Felice

Book 2: Bayou Bad Boys

by Kathleen Bittner Roth

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Romance

Synopsis

When beautiful shipping heiress Felicité Marielle Christiane Andrews finally returns to New Orleans after two years abroad, she does not expect to come face to face with the man she cannot forget—or to find him more captivating than ever. Now she must remind herself that she:
 
Lives a fabulous life in England
Is engaged to marry a fine man of nobility
Cannot allow the wicked Cajun back into her life…
 
…But indeed, she does.
 
Charismatic René Thibodeaux, illegitimate son of a voodoo witch, has worked hard to rise above his poverty-stricken bayou youth. He’s put his thieving and womanizing days behind him and earned a high-ranking position at Felice’s father’s company. Seeing her again only intensifies his longing for her—and his deep remorse for his past foolishness. But despite his success, he must remind himself:
 
He is unworthy of Felice in every way
She is forbidden fruit
He will do anything to win her—even risk his life…

Release date: April 28, 2020

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

New Orleans, 1859

No matter how far Felicité Marielle Christiane Andrews traveled, her stubborn heart refused to abandon New Orleans.

As she stepped smartly off her family’s clipper ship, Celine, onto the sun-bleached docks of New Orleans’ Crescent Harbor, sweet nostalgia gripped her, moistening her eyes.

At her side, her fiancé, Mayhew Rutherford, Marquess of Ainsworth, wrinkled his nose, causing his mustache to twitch. “Pray don’t linger, darling. This place reeks of fish.”

“What were you expecting, the scent of roses along a waterfront?” Felice tilted her head and arched a brow. Then she looked away, a hint of a smile on her lips.

“Why, you little minx. I do believe you are flirting with me.”

“Is it sweetening your ill-humored mood?”

His brown-eyed gaze slowly swept over her from head to toe. The corners of his mouth lifted and he gave her a wink. “It’s hotter than Hades here as well. And to think we’re barely into March.”

She glanced at his fair-haired locks, darkened with perspiration and plastered against his forehead. “You might try putting your hat back on your head. The sun and all.”

He swiped at the damp hair clinging to his brow and donned the beaver hat. With a scowl, he removed it again. Unintelligible grumblings erupted from his lips.

“Really, Ainsworth? You sound as if you’ve marbles tumbling about that sharp tongue of yours.”

“Gads, you just called me Ainsworth.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, then with a tilt of his head, cocked a brow at her. “I do believe I’ve managed to annoy you.”

As mischief filled his eyes, he reached out and caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. “Do forgive me, darling. The combination of this sultry heat and the need to acquire my land legs has taken a ghastly toll on my usual charm and effervescence.”

She laughed. His was a wicked wit that never failed to amuse her.

With a snap of his wrist, he flattened his beaver hat against his thigh, then wedged the bothersome thing under his arm and glanced about. “Any hope of locating a decent horse in these parts?”

“Not dockside, I would expect.”

“A pity. After weeks at sea, a good ride would surely cure what ails me.”

Felice studied the tall, handsome man beside her. Mayhew could charm the coat off the queen’s back had he a mind to. Silently, she congratulated herself on landing one of the most eligible bachelors in the whole of England. Soon, he would make her a first-rate husband—provided her father gave his blessing—and provided that deplorable incident in Paris, along with its ensuing nightmare, remained her secret.

Fingers of guilt trailed a path down her spine, sending a flurry of goose bumps along her arms. What she wouldn’t give if the saints above would kindly erase the dreadful memory. But blast it all, she wasn’t about to let one miserable blunder that occurred three years ago ruin her chances of a decent married life.

Mayhew waved a hand in front of her face. “Hallo? Have I lost you somewhere in the ethers? Or are you quizzing that sharp little mind of yours for the location of a good equine?”

Snapping out of her reverie, she caught his curious gaze and quipped, “My little mind? Have you forgotten I can beat the stuffing out of you at chess? My brother keeps a fine stable, by the by. I’ll see to the matter at once.”

“Brilliant!” His entire countenance lit up while the dimple in his left cheek deepened.

She slipped her hand through the crook of his arm and started forward. “After a short jaunt in the saddle, not only will you be fit as a fiddle, you’ll find New Orleans quite captivating. Especially the Vieux Carré.”

“Ah, the French Quarter. Where the aristocrats originally settled, and where your late mother was born.” He shot her another fetching grin. “See, pet, I do listen. And what makes a fiddle fit?”

“I’ll ignore your last remark. See the building over there with my family’s name etched in gold?”

“One would have to jolly well be blind to miss it.”

“Therein lie the offices of the Andrews Shipping Company. My brother oversees the entire Gulf Coast and Caribbean lines from here and has been expecting our arrival, so unless I am mistaken, Michel’s eyes should be fixed on us at this very moment.”

Mayhew harrumphed. “Then why the devil isn’t Mee-shell, as you call him, out here to greet us? Has the heat fogged his brain, or do the natives hereabouts lack proper manners?”

“That wasn’t amusing in the least.”

“Wasn’t meant to be.”

“Truly, you are out of sorts. You’ll find my brother’s manners impeccable, by the by, but less rigid than those of you English. He’s likely avoiding the blazing sun and waiting until we enter the offices to greet us. Come along.”

As if on cue, the door opened wide. Michel stood at the entrance, a generous smile aimed at Felice. “It’s about time you arrived, little sister.”

A thrill shot through her at the sight of him, at the sound of his familiar soft, Southern drawl. Casting decorum aside, she shoved her parasol at her lady’s companion and rushed to her brother’s side. She threw her arms around him and blew a kiss on one cheek, then the other.

“Oh, Michel, it’s so very good to see you! I am absolutely dying to meet your wife. Who would’ve thought you, a confirmed bachelor, would end up wed to a widow with six children?”

He set her at arm’s length, his warm brown eyes glittering with amusement. “Soon to be seven.”

“Oh my word!” She turned to Mayhew, who’d stepped forward. “I’d like you to meet Mayhew Rutherford, Marquess of Ainsworth.” She smiled at her intended. “And soon to be my fiancé, once we make our way to Carlton Oaks for Papa’s approval. Behind him is Mrs. Dawes, my traveling companion.”

Michel reached out and shook Ainsworth’s hand. “Good to finally meet you, sir.” With a sweep of his arm, he bade them enter. “You’ll find the air a bit cooler inside.”

He turned to Felice’s traveling companion. “Mrs. Dawes, I do hope my sister gave you little reason to consider jumping ship in the middle of the Atlantic. Felice can be quite the spirited woman. As well as hardheaded. Has been all her life.”

Felice poked her brother in the ribs. “Oh, you.”

He laughed and sidestepped another jab.

Plump Mrs. Dawes, a sheen covering her red cheeks, swiped at a limp feather adorning a felt hat the color of mud and tucked a stray lock beneath the brim. “I’ve no complaints, sir. She’s been kind to me, she has. And her pluck is far more agreeable than the dreadful young ladies I had the misfortune of serving previously.”

Felice followed Michel’s lead and stepped inside.

And nearly tripped over herself.

At the sight of the dark-haired, dark-eyed man standing in front of a waist-high table in the center of the large, whitewashed room, the breath she’d sucked in stuck in her windpipe.

René Thibodeaux!

The blasted, no-good Cajun who’d fractured her heart three years ago—and the sole reason she’d fled New Orleans—turned his head and settled his penetrating midnight gaze on her.

She didn’t need an iced drink to prompt the chill that raced through her from head to toe. What the devil was he doing here? He was supposed to be overseeing their offices in Jamaica, and not scheduled to return until well after she’d departed Louisiana altogether. She’d taken great care to check and double-check the company schedule, had timed her visit to avoid him.

The moment hung suspended between them, only to expand as his feral gaze remained fixed on her. For the life of her, she could not look away from the man who’d once kissed her as if she meant everything in the world to him, only to discard her with appalling words that had cut to the bone.

She stuffed the sharp memory inside the knot in her throat and swallowed. The years, and apparently his elevated position in her family’s business, had matured him in a way she couldn’t quite define. His was a chiseled face, leaner and more defined than when she’d last seen him. Thick, shiny hair, black as a moonless night, hung near to his collar, framing that gloriously handsome visage. Crisply starched shirtsleeves, meticulously rolled at the cuffs, exposed the roped muscles of his forearms. A gold-embroidered silk waistcoat was draped over broad shoulders and fitted snug against a taut stomach. The expert tailoring of his trousers over long legs revealed a man in superb physical form—serving to further display someone she’d done her best to forget.

Despite his polish and refinement, an imperceptible shift took place in his demeanor, betraying the uncivilized, unreachable man lurking beneath the surface. He stood over an array of what appeared to be maritime maps, his gaze upon her so intense it could have been a physical touch.

This wouldn’t do, gaping at him like an utter fool. Had her brain ceased to function as well as her lungs? Collecting herself, she managed to incline her head in a small gesture of greeting. “Monsieur Thibodeaux.”

His all-pervading gaze never left hers. “Mademoiselle Andrews.”

Two words. Two bloody words in that lyrical Cajun drawl rumbling low in his throat, and in one cruel instant, wicked memories she’d thought time had erased licked at every nerve she possessed.

Mayhew glanced at her, then at Thibodeaux and back again. His brow furrowed. “Felice?”

She forced a smile. “Forgive me, darling. Monsieur René Thibodeaux, allow me to introduce you to Mayhew Rutherford, the Marquess of Ainsworth. Lord Ainsworth has accompanied me from England for the purpose of asking my father for my hand in marriage.”

“Oui. I am aware.” An indecipherable keenness flared in René’s eyes. “I review every passenger manifest and message that crosses my desk.”

He stepped forward, his movements as sleek as a bayou panther’s. Extending his hand to Ainsworth, René lifted his left brow. Felice knew that little quirk—a telltale sign he wasn’t particularly pleased. The audacity of him, to boldly scrutinize the man she intended to marry.

Was that her imagination, or did a flicker of coldness form hard lines at the outer corners of Mayhew’s eyes as the two clasped hands?

“We have iced lemonade with crushed mint if you are feeling overheated,” René said.

Ainsworth’s brow furrowed. “Iced, you say? How the devil does one come about such luxury in this morbid heat?”

“In winter, we ship large blocks of the stuff down the Mississippi from up north and store it in heavily insulated icehouses. I’ll see to getting you a glass.”

Her emotions at odds, she gave the men her back and faced the empty desk at the end of the room. “Where is Mr. Abbott? I’ve never known him to be absent from his position.”

Michel’s expression turned dour. “I’m afraid Abbott has taken seriously ill.”

Her heart tripped. “Oh, dear. I must visit his bedside at once.” She turned to Mayhew. “Mr. Abbott keeps the ledgers. He’s been with the company from the beginning and is like an uncle to me.”

Michel scrubbed a hand through his hair. “He’s not taking visitors.”

“Surely he’d see me.”

Michel shook his head. “You know what a private person he can be. An attendant who looks after him stops by once a week to keep us apprised of his condition. He’ll let us know when Abbott intends to return. In the meanwhile, you’ll have to remain for as long as we may need you to manage the ledgers in his absence.”

“Me?”

Ainsworth stepped forward. “Her? What the devil? Women of her ilk do not labor.”

She knew the answer before she spoke, but objections worked past her lips nonetheless. “Surely you can find someone other than me to take his place for a few days? Can’t Monsieur Thibodeaux fill in? It’s imperative I go upriver to Papa.”

Michel, ever the big brother, stepped forward and peered down his nose at her. “Besides the lurch Abbott’s illness has left us in, we have three new ships due to anchor, which has caused Thibodeaux to delay a vital journey to Jamaica. As it is, he’s overworked. We cannot spare a moment of his time to tend to the accounts.”

Lord, this wouldn’t do. She could hardly wait to exit the office in order to leave René behind, and here Michel was telling her to work alongside the man? But then, how could her brother possibly know what had occurred between René and her? “I am sorry, Michel. I am unavailable. Hire someone from town.”

He cocked a brow and fisted his hands on his hips, his demeanor taking on a familiar sternness. “This isn’t like you, Felice. You haven’t even inquired as to the nature of Abbott’s condition.”

“Well . . . well,” she sputtered. “I didn’t think it a proper subject to discuss in mixed company.”

“For your information, he has a heart condition and suffered a bout of apoplexy.”

Her hand splayed over her heart. “Oh my, this is serious.”

“He may not be able to return for a long while. He’s the one who taught you everything you know about keeping the books for our company, and because you’ve inspected the ledgers in most of our offices around the world, there’s no one better to take his place. I’m not asking you, Felice; I’m telling you to step in. It’s not as if you have a pressing need to return to England.”

Ainsworth stepped forward. “Impossible, Andrews. You heard Felice. We don’t intend to remain in town for more than forty-eight hours. Besides, no future wife of mine will toil in an office—especially one alongside a dock teeming with stevedores and sailors. I don’t care if this is the largest maritime operation in the world. I’ll not have it.”

Felice swore she heard a soft snort coming from behind her. Be damned if she’d turn around and acknowledge René’s caustic response. Under any other circumstance, she’d have been the one to offer her services without hesitation. She’d always done all she could for the family business. And Michel was right—she’d spent more than two years traveling from one seaport office to another, scrutinizing the company ledgers. No one would be better suited to take Abbott’s place; he was the one who’d trained her in this very office.

But to be confined in the same room with René? Hell’s bells.

She narrowed her eyes at her brother. “The least you could’ve done was ask me nicely, instead of demanding I do your bidding. You know how I deplore being ordered about.”

Michel’s stubborn scowl told her that not only would there be no backing down, there’d be no rephrasing his request. At least he’d be at his desk every day to act as a buffer between her and René. If she put her head down and tended to the accounts, she’d not have to utter a word to the man.

Beside Mr. Abbott’s desk stood a glass-fronted bookcase. She caught René’s reflection. With his back to her and his head down, he toiled on whatever lay before him. Nonetheless, he had to have heard every word spoken. Dear heavens, he must have known all along that she’d be in the office first thing in the morning—working right alongside him.

Saints help her.

René stood at his worktable and stared at the map in front of him. Where the hell had he left off? Discreetly retrieving his handkerchief from his trouser pocket, he swiped at the moisture left by Ainsworth’s clammy handshake.

By rights, René should be in Jamaica, not standing here with this familiar sensation of being an outsider in his gut. What he wouldn’t give to have all three ships dock before nightfall. He’d be too busy inspecting one newly crafted vessel after the other to set foot inside the office. Once that was done, his brother would take over the office assignment, leaving René free to set sail for the islands without so much as a backward glance. Whatever the case, before his departure, he intended to try to make things right with Felice.

Maybe then he could get a decent night’s sleep.

Christ, he needed to gather his wits about him, ignore her and Lord What’s-his-name. He’d known before she stepped through the door that Michel intended to put her to work in Abbott’s absence, so why had her arrival skewed his sensibilities?

He knew why, damn it.

She’d breezed in big as you please, only to come to a dead halt when she’d set those spectacular onyx eyes on him. Her recovery had been swift enough, but there’d been no escaping the stunned look on her face—an expression that woke the devil inside him. Had it not been for Michel’s presence in the room, René might’ve responded to her discomposure with something he damn well shouldn’t have. Good thing her protective brother had followed her in and hadn’t caught her ill-disguised response. God forbid the man should guess there had ever been anything between Felice and him.

Her voice.

That silken sound still had the bad habit of sliding under his skin and making an idiot of him. He swore he could smell the light scent that was hers alone—like magnolias at midnight.

Impossible.

He hadn’t stood that close to her.

Christ, but he still found her intriguing. While she bore the demeanor of a woman who knew nothing of poverty or ugliness, she nonetheless seemed unaware of her unique allure. He’d once thought she must have been spoiled rotten. Not only had she enjoyed a privileged upbringing, she’d been the only female raised in a family of protective males—brothers, cousin, and doting father. The last thing he’d expected when he’d met the raven-haired beauty was a woman possessed of a keen wit and a no-nonsense air, one who easily held her own among her powerful kin. And if all that was not enough, she was also an heiress, wealthy beyond reason.

Quite the catch, this one.

And one who would forever be well beyond this Cajun’s reach.

A pulse along his temple began to pound. He rubbed at the back of his neck. How in hell was he going to work alongside her and keep her brother from suspecting there had ever been anything between them? If Michel or any other of her male relatives knew René had nearly ruined her, he’d be out the door. He couldn’t bear to give up this life he’d worked so hard to create. His position in the company was what had delivered him, the illegitimate son of a voodoo witch, out of the bayou shanty where he’d been born and raised and into a position of respectability he’d otherwise have no hope of achieving. If he were ever to lose his place in this revered company, he’d be rejected by the entire town before sundown. And so would his brother, who’d followed along in his footsteps.

He wasn’t a particularly devout man, but now might be a good time to pray for those ships to arrive.

Just when he’d managed to tune out the conversation across the room, Felice’s voice grew suddenly irritated, catching René’s attention once again.

“What do you mean, I won’t be residing with you while I’m in town?”

She wouldn’t?

René turned his head enough to catch a glimpse of Michel looming over his sister, his voice growing gruffer by the moment. “You’ll remain in the family town house.”

“But I assumed Lord Ainsworth would board there.”

He would?

“Dear sister, use a bit of common sense. With you laboring here in the office, and with no one at his disposal other than a single day servant, Lord Ainsworth would be bored silly. He’ll be more comfortable sequestered in the manse with all it has to offer.”

“What does that have to do with my not staying with you?”

“We’ll get to that.” Michel turned to Ainsworth. “Our company owns the largest home in the Garden District of New Orleans. It is called Le Blanc House. It’s situated two blocks from my residence. Our ships’ captains bunk there. They’ve been known to be good company, by the way. Any one of them would likely relish the idea of poking around town with you while awaiting the next voyage. Also, the estate is managed by Thibodeaux’s two cousins, one of whom happens to be the best cook in the city—if not all of Louisiana.”

Ainsworth shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. He grinned at Felice. “Fancy that, darling.”

Michel gave him a perfunctory nod. “I think you’ll find yourself nicely situated.”

He turned back to Felice. “As for boarding with me, my wife’s children are a rowdy lot who have taken up every bedroom, nook, and cranny in my home. I doubt you’d find a moment’s peace, let alone a decent spot on which to lay your head.”

Felice narrowed her eyes at Michel. “What is it you are not telling me, brother?”

He snatched the chair in front of his desk, turned it backward and straddling it, hung his wrists over the back, and gave her a sardonic grin. “How very good it is to see you, dear sister. Suffice it to say that my newly acquired children entered my life as a rather unruly lot. I’m still in the process of”—he shrugged—“settling them in, so to speak.”

René couldn’t help his soft chuckle. “That’s putting things mildly.”

“I’ll ignore your comments, Thibodeaux.” Nonetheless, he shot René a mirthful glance.

Henri, the company’s gangly, fifteen-year-old errand boy, who was in dire need of a decent haircut, scooted into the office, slapped a stack of papers on René’s desk, and shoved his hair out of his eyes.

“Ah, Henri,” René said, and continued speaking to the lad in French. “Kindly serve Mademoiselle Andrews and Lord Ainsworth a glass of iced lemonade, s’il vous plaît.”

Michel craned his neck. “And then escort my sister and Lord Ainsworth to Le Blanc House, where his lordship will be residing during his stay in our town.”

“Oui, monsieur.” Henri disappeared behind a closed door, shortly to reappear with two glasses of the iced thirst quencher on a silver tray.

“After Mademoiselle Andrews has taken the time to introduce his lordship to the staff and has given him a tour of the premises,” Michel said, “kindly escort her and her companion to the family town house in the Vieux Carré. Also, have their luggage delivered. And ask Régine to prepare a Cajun dinner for . . . ah, six or seven persons. I’d like to dine at nine of the clock.”

“Oui, monsieur.”

Michel addressed Ainsworth. “Ordinarily, I would host a dinner at Antoine’s your first evening in the city. It happens to be the finest restaurant in the Quarter, but because Felice is eager to meet my wife, and because Brenna’s present condition leaves her indisposed to public outings, I thought it best to take our meal at the manse. If you’d prefer to dine elsewhere with only the two of you, we can arrange that as well.”

“I’m quite content with a private gathering. What say you, Felice?”

She glanced around the room before giving a silent nod.

Michel turned to René. “The number for dinner includes you and your brother. Where the devil is he anyway?”

René shrugged. “I am not my brother’s keeper. Henri, leave word at Le Blanc House for Bastien to join us.”

“Oui, monsieur,” Henri shot over his shoulder as he raced out the door.

“Michel,” Felice said. “Might Mayhew and I slip over to your stables and fetch a couple of your fabulous horses for a ride about town this afternoon?”

René chuckled. Michel glanced over his shoulder at him and mumbled under his breath.

Felice scowled. “What did you say?”

“Nothing worth hearing,” Michel replied. “Except for a mare we use for the buggy—and she’s kept under lock and key—all my equines, including that donkey you rescued some years back and passed over to me, are temporarily stabled at Le Blanc House. You’re welcome to any of them.”

“There’s a story behind this, is there not?” Ainsworth asked.

Michel leaned back in his chair and blew out his breath. “It seems my newly acquired progeny helped themselves to my horses and set about blazing a trail throughout the city. The law didn’t take kindly to their actions.”

“Not to mention how many neighbors were appalled when the little darlings rode straight through open front doors and out the back,” René added. He returned his attention to the maps, silently cursing the prospect of dining with the newly arrived couple. He swiped a hand across his weary eyes and attempted to focus once more on the maps set before him. Picking up his ruler and pen, he shut out the chatter behind him.

A shadow fell over the table.

Ainsworth.

“I say, old chap, are those sea currents you’re plotting?”

“Non,” René replied without looking up. “Nature has provided man with the currents already in place. I am merely creating routes for the three new ships we expect to reach port any day now.” Christ, leave me to my job. I’ll have more than enough of your dubious company tonight.

Ainsworth picked up René’s pencil and set about examining it. “I say, old boy, this might be the most unique pen I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s a pencil. We use ink to trace over pencil sketches on the final chart.”

Ainsworth flipped the gilded utensil about in his hand. One long finger tapped at the stone set in the top. “Ruby, is it?”

René nodded. A muscle twitched along his set jaw. Did the man feel entitled to do whatever he damn well pleased? The arrogant prick had about thirty seconds to let go of the pencil before he’d be divested of it. Perhaps a couple of fingers broken along the way would send a strong message to leave well enough alone. “Oui, a ruby.”

“Where’d you get such a fine utensil, if you don’t mind my asking?”

I do mind. “China. Had it made there.”

Ainsworth slowed his flipping of the instrument. As he set it down, his shrewd gaze settled on René. “You like the finer things in life, I see.”

“Should finer things suit me, then oui, I manage to get them.”

Once again, Ainsworth placed his fingers on the pencil he’d set in front of René. Slowly, he rolled it back and forth. “As long as what suits you does not belong to someone else. I too prefer the finest that life has to offer. And when something is mine, I protect my property, even if it means drawing blood.”

René met Ainsworth’s eyes with a hard gaze of his own. Either the man was extraordinarily perceptive and hadn’t missed the tension between René and Felice, or he was mighty insecure about her affections. Whatever his thinking, he was like a dog taking a piss to mark his territory. René gave a nod toward Felice, who was locked in conversation with Michel. “Mademoiselle Andrews, she is your fiancée, oui?”

“It will be official once her father gives his approval.” Ainsworth arched a brow. “So, we are clear on certain points, my friend?”

Another kind of devil inside René raised his sleepy eyelids, one who’d fought dirtier battles than Ainsworth could ever imagine. Slowly and decisively, René collected his pencil, along with a stack of bills of lading Henri had deposited on the worktable. Before he turned to exit the office, he spoke quietly, his unflinching gaze still fixed on Ainsworth. “It is a wedding vow you will be taking, not a blood oath, oui?”

The small, covered landau Felice rode in pulled up in front of Le Blanc House. The driver jumped from his perch, opened the door, and lowering the footstep, helped her from the conveyance. She adjusted her emerald necklace, smoothed the front of her matching silk gown, then paused long enough to take in the sight of a fancy, two-seater gig parked alongside hers.

She ran her gloved fingers over the gleaming black fender edged in gold. A carriage ride under the stars in this open-top jewel would’ve been just the thing. But leave it to her unduly protective brother to send a driver in a closed equipage outfitted with curtained windows too small to catch so much as one flickering firefly.

She turned to face Le Blanc House. The imposing, white-columned mansion, surrounded by an ornate, wrought-iron fence,. . .