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

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

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.

Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

Scripture quotations marked
ESV
are from The Holy Bible, English Standard Version®, copyright © 2001 by Crossway Bibles, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Scripture quotations marked
NIV
are taken from the H
OLY
B
IBLE
, N
EW
I
NTERNATIONAL
V
ERSION
®.
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.

Published by Barbour Books, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683,
www.barbourbooks.com

Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

Printed in Canada.

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

Y
ou’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.