The Most Eligible Bachelor Romance Collection: Nine Historical Romances Celebrate Marrying for All the Right Reasons (64 page)

“And that, Peter, is why the mixing and baking of a cake requires more care and judgment than any other branch of cookery.”
Yet it is the one most frequently attempted by the inexperienced,
Irie LaCroix silently added as she spread confectioners’ frosting flavored with coffee essence atop the mocha cake she’d made as she’d taught Peter how to make his. A cake perfectly baked because of the new Hughes electric range Mr. Baker had installed in the kitchen upon her advice.

With butter knife in hand, the young man mimicked her motion on the cake he had made. A mocha cake was the wiser choice over the moonshine cake he’d first selected from the
Boston Cooking-School Cookbook
. Still, Irie wished the Bakers’ burly chauffeur would have chosen a sunshine cake instead. Sunshine generally said “I adore you” more than coffee did. Or at least it would to her.

As for the redheaded maid next door, Irie could only hope a cake would win her favor, considering all the other normal—and logical—courtship gifts Peter had offered had failed to garner the girl’s interest.

“Do you think she will like it?” Peter asked, admiring his walnut-filled masterpiece, which looked almost as pleasing to the eye as hers did. Certainly smelled delicious.

She smiled up at him. “The food you make—in this case, your cake—should represent you, and convey the love you bear for those for whom you cook.” Irie rephrased some of the wisdom she had learned during her three years studying and interning at Mrs. Fannie Farmer’s Cooking School in Boston. “If this lady—”

“Miss Yates.”

“Yes, Miss Yates, is as kindhearted—”

“She is!”

“—as you claim,” Irie rushed to say, “then she will appreciate the work you’ve done to express the sincerity of your intentions.”

Peter raised the hand holding the frosting-covered knife. The moment he said, “If anything will, this cake—” and flicked his hand, a mocha blob flew from the knife and onto the bodice of the apron covering Irie’s pink blouse and gray skirt. His face colored. An expletive slipped from his tongue, which only reddened his cheeks more.

Irie lowered his knife-wielding hand to the black soapstone counter. “It’s all right, Peter. I’ve had food spilled on me numerous times.”

He dropped the knife, grabbed a towel. “Let me—uhh.” He paused. “Here.”

Irie chuckled and accepted the proffered towel. Unlike their two previous cake-baking attempts, this endeavor was the least damaging to her person and the floor. For all his twenty-one years, Peter O’Malley did everything wholeheartedly, which couldn’t be said of all men.

Dabbing her blouse, she strolled to the far wall. She opened the window to let in a cool evening breeze. “I say it’s time we sampled our work.”

“You mean yours,” he clarified.

“Tabitha?” A muted female voice came from behind the kitchen door, which promptly opened. Nanny Ruth stepped inside, her white hair in rollers, cane missing, and chenille robe haphazardly buttoned. “Is Tabitha in here?”

Peter shook his head.

Irie started toward Peter and the two cakes on the counter. “No, and I haven’t seen her for hours.”

Nanny Ruth looked crestfallen. “I thought the smell of cake would have led her here.” She hobbled over to the small kitchen table and sat. “Once Mr. Baker realizes I’m too old to watch the child…” She stared at the painted brick wall and said no more.

She didn’t have to elaborate for Irie to understand her fear. While the kitchen in the Baker Mansion was no larger than most home kitchens, Mr. A. X. Baker understood that an appliance with three burners and an oven in a freestanding unit would make meal preparations easier and less time-consuming. Much could be said of the two widowed men, especially Duke; that they both valued proficiency was obvious to the entire household. A nanny who couldn’t do her job as well as she used to was no longer practical, no matter how adored she was by the family.

Irie nodded toward the coffeepot containing the coffee she and Peter had planned on enjoying while they sampled her mocha crème–filled cake. He moved to fill three mugs while she plated three slices of cake. She placed two on the table—one for Nanny Ruth and the other for Peter, who took the seat across from the older woman—then she claimed the mug he had filled for her.

“You two enjoy the fruits of our labors,” she said. “I’ll find Tabitha.”

Nanny Ruth touched Irie’s wrist. “You are a blessing, Miss Irie. I don’t know how I would have made it through this summer without you.”

Irie responded with a soft smile and a nod. She had heard similar words from other employees of the Baker household. After three years away in Boston, she’d become a fixture again in this home. In only fifty-three days.

Coffee and cake in hand, she left the kitchen and wove through the first floor of the 11,000-square-foot mansion to the one place she’d wager Tabitha was—the billiards room. With her father. The man Irie had loved (still loved, unfortunately) since she was sixteen. A dozen years of foolish hope. She had to move on. Starting a cooking school in San Francisco was the best way to force her heart to stop wishing Duke would fall in love with her. This year starting the first of October was going to be her lucky thirteen. A time of good fortune. A time of no more clinging to infinitesimal hope for what was never going to be.

The only thing to make her life better would be Mama leaving her post as Baker housekeeper and moving to the West Coast with her.

“Irie, I have a duty to the Bakers, and you don’t have the finances to support two people.”

As always, duty and money stood in the way of her life being perfect.

Irie sighed. She slowed as she approached the billiards room. Paused at the open doors. And her heart did the little flip it always did upon seeing Duke. Tabitha sat on her daddy’s lap with his arms around her. His light brown head atop hers. He had been a doting husband, or so Irie’d heard from numerous members of the household, even Mama. He was a doting father; she’d seen that with her own eyes this past summer. “Good Christian man” defined Duke Baker. If only he had a plethora of flaws for her to focus on….

I’m leaving in a week, Lord. I need to protect my heart.

She rapped the door frame with her knuckles.

Duke’s gaze found hers. He didn’t look relieved to see her, but neither did he look annoyed. Sometimes, it felt as if he didn’t see her at all. Much like how Peter O’Malley felt Miss Yates saw… well, didn’t see him. Baking a girl a cake was the most ridiculous attempt at courtship, but if it worked…

The romantic in her hoped it would. She didn’t just love fairy tales and happily-ever-afters. She loved to see people fall in love, be in love, live in love. Sitting near the Boston Common Frog Pond in winter wasn’t merely to watch the ice skaters. She’d sat there in anticipation of seeing a proposal at one of the most romantic places to propose in New England according to the
Boston Globe.
She agreed. Twenty-three proposals in three years. San Francisco—the Paris of the West—was where,
she knew,
she would find love and a proposal so romantic her daughters and granddaughters would ask to hear the story time and time again.

Extending the coffee and cake out before her, Irie pasted on a covering-her-aching-heart smile. “How about a trade?”

As Irie walked forward, Duke kissed the top of Tabitha’s head then slid her off his lap. “Off to bed.”

“But Daddy.”

His brows rose.

Tabitha’s head drooped, shoulders fell. “Yes sir.”

Irie rested the coffee mug and cake slice on the round table next to his chair.

“Thank you, Irie,” he muttered, yet didn’t touch either.

Tabitha’s hand slid against Irie’s, clenching. Without another word, they walked silently across the carpeted floor to the hall. Irie’s heart tightened. She paused in the marble foyer and, even though she knew better, spared a glance over her shoulder in hopes he was watching them leave. She gave her head a sad little shake.

Why do I keep doing this, Lord, why?

Duke stared absently at his hands resting in his lap, the fingers of his right hand twisting the silver wedding band. She didn’t fault him for still grieving after two years. Janet Mortimer Baker had been the perfect wife and mother. No woman could compete with her memory. Irie pitied any woman who tried.

She looked away.

“Misery, can I have a nighttime snack, too?” Tabitha asked.

Irie gave her a mischievous grin. “How about a bedtime story instead?”

Only Tabitha didn’t grin back. “You’re gonna have to work harder to get the smile out of me.”

“The situation is that dire?”

Tabitha nodded.

Irie knelt before Tabitha, holding two fingers about a centimeter apart. “Will this much cake do the job?”

Tabitha moved Irie’s fingers until they were an inch apart. “This much.”

“Oh my!” Irie stood. “All right. Let’s see if we can make it to the kitchen faster than the tortoise and the hare.”

Chapter 2

Two and a half hours later

D
uke sat on the main staircase’s fourth tread reading a book as he awaited his father’s return.

“We do have chairs you could sit on,” came from the left of the stairs.

“I didn’t want to risk missing you.” Duke closed his book the moment his tuxedo-wearing father stopped at the base of the mahogany-front staircase. “How was the performance?”

“Excellent.” Dad removed his top hat and rested his weight on an odd-looking silver-tipped cane. “What ails you into sitting on the steps?”

Duke laid the book on the gray suit coat draped across his lap. “We need to have a word.”

Dad nodded to the receiving room.

“Here’s fine,” Duke answered. At this late hour, he doubted anyone in the household was awake save for them. He’d never thought of his father getting old—and still didn’t—yet at fifty-eight, Alfred Xavier Baker had more gray than brown in his hair. When did that happen? And when did he start using a cane? Duke motioned to it. “Is that new?”

“Your mother gave it to me years ago.”

“Why have I never seen it before?”

“Seeing and noticing aren’t the same.” Dad stepped to the side bannister nearest Duke. “I admire your ability to ignore the inconsequential and focus on key details. That’s why I put you in charge of the company, and why you’ve increased profits. At the same time, you too often miss the bluebonnets alongside the road. I’ve been oblivious, too, but I’ve realized I need change. I need
to
change. You do, too.”

Duke didn’t argue. Pondering his flaws and virtues at this moment would be a waste of his time. He had more important issues. “Tabitha needs a mother.”

Dad rested his arm on the railing. “Is that the right reason to get married? Shouldn’t you focus on finding the right woman for you?”

Duke gritted his teeth. His father’s directness always annoyed him. “You can mail the invitations. I’ll attend the Harvest Cotillion.”

“I already sent them.”

“When?”

“In May. After eleven years of hosting the ball, I know when the invitations need to be sent. Females need time to pack.”

Duke stared at him in shock. To pack? How long were they staying? “I told you no in March, in April, and twice in May.”

Dad shrugged. “I knew you’d come around.”

“If my flaw is predictability, yours is presumptiveness.”

“Yep. The girls and their mothers are set to arrive next week. Three weeks should be enough time to court each of the twelve potential ‘mothers’ for Tabitha before the cotillion.”

Three weeks of courting? What happened to
“it’s just the Harvest Cotillion, Duke, just one evening to see if any woman catches your eye”
?

Duke shook his head at the ridiculousness of his father’s setup to find him a bride. Pony Express rider. Cattle trail cowboy. Stock market investor. Cattle and land baron. Widower. Opera patron. And now matchmaker for his thirty-year-old widowed son who was wealthy enough in his own right to have his own mansion in Quality Hill. Were it not for him wanting Tabitha to have easy access to her grandfather, he would move into his own home.

“Knowing you as I do,” he said grimly, “you’re bringing in top-choice Texas purebreds.”

“Son, women don’t take kindly to being compared to cattle.” Dad patted Duke’s shoulder then stepped around him to climb the stairs. “Bluebonnets, think of them as bluebonnets. Or roses, if you like roses. See you in the morning.”

Duke didn’t respond. He’d never expected his father would stoop so low as to invite a dozen socialites to the house for almost a month for the sole purpose of making it easier for Duke to find Tabitha a mother,
and
to do it without Duke’s permission and acceptance. Dad had never imposed his will on Duke, at least not since Duke graduated university. But this?

“He thinks I’m predictable.”

And misguided.

“That, too.” Duke scooped up the book and his suit coat and stood. “Lord, have I always been so preoccupied with my own interests that I don’t notice things about other people?” In his mind popped the image of Dad’s unfamiliar cane. He’d have wagered it was new.

Duke groaned. “Never mind, Lord. Don’t answer that.”