Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy)

by Shirl Henke

  Against her will, Deborah found her eyes drawn to him. For several seconds, which seemed like hours, she scanned the classically handsome face, shocked at his boldly admiring gaze. Lewd, that's what it was, absolutely, positively libertine! As if she were some cheaply dressed streetwalker, parading her wares for sale!

  Furiously, she hissed to Lydia, “Now what do we do? We have to get to the milliner's shop and that means circling all the way around the park or backtracking. Either way he'll know we deliberately cut across to meet him.”

  “Well, he cut across to see you again, too,” Lydia said with a smirk. “Anyway, I'd think an independent woman like you wouldn't care a fig what he thought!”

  Gritting her teeth, Deborah replied, “You're right,” and headed toward the street. “We'll just walk back on the other side of Jacobs Street.”

  So intent was she on escaping the scorching smile of the stranger that she failed to hear the thundering roll of wagon wheels as a huge dray filled with coal careened down the street. Lydia stood rooted to the curb in horror as Deborah stepped abruptly into the path of the onrushing wagon. However, before the mules' sharp hooves could claim their victim, a blur of white intervened. The stranger scooped her into his arms and lifted her back onto the sidewalk as if she were no more than a feather.

  Once the overloaded wagon had rumbled past them, he slowly released her, still saying not a word, his night-black eyes mesmerizing her. Deborah could feel the heat of his fingers as they seemed to burn through the thin muslin of her gown. As she reached up to brush her windblown hair from her face, he released her arm. Despite the chill, she felt flushed and weak-kneed but knew it was not from the accident.

  Taking a deep breath, she looked up at him and said, “I thank you, sir. You probably saved my life.”

  “Enchante, mademoiselle,” he replied, dazzling her with a blinding white smile. His complexion was swarthy, but his classically handsome features made him look like some marvelous Greek statue sprung suddenly to life. A lock of ebony hair fell carelessly onto his high forehead as he spoke in a surprisingly soft voice, saying in French, “It was my greatest pleasure to be of assistance. Rafael Beaurivage Flamenco at your command, beautiful Moon Flower.”

  Raising one delicate silvery brow, Deborah replied in perfect Parisian French, “I'm scarcely a flower, Mr. Flamenco, just a woman who is grateful for your timely help. Now, if you will excuse me...”

  Deborah saw that he was surprised at her French. Good. Then he smiled insolently and made another flourish with his hat as she turned her back to walk away. Lydia trailed unwillingly after her. If he had only given Mademoiselle Beecher a glance or the slightest encouragement, Deborah knew her friend, in violation of Boston propriety, would have stayed behind to introduce herself. But he had looked at her—tall, gawky Deborah. He had not even seemed to notice petite, curvaceous Lydia. Was that why her heart was hammering and her blood racing?

  “Do you suppose he's from France? What did he say?” Lydia was as breathless as Deborah, but a great deal less self-conscious about showing it.

  “What he said is of no consequence,” Deborah replied blithely, attempting to calm her shattered nerves. “He was rather forward and introduced himself. I merely thanked him for his assistance.”

  Lydia snorted in disbelief at her friend's prim manner.

  All afternoon, as they shopped, Lydia chattered about their mysterious Frenchman. Deborah volunteered nothing but became more quiet and withdrawn, pondering her emotions, as runaway as that teamster's dray.

  “Only one last stop, Hornby's Merchandisers,” Deborah said with a sigh. She did not favor the establishment, for the English merchant who ran it was noted for his sharp business practices. However, Lydia had ordered some oriental brocade from the man. One paid dearly, but the kind of merchandise he offered was available virtually nowhere else in the New World.

  They once more climbed aboard the Manchester family carriage and their driver Simms flipped the reins. He had spent many a long day transporting his mistress and her friends on shopping excursions. At least the weather was pleasant.

  For Boston, the April day was unseasonably warm. To Rafael Flamenco it seemed miserably cold. February was spring in New Orleans. Here in this godforsaken Yankee wilderness, it was probably winter until July! His elegantly cut white linen suit, so comfortable when he had left home, was definitely not keeping the chill harbor wind from cutting into his shivering bones. He grinned, remembering the way those Boston misses had stared at his unusual planter's clothing.

  “Well, not only my suit,” he chuckled, half-aloud. The brunette was flirtatious and open; but the tall one, that lilac-eyed Amazon with the silver-gilt hair, had been fascinated and then angry with herself for her attraction to him—an interesting reaction. She was a cool one and her French was flawless. Perhaps they might meet again, he mused as he paid the hack driver and stepped into the interior of the enormous import house.

  By the time Deborah and Lydia arrived at Hornby's, Deborah had a pounding headache. Just nerves, she thought to herself in vexation. As they walked through the crowded emporium to the draper's counter, Deborah heard a familiar voice, cursing stridently in French.

  “You dare such an insult, you son of a bitch! If you were a gentleman, I'd call you out.” Rafael's face was a thundercloud of furious anger as he threw a bolt of brocade at the Englishman whose narrow eyes were now opened wide in apoplectic anger.

  “You see here, you French bastard—”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Hornby, Monsieur—Flamenco,” Deborah interrupted the tirade, embarrassed at hearing such language and at encountering the Frenchman for the third time in one day. Still, he was a stranger in her country and no doubt spoke little English. It would be like the calculating Hornby to try and fleece a foreigner. At least she owed Monsieur Flamenco her offices as translator after he had saved her life!

  Both men turned toward her, surprised as her clear, calm voice intervened in their shouting. “Now, what is the nature of your disagreement, gentlemen?”

  “He's a damn froggy thief, that's what he is, Miss Manchester,” Ian Hornby said, then muttered a halfhearted apology for his language.

  Rafael spoke rapidly in French. “A misunderstanding, I am afraid, Miss Manchester. I agreed to make a most sizable purchase of cloth of gold and brocade, at exorbitant cost. It seems not to be a Yankee custom to bargain over the price as it is where I come from. When I suggested one of those paltry lace handkerchiefs as lagniappe, this swine flew into a rage as if I were a common thief bent on slipping it into my pocket!”

  “Lagniappe,” Deborah echoed questioningly. Her French was excellent, but she was uncertain of this word.

  Rafael smiled and once more her heart seemed to stop. “Just a colloquial expression, Miss Manchester. It's a custom to throw in some small item when a customer makes a large purchase,” he explained, glowering again in Hornby's direction.

  “Look here, Miss Manchester, I don't want no trouble. You vouch for this Frenchy and I'll let it go.”

  “Just how much were you charging him for that bolt of brocade?” She indicated the deep rose cloth lying across the counter.

  Hornby seemed to wriggle inside his ill-fitting clothing. “Well...”

  “How much were you paying for the brocade?” she asked Rafael in French.

  “One hundred fifty American dollars,” he replied with one handsome brow arched sardonically, awaiting her reaction.

  “One hundred fifty! Why that old robber! My friend ordered the same fabric in yellow only last week and paid seventy-five for it.”

  She turned to Hornby and said sweetly in English, “Surely you want to reconsider and perhaps bargain a bit with Mr. Flamenco over these bolts. And for the price you charge foreigners, I'd add a whole box of lace handkerchiefs.”

  Hornby was in a mood to compromise. The youth was tall and dangerous looking, for all his dandified French airs. “Just explain to him it's all a mistake and I'll write it up as one hundred fifty t
otal, for both bolts.”

  Deborah watched the two men complete the transaction and then on impulse she tossed in a lace kerchief while Hornby's clerk was wrapping the package. Rafael smiled. She smiled back saying, “Lagniappe.”

  Deborah felt pleased that she was able to do something to repay her rescuer. After all, she was only furthering international goodwill. Then why, a small voice nagged, did she wonder who the dress lengths were for? Quickly banishing such thoughts, she responded to Rafael's earnest thanks and blushed like a schoolgirl when he took her hand and saluted it with a gallant kiss. He did not ask where she lived or any other personal questions. Of course, good manners dictated that he not be so forward, but she felt an unexpected stab of disappointment when he turned and walked away with his purchases after bidding her and Lydia good day.

  * * * *

  As she woke the next morning, Deborah lay abed for a few minutes. Tonight, she would be officially betrothed to Oliver Haversham IV. And she had just spent the whole night dreaming about a dark face with burning black eyes. Throwing off the covers, Deborah sat up abruptly and said, “I can at least control my waking thoughts and I will think only of Oliver today.” But she had a difficult time picturing his dark blond hair and light gray eyes, the thin face with its undistinguished features.

  Angrily, she slipped into a pink linen day dress that her father particularly liked. She would meet him at his bank so they could have lunch together.

  Lately, they had not been getting on well and she wanted to do what small things she could to please him. Adam did not approve of her betrothal to Oliver. He didn't prattle of romance like Lydia, but he had made it clear to her that he considered Oliver a snob and an odd sort for agreeing with her ideas on women's rights. He even had hinted that her fiancé might be a bit of a hypocrite, but Deborah had refused to listen.

  Adam and Felicia Manchester had been devoted partners in a happy marriage. Deborah desperately longed for that same kind of warmth and security, but every man who had courted her had been unappealing and gauche or insensitive and overbearing. She no more wanted a mewling weakling whom she could dominate than she wanted a pompous ass who would try to direct her life. Then, Oliver had come along just as her twentieth birthday—and spinsterhood—loomed.

  Mr. Bascomb, her father's secretary, was already at lunch. The heavy walnut door to Adam's office was ajar. She reached for the knob, then froze as a now familiar voice caught her ear. The sibilant tones were in English, albeit spoken with a thick French accent, but fluent colloquial English!

  “I feel my aunt Jolie would want all the family heirlooms restored to the Beaurivages, Mr. Manchester. As to the other household furnishings and the home itself, sell them. I trust your judgment implicitly.”

  “Are you sure you'll get full value from an American, Monsieur Flamenco? After all, one of our wily New England merchants tried to cheat you only yesterday afternoon.” Deborah said as she glided into the office.

  Adam noted Rafael's look of recognition. “You've met Mr. Flamenco?” he asked Deborah.

  Before she could reply, Rafael stood, bowed politely and smiled at her. Turning to Adam, he explained smoothly, “Yes, your lovely daughter was kind enough to rescue me from the clutches of an unscrupulous import dealer yesterday. I owe her a considerable debt.”

  “Not nearly so much as I owe you, Monsieur Flamenco.” A hint of steel lurked beneath her dulcet tone. “Father, this gentleman rescued me from a reckless drayman yesterday when Lydia and I were out shopping. I didn't tell you of the mishap for fear of upsetting you.”

  “Well, it seems our visitor from New Orleans has had quite an exciting introduction to our fair city,” Adam replied, curious to hear more about the preceding day.

  “New Orleans!” Deborah hated the squeak in her voice. Gathering her composure, she said, “I understood you were French, Mr. Flamenco.”

  His smile was blinding. “I assure you I was born in the United States, in Louisiana. My mother is of French descent and my father's mother was also. My father is a Flamenco, grandson of one of General Alesandro O'Reilly's Spaniards, who captured New Orleans from the French in 1769.”

  “Then you are a Creole,” Deborah replied coolly. She knew her history and was determined not to be patronized.

  He smiled and nodded; but before he could reply, Adam said, “Well, considering the debt we owe you, Mr. Flamenco, we must extend our hospitality. I am giving a large party this evening to announce my daughter’s engagement: You simply must come.”

  Scorching Deborah with his piercing black eyes, Rafael replied, “Nothing could keep me away, Monsieur Manchester. Absolutely nothing at all.” When he smiled at her, she felt as if he were probing the deepest recesses of her mind, and she blushed.

  “Until tonight, Mademoiselle Manchester.” He kissed her hand and felt her tremble.

  Chapter Two

  Rafael shivered in the chill night air as each jounce of the carriage jarred his cold-stiffened bones. Mary and Joseph, how he hated this wretched New England weather! Never in all his life had he been this cold, not even in the north of France when he had gone to the university.

  He leaned back against the hard leather seat of the hack and pulled his greatcoat more tightly around him. What was he doing, going to the Manchester miss's engagement party? The Yankee beauty had interested him yesterday as a diversion. Her unsophisticated reaction, then her surprising wit and flawless French were all intriguing; but she was furious with him for his deception at the importers yesterday. He should have declined her father's invitation. He already had enough woman trouble in New Orleans. Still, there was something about the icy-proper Lady Deborah…

  Initially, he had attributed the attraction to her exotic coloring. After all, he was used to Creole belles with raven or chestnut hair. Occasionally, a dark blonde appeared, such as his sister. But Deborah's hair was like moonlight, a gleaming meld of silver and palest gold. Her porcelain skin was tinted the most delicate rose hue when she blushed or became angry. He could imagine her enormous lavender eyes darkening to violet in passion. Yes, for all her cool New England propriety, he'd bet that willowy body and silken flesh would quiver under the caress of the right man.

  He was certain that her fiancé would not be the right man, but some dry intellectual more interested in discussing Plato than in making love. She's chosen exactly such a man because she's hiding from herself. Now why did he think that? And why, unbidden, did the thought come to him that he would love to show her what it meant to be a woman?

  Rafael swore beneath his breath, realizing the dire complications that could result if he dallied with a proper virgin from a prominent Boston family. If he weren't careful, he could set off a scandal that would follow him all the way back to New Orleans.

  He sighed. If only Aunt Jolie had not become involved with Yankees in the first place, he would not be here now, freezing in this miserable place. But she had married a wretched Bostonian. His mother's family had considered it disgraceful to claim a Yankee of uncertain pedigree, a Protestant and a tradesman to boot. Despite the threat of being disowned by her Creole relatives, Jolie had eloped with Graham Warden, a merchant seaman, who had taken her to Boston. At least he did have the good grace to become rich. But now both Graham and Jolie had died without children, and it was left to the Beaurivage family to settle the estate. Rafael had been sent north to see to the details.

  When he had learned Deborah Manchester's name yesterday, he felt certain she was related to Adam Manchester, the banker who was handling Aunt Jolie's affairs. Of course, he had been surprised to see her descend on Adam's office like one of the furies. He chuckled, recalling her anger. The lady did not like to be deceived.

  * * * *

  “My dear Charles, surely you don't think this is some sort of a love match!” Oliver Haversham uncoiled his long thin frame from the sofa in Adam Manchester's study. He and his cousin Charles were taking a break from the tedium of the engagement party to have a splash of Adam's excellent brand
y.

  Charles Haversham smiled. “Now Oliver, the chit may be a bit on the tall, thin side, but she is a real beauty and dresses right handsomely, too. Always did favor dark women with big breasts myself, but...all that pale silky hair. I say, is it the same color...” His voice trailed off delicately as he looked speculatively at his cousin.

  If Oliver took offense at the lewd inquiry, he did not show it. “She's a cold fish, I'm afraid. I've never had the interest to pursue, er, divesting her of her clothes or her chastity. That onerous task will fall on our wedding night—that is, if she doesn't engage me in one of her infernal debates about women's rights.”

  Charles took a quick gulp of his brandy and looked up at his lanky cousin, nearly choking as he said, “Women's rights? Not that rubbish about giving them control of their own property or the vote? Might as well let one of those black slaves down in Mississippi run Manchester's bank!”

  “Quite so, but I'm afraid the success of my suit for Deborah has been predicated upon an ardent espousal of ‘her cause.’ She thinks me in complete accord with her insane notions and will until I'm firmly and legally in control of her fortune. Then, I'll settle matters once and for all.”

  Deborah stood rooted in the hall, her hand gripping the knob of the study door. She had gone in search of her fiancé, having missed him for the past half hour. Never in her worst nightmare could she have imagined what she had just overheard. Nausea churned in her stomach and bright points of light danced before her eyes. She must collect herself. Then, she would face Oliver alone and confront him with his perfidy.

  Taking a deep breath, she silently eased the heavy door closed and walked on unsteady legs down the hall. She intended to step into a small sitting room to regain her composure, but her plans were suddenly upset by an unexpected collision.