The Rake's Bride: Dry Bayou Brides, #5

By Lynn Winchester

Jean-Luc La Fontaine is tired of sowing his wild oats. So, after a disastrous summer in France, he's back in Dry Bayou, ordering himself a mail-order bride. A new wife will help him forget about the siren with sapphire eyes…

Intelligence, wealth, prestige… It means nothing when you fall in love with the wrong man. So, when scandal chases Isabeau Montefret from France, she runs to America, determined to forget the man with the wicked smile.

Isabeau hoped becoming a mail-order bride was the answer to her problems. She'd change her name, start a new life, and lose herself in a small town. When she discovers that the man who disappeared with her heart is the man she agreed to marry, Isabeau settles in for the fight of her life.

When the one woman he'd left France to forget arrives in town, claiming she's his new bride, Jean-Luc doesn't know what to feel. But when pain gives way to the truth, he must risk keeping a dark secret, one that would steal every chance at happiness. Isabeau once made him believe in happily ever after, now he must learn how to keep his new bride at a distance, lest he lose everything.

Can Jean-Luc be a true husband to the woman he's been deceiving? Can Isabeau convince Jean-Luc she's his one true love? Will these two rediscover what they had once upon a summertime?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charizomai Press
• Release date: Nov 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223331964

Lynn Winchester

Lynn Winchester is the pseudonym of a hardworking California-born conservative, now living in the wilds of Northeast Pennsylvania. Lynn has been writing fiction since the 5th grade, and enjoys creating worlds, characters, and stories for her readers. When Lynn isn't writing she is running a successful editing business, reading whatever she can get her hands on, raising her four children, making sure her husband is happy, and binge watching shows on Netflix.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Chateau Montebleu

Locronan, France

Summer, 1871

Jean-Luc checked his reflection one more time. He had to look perfect because his plan had to be perfect. After all the bad decisions he’d made throughout his life, he couldn’t mess up this last chance to bring home a wife.

Oh, you look pressed and dashing, Rollo remarked in French, his voice carrying across the room from the chaise where he was reclining. I hope she’s worth all the trouble, my friend.

Smiling, Jean-Luc turned to regard his acquaintance, a man he’d met only seven months ago. A man who’d brought him into the tight circles of the French aristocracy and introduced him to his newest vice: French women. When his uncle had sent him to France to find a wife, Jean-Luc had little faith he’d actually find one. He figured with his grand tastes and expectations, he’d end up settling for the least repugnant of choices. Thankfully, there were plenty of beautiful, elegant women to choose from. He’d spent most of the summer wining and dining some of the loveliest yet dull-witted ladies he’d ever seen, convinced he’d marry a pretty, yet empty-headed heiress.

Like a circling hawk, he swooped from lady to lady, his predatory eye looking for the right fit for his needs. He knew his uncle, Leslie, would expect him to bring home a charming, refined lady, someone who would help him build a name for himself in his small but growing hometown, Dry Bayou, Texas. And his aunt, Cressida, would expect him to bring home a woman who could at least read a book and put two thoughts together. So, he was on the hunt for a smart, refined, elegant paragon of feminine virtue.

In the beginning, he’d thought his task an impossible one, but he’d found his paragon in the last place he thought to look… the rose garden. It had taken one quiet and innocently alluring wallflower to end his rakish ways forever. He’d known many women in his twenty-six years, but this one would fulfill his needs and hopefully make his uncle and aunt happy.

Oh, she is, he answered Rollo in his American-accented French.

Laughing, Rollo slowly stood and straightened his bright green waistcoat so the deep green vertical lines matched up with the lines on his too-tight breeches. Jean-Luc never understood the allure of such ridiculous styles. He turned back to look at his own wardrobe choice: black coat, black vest, dark blue cravat—like a bow tie, but fussier—white silk shirt, and black trousers. Everything he wore, he wore it well—at least that’s what the ladies said.

Well, if you say so. Rollo gave a flip of his wrist and strode toward the door. "I’m off. Maman wishes to discuss tomorrow’s trip to the lake. Which means, of course, I must sit through her telling me what I’ll be doing." Jean-Luc knew the man had left only because the room had grown quiet.

His focus was pinned to his reflection. He’d groomed his mustache to the perfect arch over his lips, and the black hairs were held in place with a touch of pomade. His dark brown eyes burned back at him, flowing with the anxiety and growing hope only a man about to propose could feel. He smiled at that, and his gaze dropped to his own lips. They’d been called kissable, masterful, sensual… To him, they were a tool, something he could use to get what he wanted. Usually, it was the affections or attentions of some flighty debutante, but now he wanted to put those lips to use asking his chosen woman to be his wife.

With that thought in his head, he checked the clock on the mantel. He’d sent a note, requesting her presence in the rose garden at exactly two o’clock. It was now striking one. He still had an hour before the most important moment of his life. Why am I so nervous? She’s just a woman, for heaven’s sakes. It isn’t like she’s the queen. Asking her to marry me should be as easy as asking her to dance with me.

He knew he was making light of the situation, but he couldn’t make himself care. She was a means to an end and she happened to be wealthy, pretty, and exactly the kind of woman his family would approve of. Still, the uncertainty ate at him, uncertainty edged with something hot, something that made every nerve spark at once.

Jean-Luc sighed and walked to the chaise Rollo had vacated, sitting then standing again. He was much too wound up to sit. An hour. He had another hour before he could finally end his own misery. Suddenly, doubt slithered into his mind. Would she come? Would she say yes or would she laugh in his face? At first glance, he and Marielle were two disparate personalities. He enjoyed the sights and sounds of a party, and she preferred the quiet and company of books. Where he enjoyed the thrill of riding and shooting, she preferred long, leisurely walks. He was a charming rake; she was a demure innocent. They were like night and day, light and dark, left and right—but though they had their differences, he knew they would work.

But did she agree?

Annoyed by the trail of his ludicrous doubts, he laughed them off. By the end of the day, Marielle Montebleu will be mine. His deep voice burst with the conviction and confidence of a seasoned rake.

A knock on the door drew his attentions. He stood, walked to it, and opened it to find someone he hadn’t expected. Lisette, what are you doing here? Lisette was Marielle’s younger sister, and one of the women he’d romanced before meeting the woman he’d set his sights on.

When he’d first arrived in the lovely countryside town of Locronan, he couldn’t believe how many equally lovely women there were. During the summer Season, many of the prominent French families would retreat to the cooler countryside, which is why he’d allowed Rollo to drag him from the lights and lovelies of Paris to Chateau Montebleu, Rollo’s family estate. He’d met Lisette first, and he was immediately taken with her smile, flashing eyes, and sultry ways. He flirted with her, having fun as only a rake could. But he never intended to marry her. She was merely a harmless distraction from the arduous task of finding a suitable wife.

Lisette, a beautiful, dark-haired siren, stared up at him with her green-hazel eyes, so unlike the twinkling blue of Marielle’s striking irises. Oh, my sister sent me to fetch you. She says she cannot wait to see you.

Unexpected excitement exploded within him. Where is she? he asked, strangely breathless. Immediately, his earlier doubts about Marielle’s affections fell away. She was calling for him. She couldn’t wait to see him, be with him. He felt his smile double in size. He’d let himself wonder about his reaction later. Once she was promised to him.

Lisette pinned him with her gaze, her mouth slipping into a frown before her expression recovered to its pleasant veneer. She is in the rose garden, of course.

Jean-Luc didn’t bother dismissing Lisette. He had to get to the garden. Heart pounding, breathing shallow, he practically ran through the house, from one side to the other, to get to the doors leading to the two-acre garden. He knew anyone watching would think he’d lost his mind, and he concluded he might have. Something inside him told him to get to her.

Stepping through the doors, Jean-Luc took a moment to breathe. The scents of roses, freshly cut grass, and sweet country air assailed his senses. Blinking up at the sun, he smiled as the warmth poured over him, into him.

Yes, today was a beautiful day, perfect for what he had planned. He took the stairs from the patio to the gravel path two at a time and turned onto the path he knew by heart. It was where he’d first noticed Marielle. Gravel crunching beneath his boots, he walked past chest-high rosebushes covered in red and pale pink blooms. He grinned. The pink ones reminded him of Marielle and her most luscious blush. Now he understood why the roses were famed among the French. They were as lovely as a demure French lady. His lady: Marielle.

In two heartbeats, he rounded a corner and came to the walled part of the garden. Beyond was the walking path shaded by linked arbors covered in climbing ivy, and beyond that was a quiet, secluded spot with a single bench. He knew Marielle would be waiting there for him. It was where he’d first kissed her. He groaned at the memory… She’d been arguing with him, over what he couldn’t remember, but he did remember looking down at her, taken with the flush in her cheeks, the spark in her eyes, and the perfect O of her lips. He’d kissed her, to silence her, of course, but the silencing kiss turned to a heated exchange before he could think twice. That’s when he knew he’d marry her.

Now, only feet from her, heart in his windpipe, he rounded the last bend in the path and stopped.

Sucking in a deep breath, he took in the scene before him. Marielle was there. In the arms of another man. Cold realization struck his chest. She was kissing Louis, the very man she’d called a diseased bottom-feeder only the day before.

Sneering, Jean-Luc wondered how much of what she’d told him over the last six weeks were lies. Had she ever even fallen in love with him as she’d proclaimed? Sour bile rose in his throat and he fought the urge to spit it onto the rosebushes.

Before he could utter a curse, Marielle’s sweet voice floated toward him. This isn’t part of my plan, Louis… He strained to hear what she said next, but the wind snatched her words away.

Plan? What plan? Then, something sinister and hideous crawled into his mind. She’d been playing him for a fool.

She was a liar, a schemer, and he’d fallen for it. He’d fallen for her. The truth of his utter gullibility swallowed any words he might have hurled at the two secret lovers. No, he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of knowing they’d successfully duped him.

Before she could turn and find him standing there, he pivoted on his heel and strode away.

He knew he shouldn’t do it. He knew what the consequences would be. He simply didn’t care. Running his fingers through his hair and cursing the headache raging in his skull, he leaned against the counter of the hotel and waited for the porter to load his bags into the waiting carriage.

He was headed home—not to New York City where he’d spent five years of his life before travelling to France a year ago. No, he was headed to Dry Bayou, Texas, where he’d been raised. Where no one knew about the mistakes he’d made over the last six years.

When the porter returned, Jean-Luc pulled a letter from his pocket, handing it and a franc to the man. "Make sure this gets to Monsieur LaRaquelle at the Gazette de Paris," he said tersely, wishing he’d been a little more judicious in the amount of brandy he’d drunk. Despite the morning-after consequences, he licked his lips, even now wishing he had a drink in his hand. Only drink could help him forget about her, about what a fool he’d been… even if just for a night.

Sir? It was the porter, his arm extended toward the door.

He trudged to the carriage door and let the porter help him inside. He hated his weakness, his vulnerability—he’d even let someone else shave him that morning because he couldn’t hold the blade steady. He cursed. She brought him to this. Her lying lips told him things he wanted to hear, which made him feel things that weren’t real. They couldn’t be real. In a few days, he’d forget about her. She was simply one of many women he’d fallen for. His fickle heart would lead him to another woman to marry. It was like finding a new pair of boots to wear. Never in his life had he been so proud to be a rake. It would serve him well now as he exorcised the ghost of Marielle from his body and mind.

As the carriage started its trip to the dock and the ship that would carry him across the Atlantic to America, he clasped his head between his hands and moaned at the thudding, pulsing, throbbing.

Jean-Luc closed his eyes, wishing for a drink and the oblivion it would bring. The pain in his skull was not nearly as sharp as the ache in his chest. And he refused to wonder why.

CHAPTER ONE

La Maison du La Fontaine

Dry Bayou, Texas

Spring, 1872

Jean-Luc jolted awake, his body throbbing as though the bed was shaking, his head pounding… No, it wasn’t his head pounding, it was someone at the door, banging mercilessly.

What? he grumbled, his voice a low growl, which only made the throbbing in his neck and chest worse.

There wasn’t an answer, only more pounding—well, it was actually incessant, patient knocking. As if someone were standing out there, arm poised, knocking in rhythm to a song only they could hear.

Swallowing down the rising gorge, he slowly flipped from his stomach to his back and dragged his legs over the edge of the bed. They dangled there a moment until he could wipe the blur from his eyes; then he slid forward until his bare feet touched the softness of the Aubusson rug surrounding his bed. He stood, his legs barely able to keep him upright let alone walk him in a straight line toward the door. He stumbled, recovered, hit his toe on one of his discarded boots, and stumbled again when his foot caught on his discarded jacket. But he persisted because the person on the other side of the door hadn’t let up, either.

Knock-knock. Who dared bother him so late at night? His room was pitch-black, and he hadn’t slept more than an hour, for certain. What was so danged important that someone was banging down the house to rouse him?

Anger worked its way past the lump of sour in his throat. Blast it! What do you want? I’m coming. Hold on a minute! This time, his voice only cracked once. Sad to think of that as an accomplishment.

Finally at the door, he fumbled with the lock and knob and groaned with the force it took to pull the door open. Moaning when the light from the hallway gas lamps pierced the haze in his head, he didn’t have time to react before someone pushed past him and into his room. He gripped the doorframe and shook his head to clear it, then rounded on the intruder, ready to rout whoever crossed the threshold into his sanctuary.

You look terrible, Jean-Luc, a husky, familiar voice scolded.

Taking a moment to catch his breath and calm the new pounding in his skull, he glanced up at his aunt from beneath weary eyelids. Auntie, what are you doing in my room? What was all the banging for? It’s only just past midnight, he said as his aunt moved to the bedside table and turned up the brass lamp. It cast the room in shadows and flicks of light danced along the walls.

Cressida La Fontaine squared her shoulders and narrowed her eyes at him. Her rich black hair was twisted in a knot at the base of her neck, her caramel skin shone like gold in the lamplight, and her usually bright, intelligent eyes were pinned to him, their deep green depths piercing him with questions.

I am here because you need me, that’s why—she held up her hand when he opened his mouth to interject—and don’t argue with me about it. I worry about you. Your uncle is worried about you. You can’t spend your nights drinking and sleeping your days away. Not if you plan to be a respectable lawyer or get married to that girl tomorrow.

Her words roiled in his belly. She was right. He was only bringing trouble on himself, but he couldn’t stop. The drink was the only thing that helped him forget what a fool he’d been… But did it? No matter how much whiskey he guzzled, he could still hear her voice in his head, see her smile behind his eyes, smell her scent—roses and sunlight—under his nose. She was everywhere but nowhere. He should have seen it, should have seen her for what she was: a grasping schemer, out to rob him of his pride. He’d been the punchline of a summer-long joke.

Married? he grumbled as he stumbled toward the bed, wishing he hadn’t finished off his last bottle of Jim Beam before collapsing into bed. "Oh, I’m getting married. Don’t worry about that, Auntie. I have days yet before I have