A British Bride by Agreement Read online

  A BRITISH BRIDE BY AGREEMENT

  By Therese Stenzel

  Kindle Edition copyright 2013

  All rights reserved

  OTHER BOOKS BY THERESE STENZEL

  A Bride by Christmas

  Christmas Mail Order Brides

  Blue Africa-book one British Missive series

  Forever and a Day-book two British Missive Series

  Bride of Thistleloch Castle-book three British Missive series

  Coming next…A British, historical, time travel series

  Book One-EXPECTATIONS

  Book Two-INTENTIONS

  Book Three-REVELATIONS

  A British Bride by Agreement

  All Rights Reserved

  2013 Therese Stenzel

  V1.0

  ISBN #

  EAN

  Cover by Magyar Design

  Photos by:

  © Yurok Aleksandrovich

  © Asem Arab

  © Gnel Karapetyan

  This book may not be reproduced, or transmitted without the express written consent

  of the publisher/author incept in cases of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  www.theresestenzel.com

  This book is dedicated to my first born son, Jonathan.

  I love you!

  A writer never composes a book alone. I want to thank Margaret Daley for reading this entire manuscript when I first wrote it and having the moxie to tell me hero was a wimp! (Of course, I totally rewrote him and now he’s anything but.) Also, thank you Inspycrits who help me refine this story. Thank you my Beta Reader, Jane who said she loved the story (a true cheerleader!), to Jan A my editor-extraordinaire, to Bonnie Blythe who designs my fabulous covers, and to my family who is skiing—even as I write this, and has let me stay back at our rental so I could finish a book whilst on our family vacation. A writer always needs family support and especially my husband who let me pick his brain so that maybe, I could understand how guys think! Thank you honey!

  St. Louis, Missouri Present Day

  No coward soul is mine,

  No trembler in the world’s troubled sphere;

  I see Heaven’s glories shine,

  And faith shines equal, arming me from…

  Emma Banks paused on the path from her cottage home to the main estate. Fear? Tears? About to face the greatest challenge in her life and all she had for comfort was one of her favorite Bronte poems, but for some reason, she couldn’t quite remember.

  Emma continued trudging on. Worth millions, the Steller Manor was a lovely French country home nestled among acres of hundred-year-old oaks and formal gardens. The crunch of the gravel road gave way to the hard, hot concrete until she stood between two urns on either side of a set of imposing front doors. Behind them, her destiny.

  At the press of the doorbell, a series of gongs rivaling St. Paul’s Cathedral sounded inside. Why did all posh people have the same type of door chime? Was there some Rich R Us Website she didn’t know about? Even the stacked stone positioned around the entry doors spoke of wealth. Much like the London home she’d grown up in.

  The door opened.

  She swallowed.

  Jonathan Steller wore a navy blue jacket with a striped shirt opened at the neck. His short blond hair and stern face did not reveal any of the tension that was cutting off the air to her throat.

  Telling her lips to smile, she moved her hand forward in greeting. “Mr. Steller,” her voice squeaked.

  “It’s Jonathan.” He took her hand into his warm one and shook it. “Nice to see you again, Emma. Come in.”

  A lump welled in her throat. The last time she’d seen him was at her husband’s funeral. Until now, she’d buried that memory. Exceedingly kind of him to have come.

  The air-conditioning of the vaulted foyer wafted across her damp forehead. Of course, she’d been there before. The Steller family held a Christmas brunch every year for their staff. But she’d never come alone, never without DJ.

  “I’m so glad you could join me for lunch.”

  The deep male timbre of his voice set off a wave of anxiety. “Yes, thank you for having me,” to my last meal before you kindly me ask me to vacate my home. If only she could come up with some sensible reason to let her stay.

  “This way.” The courtesy in his voice urged her to move in front of him.

  Her heels clicked over an inlaid floor of intricate gold and Wedgewood-blue mosaic tiles, under an arched hallway, and into a restaurant-sized kitchen. Three chefs, dressed in white, stood in a row by a large center island, like keys on a piano.

  Jonathan led her around a corner to a bistro table and chairs that overlooked a lovely view of the garden. He pulled out her chair. “Something to drink?”

  “Iced tea—” Her insides froze. Daft move, Duckie. This is the home of the owner of the largest soda conglomerate in the world. She cleared her throat. “Steller Plum Soda, of course. Diet, please.”

  A semblance of a grin touched his lips, as a slight crinkle of lines fanned out from his blue eyes.

  A moment after they sat, a waiter appeared and poured them two dark violet sodas, fizzing in tall glasses.

  She admired the view of the Elizabethan knot garden studded with cherub fountains. Although the hedgerows looked slightly overgrown, the August heat had turned the normally emerald grass to a disappointing shade of lime. Her heart weighed heavy. Did the grass miss him, too? Sadness tinged her thoughts. DJ had always taken his post as the head gardener for the Stellers very seriously.

  In the distance, a white gazebo lit by lights reminded her of her childhood home. At least this place had been bought with honest money. She looked away and took a long sip of her soda. Who knew plums could be so profitable?

  “I’ll get to the reason I asked you here.” His gaze bored through her.

  She shifted in her chair. DJ had died three months ago and she was still living in the estate cottage rent-free. Past time to move out. The knot in her stomach tightened. Dare she ask for another month? But where would she go? She cleared her throat. “I know you need the cottage for the next head gardener. And I so appreciate you letting me stay on—”

  “No. I have another matter to discuss—”

  Two male waiters leaned in and set down two steaming bowls of soup. The unmistakable aroma of lobster filled her nose. Despite her nerves, her mouth watered.

  “I have a proposal I’d like to put forward, but let’s say grace first.”

  Grace? She bowed her head. He was a Christian? Conviction weighed her conscience. I’ve judged him badly. The papers had been filled with the news of his wedding being canceled mere hours before the event took place. Rumors suggested that he’d done the jilting. And then there was the jet set lifestyle he’d been known for. She’d assumed the worst. A few seconds of silence ticked by and she peeked up. He had finished praying and was now scrutinizing her with his cool ocean-blue eyes.

  “Uh, amen.” She tucked into the creamy soup and struggled to keep from groaning with delight.

  “I’d like you to marry me.”

  Her second spoonful hung in mid-air. Illogical laughter bubbled up in her throat, and not for the reason he was surely thinking. She’d grown up dining in some of the finest London restaurants and it had been a long time since she’d tasted something this exquisite. She wanted one more mouthful before she stalked off at his ridiculous jest. But when she swallowed, something caught in her windpipe.

  Panic welled like a crescendo.

  Time slowed.

  No air.

  She stumbled to her feet. Bent over, she grabbed her neck. Still nothing could get past the blockage in her throat.

  Jonathan jumped up. His b
owl flipped over. His chair clattered backwards. He rushed around the table, gathered her up in his arms, and squeezed the life out of her chest.

  Pop!

  A piece of lobster shell flew into the air and landed in his untouched drink. She sucked in a breath as he lowered her onto the wooden floor.

  He knelt beside her. His face gripped with concern. “Are you all right?”

  Still panting, she nodded, and pressed her napkin to her lips with trembling hands. At the sight of soup all over his shirt, heat flooded her cheeks.

  He helped her to her feet, and the three chefs righted the chairs, whisked away the bowls, linens, glasses, and set the table again in a matter of seconds.

  Another dish of steaming bisque awaited her. She rubbed her forehead, longing to disappear into the walls. “Thank you for helping me, and for lunch, a—and for your proposal.” Why was she thanking him for his ridiculous proposition? Tears stung her eyes. They came so easily these days. “I have to go.”

  “Please, wait.” He finished cleaning off his shirt and led her, with a light touch to her elbow, into a dark paneled study just off the kitchen.

  Heat traveled from her elbow to her arm to her cheeks. She stood by one of the leather couches as he shut the door. The thud of it closing sent a tingle through her spine. She never expected to be alone with him.

  “I want you to hear me out, and then you can go.”

  At the authoritative tone in his voice, her shoulders tightened. But he’d been the consummate gentleman thus far. She eased onto the edge of the couch.

  “As you may be aware, my fiancée left me last year a few hours before our wedding. What you probably don’t know is, it was because she was in love with my best friend.”

  A grandfather clock stood ticking in the corner of the room. By the resentful tone in Jonathan’s voice, the clock’s boldness was very brave indeed.

  “My fiancée wasn’t a believer in Christ. Because of my faith, it would have been a mistake to marry her.” His face looked hard and unyielding. “I learned a great deal from that experience. Enough to know what’s really important in choosing a wife. That crisis sent me to my knees.”

  Her brow lifted. So he wasn’t just trying to impress her with his prayers. An ache tugged inside of her. She needed to turn back to God, too. “So you weren’t jesting when you—you…”

  “No.” He shoved his hands to his hips.

  “Because I’m a believer—that’s why you want to marry me?”

  He paced to a heavily draped window and peered outside as if to insure no one could overhear them. The sun’s rays lit up his blond hair and strong profile. “We’ve both studied classical music. We’ve both lived abroad, and both hold conservative views. And there’s another issue.” His penetrating stare sent a tremor down her spine. “I’m in need of an heir. Two, preferably.”

  She blinked, a fire building in her chest. Two? Like a pair of designer shoes? Like two jet skis instead of one? Was this man mad?

  “We’re both alone, not by choice.” He paused as if measuring her response. “We’ve both been betrayed.”

  Heat prickled her scalp. Did he know about DJ and his gambling addiction? The empty savings accounts? The mounting debts? Her one secret?

  “I’ve been told you have no funds and I have,” he folded his arms, “more than I could ever spend. I know, because I’ve tried.”

  When he came and sat down next to her, there was genuineness in his expression. “What I’m trying to say is we are both of the same faith, and I hoped we could come to an agreement.”

  “Agreement?” Her jaw dropped open, her breathing, rapid. Was he daft? Did he think she was just another one of his family’s business deals?

  She scooted away from him.

  He stood. His broad shoulders looking strong enough to take on the world. “Look, I know you think I’m crazy…”

  And then some.

  “But I believe that marriage is sacred before God He strode over to a massive desk and stood behind it. “A union such as ours doesn’t have to be an emotionally-based pledge. Two logical people can look at their situations and decide they’re right for each other. That way, the whole arrangement wouldn't have to be so… involved.” He picked up a document from the desk, scanned it, momentarily distracted by some business. He looked up at her and clenched his square jaw as if there was more he wanted to say. “Have I offended you?”

  She stood and smoothed out her skirt with a trembling hand. Does the queen own a tiara? His knowing so much about her was unnerving. She glanced at her watch. It was passed time to go. Opening the door, she spun around to tell him what he could do with his agreement, when she slammed into him.

  “Steady.” He grabbed her upper arms.

  But the cloying smell of expensive cologne, Speed by Lord Baron, engulfed her. Its excessive sweetness brought back memories of her ambitious father and his desperate hunger for the status wealth could bring. A life she swore she would never live.

  “I’m sorry,” she swallowed and pulled away from his hold. “If this is your idea of a joke, you have an ill-bred sense of humor. I’m grieving, and you want me to marry you and give you children?”

  His face was still but his eyes roved over her face.

  “I think, like all the posh people I’ve known, your money has gone to your head.” She bolted through the door, scurried down a corridor lined with portraits of men with long, droopy moustaches, crossed into a hall of mirrors, and came to a sudden halt. She back-tracked her way into another long hallway.

  She was lost.

  “This way.”

  Turning around, she searched for the owner of the deep baritone voice. She found Jonathan leaning against an archway with arms folded. Her gaze lingered on him for a moment.

  Without a word, she strode past him, ashamed to find him so unnervingly handsome.

  “My offer still stands.” His voice sounded quietly behind her.

  Without turning back, she opened the door. “I’ll be out of the cottage in three days.”

  ***

  Four days had passed with unrelenting pressure. Creditors waited at Emma’s door, her mail box was full of registered letters, demanding payment, and harassing phone calls that rang at all hours of the night. Followed by the confirmation from her bank that her trust fund account was indeed bare.

  Now a wiry man, no wider than the width of a pen, stood outside on her landing, waving a clipboard. Three other men waited behind him. By their grimy attire, they didn’t look like Royal Guards.

  “We’ve got papers, ma’am, giving us permission to take your Steinway as back payment for,” he squinted at his document, “a debt incurred by a, Daniel Joseph Banks.”

  A gasp caught in her throat. Not the Steinway. A boom of thunder sounded outside. Emma cut a hard look at the darkening clouds. She’d fancy some divine intervention right about now.

  “You gonna sign?”

  “Just a minute.” She snatched the papers from him and scanned them. Could she get a hold of her father’s solicitor in London? Her stomach roiled as she folded onto a chair in her front entry and pushed her hair out of her eyes. How could DJ sign away her grandmother’s gift of a grand piano? Wave after wave of betrayal washed over her. She closed her eyes and tried to remember if there were any good times in their three-year marriage.

  A scuffle of feet. Her eyelids flew open. Shock paralyzed her as four men undid the piano legs, whipped thick blankets in place, then heaved the grand piano, on which she had performed in the greatest music halls in England, toward a piano skid.

  “No!” She grabbed one of the burly men by the arm, but he just dragged her slender frame toward the door. The mute males deftly tilted the instrument onto its side and pushed it through the front entry to the waiting lorry. She recoiled. “You can’t take my piano. I—I have legal rights.”

  Three of the men stepped onto an electric dolly. The shrill whirr of the lift ground her rational thoughts into dust. A few drops of rain fell, one spla
shing right in her eye.

  The fourth man situated himself between her and her instrument, as if he carried out these heartless acts with little thought. “Your husband signed it as collateral. Nothing you can do about it. ‘Cept maybe hire a lawyer.”

  Her chest squeezed. Her father knew plenty solicitors, but would he take her calls? “I won’t let you!” Her voice rose to a piercing C above middle E. “You can’t take this. It’s mine!”

  Gabe and Kurt, two of the gardeners her husband regularly partied with, stared back at her, their hedge clippers hanging at their sides. Then suddenly, Kurt hopped in a golf cart and headed toward the main house. Had they known about DJ’s gambling addiction?

  Teeth gritted, she blocked the path of the driver, who by now had lit up a cigar. The smell of the tart smoke burned her nostrils. “Gentlemen, can’t you please give me time to sort this out? This is just a misunderstanding.”

  The rainfall started to increase, slapping her face as if one injustice wasn’t enough for the day.

  The driver looked up and hurried toward his truck. “Take it up with the bank, lady.”

  She groaned and threw her hands up in the air. DJ had left her riddled with debts, bills, creditors so relentless in their pursuit of her, she was being forced to turn to the one place she vowed she’d never go—to her family in England.

  “I hate you,” burst from her lips as if DJ could somehow hear her. The truck’s engine roared, snapping her back into reality. Lunging forward, she ran after the unwieldy vehicle, pounding on the back section as it lumbered up the bumpy gravel road past a grove of trees in the direction of the Steller estate. Although it slowed as it moved toward the open wrought iron entrance, the lumbering thief outpaced her. But she continued yelling and running.

  Just before the paved road in front of the estate, she tripped and fell to her knees in a cloud of noxious fumes.

  The offending vehicle charged on.

  She wilted, face down, in an eruption of tears. Her hands and knees, scraped by the pavement, throbbed as she cried. Her piano had been a gift from her grandmother on her sixteenth birthday. Grandmum had even paid to have it shipped to the states when Emma married.