, puff-sleeved silhouette crowned with a large hat. A girl indeed.

But for him? He held back a snort. “She’s not here for me.”

“They’ve all been for you.” Mrs. Beake jerked open the hamper, revealing a steaming batch of cinnamon-scented muffins. “Three since eight o’clock, food and girls.”

At the smell, Daniel’s stomach growled. But for
him
? “This is a mistake.”

“No mistake.” The female at the door rapped again, this time louder. Mrs. Beake didn’t move to answer. “Bold as brick, these hoydens. Why, it’s an affront to my cooking as well as my reputation. In my day, girls did not call on gentlemen to whom they were not related.”

“Perhaps the churchwomen are here about my influenza.”

“You recovered more than a week ago,” she noted.

“Word might just now be out. Although I don’t need the goodies.” He smiled, hoping to erase the crinkles around her pursed lips. “You took superb care of me while I was green-gilled.”

“Pah. Man that you are, you groaned about work. I was lucky to get a spoonful of soup down your throat.” She shook her head. “I’m not a complete lack-wit. These maidens have more than prayers on their minds.”

He doubted it. “We may speak of it this evening, if you wish, but I am late. Perhaps our visitor calls for you. Someone from your knitting group.” The knocker rapped again. Daniel took his bowler from the rack, ready to slip out the door once he’d admitted the caller.

Mrs. Beake slammed the hamper lid. Daniel opened the door.

And tried to swallow, but his tie was suddenly far too tight.

“Josie.” There, the swallow came, grating his throat like broken glass. “Miss Price, rather.”

“Good morning,
Mr. Blair,
Mrs. Beake.” Josie had a voice like a songbird, lilting, high and sweet. She even had a tiny stuffed bird pinned among a festoon of feathers atop her brown hat, but he far preferred gazing at the pretty face beneath it, framed by wisps of chestnut hair curling at her nape and temple.

It had been too long since he’d seen her. He’d thought of her countless times in the past weeks, and now here she was at his door—

“My boarders do not receive calls from unrelated females.” Mrs. Beake sniffed.

Daniel loosened his tie. “Of course not, ma’am—”

“I am here to see you, in fact.” Josie smiled at Mrs. Beake. “On behalf of the Ladies’ Aid Society, I’d like to extend an invitation—so much warmer when delivered in person, I find—to a benefit tea luncheon at the home of Mrs. Predmore this Saturday.”

Mrs. Beake frowned as she inspected Josie’s figure. Daniel’s gaze followed his landlady’s, admiring the feminine cut of Josie’s jade jacket. But he could see where Mrs. Beake’s approval ended. Josie’s legs were encased in buff trousers tucked into leather boots. Her legs were slender and long. With a start, Daniel lifted his gaze.

Josie still gazed at his landlady. “The Society would love for you to join us.”

“How thoughtful,” Daniel said, earning another of Josie’s wide smiles.

“Aren’t you late to work, Mr. Blair?” Mrs. Beake glowered.

Oh. Yes. “So nice to see you, Miss Price.”

Josie took hold of his sleeve, a gesture that burned through the layers of fabric to his skin. Or perhaps Mrs. Beake’s gaze shot flames of disapproval. Either way, his arm tingled.

“Will you be at the office later? I have a business matter I wish to discuss.”

“Yes, all day. Nothing on my plate.” A fib Mrs. Beake confirmed with a snort. “I mean, I can spare a few moments.” Why was he so tongue-tangled around her? It wasn’t always so. But then she finished school and something changed.

“Until later.” Josie shifted so he might exit the house. “Mrs. Beake, I am certain you must be moved by the conditions faced by our city’s poorest residents….”

Daniel passed a jonquil-painted bicycle propped against the house and smiled. No wonder Josie had worn trousers; she’d cycled here on her Yellow Fellow Stearns. The desire to take out his own bicycle coursed through his stiff muscles, but fresh air and exercise—and training for his race in six weeks—would have to wait until he’d submitted his plans for the Humphries Competition.

“Yoo-hoo! Mr. Blair!” A female in purple stripes waved.

Another girl. Another basket. The churchwomen might have been more efficient to send a single representative, but how touching to be thought of when one was ill. Even after the fact.

He tipped his bowler. “Miss York.”

“Good day.” Estelle York dipped her blond head. “You seem in a hurry.”

A tremendous understatement. “After my bout with influenza, I fell behind on my work.” Not that he wished to bore her on the subject of architecture. Last he’d seen her, at a supper party at her house, she’d yawned at his conversation attempts.

“You’ll never find a decent wife if you can’t make decent small talk,”
Father complained.

Well, Daniel didn’t want just any wife. There was but one lady who’d sparked his interest, but she—

“You were ill?” Miss York batted her lashes. “Perhaps this will cheer you up.”

She hadn’t known? Then why did she hold out a basket, if it wasn’t filled with chicken soup or hot rolls? He could almost hear Mrs. Beake’s harrumph. With a sinking feeling, he took the handle. The basket was light in his grasp. “Thank you.”

“Open it.” She stepped close, filling his nostrils with tuberose perfume so strong his nose itched. Mrs. Beake would have apoplexy if she saw.