The Most Eligible Bachelor Romance Collection: Nine Historical Romances Celebrate Marrying for All the Right Reasons (6 page)

He stepped to the passenger door of the car and held it open. She didn’t hesitate, as most ladies would have upon their first entrance into a horseless carriage. Instead, she lifted her skirt and jumped in, running her hands over the crisp leather of the seats, studying the controls.

He joined her and closed the door. Slipped on one pair of goggles and handed her the other, while the family chauffer started the car. Again Ada didn’t hesitate, securing them over her eyes. She looked ridiculous, the goggles two sizes too large, but in an endearing kind of way.

“Ready?” He glanced at her.

She nodded, excitement radiating from her.

He made himself comfortable, placing his hands on the steering wheel and his feet on two of the three pedals below. Pressed down hard on the brake and clutch. Released the hand brake then moved one foot to the accelerator. The engine thrummed to life, and he steered them out of the circle drive. Gravel skittered behind them as he took off down the avenue.

Sitting behind the wheel always gave him a sense of freedom. He made the rules, he decided where to go and what route to take. And the barely contained anticipation in Ada fueled his own.

Once on the main road, he gave the car less brake and more accelerator. The wind whipped past them, blowing her veil behind her. She scooted closer on the seat, and he slowed slightly. Had he terrified her? At forty miles per hour, he
was
going faster than most ladies would find agreeable.

“Why are you slowing down? This is fun. Can we go faster?” she called over the wind.

Who knew that the girl he’d picked to play his fiancée would have tastes so perfectly attuned to his? More so than any other woman he’d ever met. Partner that with an infectious smile and wide green eyes… Ada McClane made quite the attractive package.

Not that he could or should think of her as anything more than an employee.

Certainly not.

He flashed a grin at her and upped their speed. They dashed through the countryside, dirtying the motorcar and streaking their faces with dust. Having the time of their lives.

Finally, he stopped not far from Meadowbrook. He opened the door and handed her out. The stillness of the woods contrasted against the noise and motion of the moments before. He drew in a long breath of pine and damp earth. Far preferable to hothouse flowers and scented candles.

Ada tugged off her veil, shaking her hair back behind her. A streak of dust dotted her nose. He pulled off his gloves and wiped it away. His heart accelerated as he brushed her skin. Softer than silk, the warmth of her breath swooshing over his fingers.

She blinked, her lashes fluttering.

He drew his hand away. Burned by her touch.

“That was fun.” She reached up and gingerly touched her hair.

“Yeah.” More than fun. He hadn’t remembered enjoying anything so much in… he didn’t know when. “It’s strange doing something I love with someone else. Most of the time, I go alone. Nobody else likes my crazy speeds.”

“Strange?” She quirked a brow.

“In a good kind of way.”

She released a sigh, stretching her arms wide. Sunlight tinged the sky overhead, the air touched with the barest hint of breeze. She spun in a circle, head tilted back, her skirt swirling around her. His breath webbed in his chest. He’d seen many elaborate ballets in his day, meant to stir the heart and entice the senses. Yet nothing before had ever transfixed him as Ada’s flying curls and blissful expression did at this moment.

She returned to her normal posture with an embarrassed laugh. “Out here, it’s so easy to believe that there is a Creator who made the universe. In New York, you can forget that sometimes. Everything there is created by man, his money, and power.”

He nodded.

“Do you believe in God?” She cocked her head.

He shrugged. He used to, in the early days after his father died. But lately, it was just easier to do things himself. Without having to worry about the statutes of a God who never approved. Or perhaps, he just didn’t feel worthy of unconditional approval unless he could give something in return. What could you give a God who owned the universe?

Besides, he liked doing things his way, never trusting in anyone but himself. Right?

“I believe there is a God.”

“Do you believe He loves you?” Another rarity in Ada McClane. She wasn’t afraid to ask hard questions and expect answers.

He shrugged. “I don’t really know.” He couldn’t lie to her. Make some offhand remark and end the conversation. With anyone else he could, but not her.

“Well, let me give it to you straight, Geoffrey Buchanan. He does. More than anyone else in the whole world. He died on a cross for the sins of the universe. Yours included. You just have to let Him into your life, let Him love you. And not be too proud to admit you need saving.”

The way she spoke, with such conviction, made him want to believe her. It sounded easy enough. Yet he’d done nothing for God. He had no right to expect anything from Him in return.

“You’re pretty when you smile.” He resorted to his old despised tactic. Flattery.

She gave him a look that said she wasn’t falling for it. Still, she offered another smile. “So are you.” She snatched up her skirts and raced toward the motorcar.

Chapter 7

W
hat in heaven’s name was going on?

Another long dinner at an end, and the men finished with their brandy, cigars, and whatever else they did in the dining room. Ada fidgeted, sandwiched between Mamie and Mrs. Buchanan. Society grande matron and frolicking rich dame had been attempting conversation for the past half hour and failing. Miserably.

More laughter from the opposite end of the drawing room drew her attention. Geoffrey stood beside the sofa where Violet Tremaine sat. She giggled hysterically at whatever he said while he shifted from foot to foot, hands in his pockets. In the center of the room, a few of the younger couples had thrown back the carpets and now waltzed to ragtime on the Victrola.

“Geoffrey, please! For old times’ sake.” Violet gazed up at him, Cupid’s bow lips pursed in a pout.

Ada stiffened. What was Violet begging him to do? She leaned forward, while Mamie loudly explained to Mrs. Buchanan where she’d purchased her orange evening dress.

“You wouldn’t refuse me, would you? I’m sure we could still do it.” She stood and tugged on his arm like a little girl.

Though he still looked uncomfortable, he smiled gallantly. “If you insist. But I doubt I’m any good after such a long time.”

“Nonsense. We won the competition just last year.”

Any good? Competition?

Someone changed the record, and another tune crackled through the air. Ada’s breath caught.

Geoffrey—her fiancé—wasn’t going to dance with Violet Tremaine. The dazzling brunette who could make breathing seem glamorous.

They took the floor.

Apparently, he was.

They launched into a dance, but not just any ordinary dance. Moving from position to position with flourishes and improvisations, Geoffrey twirled and spun Violet across the floor like a professional.

He must be hating every minute of it. His whole purpose for having her here was freedom from other women.

She watched his expressions. No. He couldn’t possibly be… enjoying himself?

Could he? Yes, he smiled and laughed with Violet, spinning her out then dipping her backward. They made an elegant couple, she, willowy and slender, he, tall and muscular. While Ada barely reached his tiepin, Violet came up to his chin and could look straight into his eyes.

Ada balled her hands into fists. She shouldn’t mind this. After all, it gave her a respite from playing the doting fiancée. She could simply relax and watch her betrothed dance with another woman. Except, he wasn’t her betrothed. He was her employer. And after he’d finished with her, he was perfectly free to marry whomever he chose. As long as she got her paycheck, he was welcome to Violet Tremaine, catty and snobbish though she was.

More than welcome to her.

Violet Tremaine was a Grecian goddess. Ada a mere pretty face. Rich men wanted Grecian goddesses, especially if the goddess already possessed the skills for being a society wife.

She closed her eyes. Oh… reality blurred far too much with fiction—the fiction she and Geoffrey had created.

She only had two more weeks to go. Then she’d go home and forget all about this.

Geoffrey Buchanan included.

The dance ended and everyone broke into applause. Ada forced herself to follow suit, pasting on a smile.

Across the room, Geoffrey caught her gaze. He gave her a lopsided grin, and infuriating warmth rushed over her.

She glared back.
I am not attracted to Geoffrey Buchanan. I am not attracted to Geoffrey Buchanan.

He grinned again.

She sighed. No help at all.

The confines of the room closed in on her, and she stood. The perfumers must have made a mint off all the different fragrances everyone wore tonight. Some fresh air would clear her head and, hopefully, her brain.

Outside, the cool of the night embraced her, and she leaned against a massive stone pillar, partially concealed by a potted plant. Staring out at the glitter of the stars overhead, as if the Lord had thrown a basket of diamonds upon heaven’s carpet, she drank in a breath.

Then she heard it. Footsteps. Whispers. Someone, or rather someones, had come outside.

She was about to make herself known when the voices stopped her short.

“She’s not who Geoffrey says she is. Fiancée indeed! I would sooner believe her the princess of Prussia.” A haughty sniff followed. It could belong to only one person—Violet Tremaine.

Geoffrey? Fiancée? It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to determine the person in question. Her. They were talking about her. A chill prickled Ada’s arms that had nothing to do with the night air.

“Then who is she?” A man’s voice—Cadwell Rutherford’s maybe.

“I don’t know. But I have every intention of finding out. She’s pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes, including senile Mrs. Buchanan. But the little upstart hasn’t fooled me. No matter what anyone says, she’s
not
been born and bred in society. And I won’t have Geoffrey wed to a lowlife. Perhaps the little hussy has him fooled, too.”

“What will you do about it,
ma cherie
?”

“I’ll write to Mrs. Hayward and ask if she has any connection with Ada McClane. She’s always do-gooding among the huddled masses, providing them employment and such. If anyone of our set knows the working class, it’s her. And I’m certain I’ve seen the chit somewhere before. After that, I don’t know what I’ll do. I’m sure Mrs. Hayward will have
some
news for me.”

Oh no. Violet couldn’t write to Mrs. Hayward. If she did, Mrs. Hayward would undoubtedly look through her books and come across the list of extra help she’d hired last year. Then their secret would be out.

Poor Geoffrey. He sat inside blissfully unaware that their carefully laid plans dangled on a strand of fraying thread that could break at any second.

Leaving him without a fiancée, and her without a paycheck.

She’d tell him. After all, this wasn’t her fault. He’d finagled her into this scheme to begin with, he could wrangle their way out of it, too.

But how?

They’d think of something. They had to.

Another item to add to his growing list of information on Ada McClane.

She played killer croquet.

Indeed, she seemed intent on demolishing everyone else, lining up her shots with precise accuracy and whacking their balls to kingdom come. He could only watch, speechless, as her ball knocked against his and sent it flying into the next county.

A surefire way to work off the stress of the past few days. When she’d told him of Violet’s plans to demolish their facade, he hadn’t been surprised. Still, he wouldn’t have Ada disgraced. He’d see to it that Violet Tremaine was watched carefully. That letter would have to pass through Travers’s hands to get to the post office. And when it did, Geoffrey would make sure he got to it first.

“Good shot,” he called from across the lawn where he assisted Violet in lining up her next move. For a scheming vixen, she certainly put on a charming veneer.

“Thanks, darling,” Ada called back.

Ever since he’d danced with Violet the other night, she’d been stuck to him like a barnacle on a rusty hull. He never should have given in to her request to see if they could still do the tango. They’d participated in a competition last year and outdanced a group of fellow couples. Sure enough, they’d still been terrific.

Outwardly, Violet Tremaine was perfect in every way, did everything flawlessly. Except come up with ruination schemes and play croquet. Such perfection could be dreadfully annoying sometimes.

Now, Ada, on the other hand, couldn’t stop biting her lip to save her life, used the wrong fork at least once during every meal, came down for dinner in a tea dress and for tea in a dinner gown.

And played better croquet than anyone around.

He’d always liked a game of competitive croquet.

“Watch this shot.” They stood only a few feet from each other, both in the lead. She had a few points on him. He intended to claim them back.