Felice, p.1
Felice, page 1
“COME NOW, YOU MUST BE AWARE OF WHAT IS ON MY MIND,” HE SAID.
Lord, it wasn’t longing she saw in him but something far more dangerous to her sensibilities. “How should I know? Reading your mind would be like trying to catch dandelion fluff.”
With a catlike grace, he moved to where she sat. He leaned on her desk with both hands splayed palm down. He bent over, so close there was no escaping his essence. “It is not finished between us, chère.”
For a moment, she was afraid he was about to kiss her and that she’d be helpless to stop him. “We were finished when I left.”
“Non. That will happen only when we have the talk I spoke of.”
He hovered over her, so close she could make out the subtle differences between his black pupils and those dark irises. A wide chasm opened low in her belly. Deep in that chasm, an indecent flame lit.
Also by Kathleen Bittner Roth
Celine
Alanna
Josette
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Felice
Kathleen Bittner Roth
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
“COME NOW, YOU MUST BE AWARE OF WHAT IS ON MY MIND,” HE SAID.
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Epilogue
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS & AUTHOR NOTES
Teaser chapter
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2020 by Kathleen Bittner Roth
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
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ISBN: 978-1-4201-4208-2
eISBN-13: 978-1-4201-4209-9 (eBook)
eISBN-10: 1-4201-4209-7 (eBook)
To Jill Marsal
of the Marsal Lyon Literary Agency.
You’ve been my rock. Thank you for believing in me.
Chapter One
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.”
