A British Bride by Agreement

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 bowl 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.”