Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy)

by Shirl Henke

  Smiling broadly, she replied, “I want to surprise you with the dress. It is special. Will you wait for me in the parlor with your parents? I won't be long.”

  Brushing her nose with a kiss, he complied, whistling jauntily down the hall.

  True to her word, Deborah appeared shortly in the doorway to the parlor where Rafael and Claude were engaged in a heated debate over a horse race. Neither saw her as they raised their glasses in a toast. Catching sight of Deborah from the corner of her eye, Celine glided over to her charge and ushered her into the room.

  Looking over his son's shoulder, Claude's eyebrows arched, but he said nothing as his wife began to speak. “Well, at last here's your wife, dressed as a pretty Creole belle should be.”

  Taking a deep draught of cognac, Rafael turned with a smile starting to curve his mobile lips. When he saw his wife, the smug grin froze and the fiery brandy caught in his throat. He nearly scorched his lungs as he choked and gasped, attempting to swallow the liquor and yell at Deborah simultaneously. “What the hell have you done with yourself?”

  Poised regally as a queen, Deborah stood silently in the center of the room with all eyes fastened on her. She was swathed in fuchsia satin, yards and yards of it, layered into billowing ruffles, rows and rows of them, falling from her shoulders, her waistline, and her hips, flaring out to three more tiers. Her fuchsia slippers had large gold lace bows that matched the gathered gold lace trim edging every layer of the ruffled dress. Her hair was pulled back at each side by combs with large gold lace bows on them.

  “You look like a Spanish galleon under full sail,” he hissed when he finally regained his breath. “Change at once! I'll not be seen in public with you in that monstrosity!”

  So intent was Rafael on his wife's hideous appearance that he had completely forgotten his mother. Celine's face darkened to the shade of Deborah's dress as she fanned herself with small, jerky sweeps of her lace kerchief. “Is it my fault, darling boy, that your overly tall, overly pale wife can't wear such a beautiful gown? Why, on Minnette Gautier it would look positively delicious.”

  Deborah said not a word, but looked soberly from one Flamenco to another. Old Claude's eyes betrayed a sort of grudging respect, although he was careful to conceal it. He sipped his cognac, saying nothing.

  Rafael looked from his furious mother back to his wife's calm face. You conniving silver-haired bitch. You arranged this.

  Then Celine's small plump fingers dug into his jacket sleeve. “Surely you don't fault my taste in fashion, do you, Rafael?” Her voice was tight as a bowstring.

  Now, the faintest trace of a smile hovered on Deborah's lips. “Perhaps, it is you who owe your mother an apology this time, dear.” With that parting sally, she quit the room, five tiers of ruffles and lace swirling about her.

  “With all the air that costume stirs up, we'll never need a ceiling fan again,” Claude said dryly. When Celine stomped her foot in fury, he raised his glass in mock surrender and subsided.

  Celine glared at her husband, then turned her attention back to Rafael. “Well, have you lost your glib tongue? When your sister wears pretty dresses you always compliment her. Why not your wife?”

  “Look, Mama, I'm sorry I called it a monstrosity. I'm not blaming you or criticizing your taste. But Deborah is tall and has such different coloring that she must wear different clothes to bring out her beauty—not that the dress wasn't beautiful,” he amended quickly. “As you said, it would have been perfect for Minnette Gautier.”

  “Then you should have married Minnette Gautier, not that gauche foreigner!” Dabbing at her eyes with a kerchief, Celine choked out, “I'll see if Lenore's ready—that is, once I've composed myself.”

  Claude refilled Rafael's glass, saying ironically, “I do believe, courtesy of your Yankee bride, we shall be more than fashionably late for the soiree.”

  Rafael's first impulse was to throttle his wife; but observing Claude's calm, cynical air, he decided his father's ability to ride out these teapot tempests was perhaps the best method of dealing with women. He took a good stiff gulp of the brandy.

  Within twenty minutes Deborah returned dressed in an elegant gown of aqua watered silk. She looked radiant.

  “Pleased with yourself, Cherie?” he whispered softly in English as she glided over to him.

  “I only hope this dress is acceptable, Cheri,” she replied innocently.

  Ignoring their exchange in the distasteful foreign language, Claude said resignedly, “I shall go cajole your mother, Rafael. Why don't you escort your bride to the carriage?”

  The ride to the Gautiers was made in strained silence, but mercifully the Flamencos' old friends lived only a short distance away. Jacque Gautier was one of the city's leading bankers and his daughter Minnette was a leading belle. Lenore had already warned Deborah about the beauteous Minnette, who had enlisted Celine in her cause to become Rafael's wife.

  As they stepped from the coach, Deborah could feel Rafael's eyes on her. In spite of his anger, she knew he approved of her pale aqua gown, cut in straight lines and molded to her slender curves. She wore a cluster of fresh jasmine blossoms in her hair, which was knotted on top of her head in a sleek coil with a few tendrils whispering along her temples. Her only jewels were the aquamarine earrings and necklace that had been in her wedding basket.

  When Rafael introduced his wife to Minnette Gautier, the spoiled beauty's petulant snappishness was apparent to everyone but Celine. Chattering and hugging Minnette to her, the older woman discussed the upcoming trip to their summer homes on the lake. Standing discreetly to the side, with her hand rather possessively on her husband's arm, Deborah watched Minnette. She was no more than seventeen, petite and black haired, with patrician features and large dark eyes that narrowed whenever she glanced in Deborah's direction. She was beautiful in the same classic Latin way Rafael was. Deborah could understand why Celine had chosen her. Minnette was Creole to her fingertips, coy and flirtatious, a daughter-in-law Celine could understand…and control.

  By the time Rafael had introduced his Yankee bride to the rest of the assembly, Deborah's fears of being a wallflower were put to rest. The women were mostly cool and standoffish, but the men were gallant to the point of effusion. Her statuesque silvery beauty stood out dramatically in the room full of chattering Creole belles with their darker coloring and gaudy fashions. She danced every dance.

  Several of Rafael's cousins were outrageously flirtatious and teasing. They declared they were pleased that their cousin had brought such beauty to grace New Orleans, but distraught that she was already claimed. When Rafael's boyhood companion Jean attempted to dance her out the double doors onto the gallery, Rafael rescued her in the nick of time.

  “You're the topic of every man's conversation,” Rafael said, when they finally danced a waltz together.

  She looked up at his scowling face, and a slow smile began to dimple her cheeks. “Why, Rafael Flamenco, I do believe you're jealous.”

  He loosened his fierce grip on her and relaxed his frown into a smirk. “Just remember who you belong to, my love.”

  “I do,” she breathed softly against his neck, pulling him closer until she could feel a small ripple of tension and pleasure go through his body.

  “Witch,” he replied. Then, looking over her shoulder, he saw a cluster of people at the refreshment tables and stiffened in anger. “How the hell did he get an invitation?”

  “Who?” Deborah's eyes followed her husband's gaze to where Lenore was chatting animatedly with a tall, well-dressed man with russet hair and rough-hewn, handsome features. His size and speech gave him away as an American in the room full of fine-boned, aquiline Creole men with their dandyish attire. Indeed, Rafael was the only man present who was as tall as the American.

  “That is Caleb Armstrong, and I may well have to call him out,” Rafael muttered in muted fury. He quickly escorted her to the side of the dance floor. But as he stalked toward Armstrong and Lenore, Deborah resolutely followed, catching hi
s arm and whispering fiercely, “Don't be rude! At least find out who invited him and meet the man before you ruin your sister's evening.” Maybe ruin her life, too.

  Unable to rid himself of his tenacious wife, Rafael gritted his teeth and continued across the room. When they approached Lenore and Caleb, Jacque Gautier suddenly materialized from behind the big American.

  “Rafael Flamenco, Madame Flamenco, may I present Caleb Armstrong, a business associate of mine,” the old man said smoothly in his heavily accented English. Noting the agitated manner in which Rafael had strode toward the American, he continued, “I found Mademoiselle Flamenco already had been introduced to Monsieur Armstrong. My Minnette met him at the same time.”

  Without the slightest hint of a smile, Rafael offered his hand to Caleb who returned the gesture and bowed politely to Deborah. It was the least effusive greeting she'd had since arriving in this city of Latin excesses. She liked him instantly. The American was indeed handsome, with bright blue eyes and a square-jawed strength to his features.

  His smile for Deborah was open and friendly. “I understand from Mademoiselle Flamenco that you're a fellow New Englander, madam?”

  Deborah's smile broadened. “From Boston. I thought I detected a bit of ‘down east’ in your accent. Maine?”

  “Portland,” he replied. “Although I must confess to liking the tropical Gulf more than the chill Atlantic. After seven years in New Orleans, I'd hate to contemplate a winter in New England. This place will spoil you.”

  She, Caleb, and Lenore made small talk while Jacque Gautier drew Rafael into a discussion about a cockfight to be held on the morrow. Outside of a few scowling looks toward the trio, Rafael did nothing more overt to show his displeasure at the American's presence, although he did speak French when addressing his host.

  “Why, Papa, there you are with Rafael...and his charming new bride,” Minnette added as an afterthought in thickly accented English. “Perhaps Monsieur Armstrong might favor his host's daughter with a dance?” It was an obvious ploy to make Rafael jealous, but Jacque seemed pleased with his daughter's boldness and smiled when Caleb escorted her to the dance floor after making his excuses to Lenore and Deborah. Rafael ignored Minnette’s wiles and asked to speak with Gautier in private.

  On the way home, the carriage ride was again strained. After saying good night to the rest of the family, Rafael and Deborah retired to their quarters. She was fairly bursting to find out what had happened between old man Gautier and her husband. They were no more than in the door of their sitting room when she spoke.

  “Tell me what you learned.”

  He arched one brow in that infuriatingly condescending manner she was coming to detest and said, “Learned about what, love?”

  She almost stamped her foot. “I know you talked to Jacque Gautier about Caleb Armstrong. Obviously, the gentleman has gained widespread acceptance in Creole social circles.”

  He scoffed. “He's hardly a gentleman. Gautier and du May are partners in a bank, which is in trouble. They've been ‘sponsoring’ Armstrong in the best circles in hopes of getting him to invest in their floundering enterprises. And, although he didn't say so, I'm sure Gautier hopes to snare a rich husband for his dear Minnette to cement the deal.”

  “Now that dear Minnette has lost her heart's choice to a usurping Yankee,” she said archly.

  “Now who's jealous?” he teased, his mood suddenly lightening as he scooped her up and strode purposefully to the bedroom.

  Chapter Eight

  Deborah awoke with the lethargic satiety she had come to associate with Rafael's drugging passion. He had made love to her with fierce possessiveness last night and they had slept late. Feeling the warmth and weight next to her removed, she sat up and looked across the room. Rafael was donning a thin white cotton robe over that magnificent dark physique. She watched him ring for a houseboy. “Where are you going?”

  Turning to see his sleepy-eyed wife, he smiled and walked over to the bed. “I have a date with Jacque and my cousin Jean to see a cockfight in an hour. But I'll be home after we meet at the cafe for an aperitif and luncheon.” He kissed her nose. Even this small gesture, so naturally casual, seemed sensuous.

  “We've been home for two weeks and you've not yet gone back to work. You've been to your tailor, horse races, cockfights, out shooting alligators on the river with your cousin Martin. Don't you have to see about the plantation or the shipping business or...or something?” Deborah couldn't imagine a wealthy gentleman in Boston circles who didn't have an office and work at least some regular hours.

  Rafael smiled tolerantly as if reassuring an inquisitive child. “Of course I do not work. I need not bother with things like crops or ships. We hire an overseer like Kent Austin to run the sugar plantation. Our factor, James Rafferty, handles the shipping and brokerage. Oh, from time to time Papa or I must sit down with them to check their reports and make decisions, but the day-to-day running of commerce is left in their hands. A Creole gentleman doesn't grub after money. He enjoys it.” He grinned broadly at her look of faint dismay, ignoring its implications.

  “I see. You hire American overseers to ‘grub after money’ for you, and you have your slaves to do the work.” As soon as she said it, it sounded mean-spirited and ungrateful, not to mention disloyal.

  Rafael crossed his arms over that magnificent expanse of hairy chest and stood with legs braced apart, rigid in anger. “Mama's been telling me about your irritating penchant for manual labor, mucking about with the servants at the market and complaining that you have nothing to do but enjoy life. An unthinkable sin for a Puritan, I fancy.”

  “I'm used to working, Rafael. My whole family always had productive things to do. To help the less fortunate is part of that.”

  “Get one thing straight.” He spoke as he strode back to the bed and took her chin roughly in his strong dark fingers. “You are the wife of a gentleman. You will behave as a proper lady and accept our way of life. If that means bearing up under the hardship of parties, balls, operas, and trips to the dressmaker, I have every confidence you can withstand the rigors. As to ‘productive things' to do...” His gaze softened finally as he saw the tears she forced back. “We can work on starting that brood of Flamenco children right now. That should keep you quite occupied.”

  His hand stole down her neck, his fingers gentling as they slipped softly beneath her gauzy night rail to tease and lift a breast. He kissed her opened lips, deepening the caress and probing with his tongue, tasting the insides of her cheeks, tracing over her teeth. As she responded, reaching up to grasp his shoulders, he eased her back on the bed and covered her slim body with his own. His loose cotton robe fell open and he shrugged it off, then reached for the hem of her night rail, lifting the sheer fabric and caressing her sleek, long legs as he inched it higher and higher.

  “You'll be late for the cockfight,” she breathed, getting the words out between small pants of desire.

  “Let them go on without me,” he ground out as he ripped the gown over her head and threw it across the floor.

  Warm naked flesh pressing warm naked flesh, they rolled to the center of the big bed, arms and legs entwined. Soon their sensuous caresses were slicked by their perspiration, which added to the exotic sensations racing through their bodies. She reached up to brush a damp curling lock of black hair from his forehead, then buried her fingers in the crisp thick hair of his head, holding it to her as he licked and bit her throat. Her moist palms moved down his back until she reached the swell of his small, hard buttocks. She sank her fingers into them, attempting to imitate the rough caress he had used on her so often, but his muscles were like iron. She could not knead them, but she could dig in her nails, which elicited a gasp of pleasure from him.

  “Greedy little Silver Hair,” he gasped, raising up over her and reaching between her legs, now eagerly spread for him. He watched with satisfaction when her eyes closed and her head thrashed from side to side in ecstasy as he slid his skillful fingers into the wet
hot core of her, stroking gently, persistently. When he withdrew his hand from the silver curls and prepared to enter her, Deborah's eyes opened, and she boldly grasped his hot hard shaft, guiding it to her, watching him as he drove into her full length. She grasped his shoulders, arching up to meet his thrusts.

  “After that, I don't think I can wait-long, love,” he whispered frantically.

  “You won't have to,” she panted in return, feeling the onrush of those now familiar dizzying contractions that signaled her release. When she felt him stiffen and pulse his seed deeply inside her, she held him in a fierce embrace, her knees clamped tightly to his narrow hips, imprisoning him in her flesh.

  Slowly recovering himself, Rafael was the first to move, gently disengaging her arms and rolling to lie on his back. She followed him, curling against his side like a snuggly kitten, not wanting to lose the feel of his body joining hers.

  Thoughts rioting through his head, Rafael stared at the ceiling. Never, with any woman, had it been this good, but more than that—and that was what worried him—she controlled his mind, his very soul, not just his body. He could be murderously angry at her one minute, then pull her to him in tender passion the next. Once settled into his routine here in New Orleans, he had hoped to quickly put his obsession for his wife into perspective. She should have taken her place as a proper Creole lady: shopping, attending teas and balls, socializing with his mother's and sister's friends. But he knew now that Deborah would never be a dutiful Creole wife.

  What had begun as a surprisingly wonderful discovery of shared passion was rapidly turning into a threat for Rafael. No woman should ever have so large a place in a man's life. Certainly, his mother did not have such a hold over his father. Creole women were cosseted and loved, but shelved when it suited the men's convenience.