Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) (14 page)

      
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 his 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.

      
Still, he and Deborah had only been married a little over a month. Time would solve the problem. Time and, in due course, motherhood.

      
Suddenly, his thoughts turned to Lily. Perhaps a visit to Rampart Street might be a good idea, too. When Deborah stirred and spoke, he was angry at his sudden rush of guilt. “What?” he queried more sharply than he intended.

      
Deborah's hand stilled on his chest and she repeated softly, “I only asked what you were thinking. You seemed a million miles away.”

      
He chuckled darkly. “All too close to home,
Cherie
” he said, switching to English, “all too close to you.”

* * * *

      
Saturday evening, Rafael announced at the dinner table that he was joining his father for a turn at the gaming tables. Deborah had already heard stories about the fabled twenty-four-hour, seven-day-a-week casinos so infamous in the Sin City of New Orleans. Every kind of card game was offered: ecarte, vingt-et-un, poker, faro, and roulette. Often, as much as twenty-five thousand dollars passed from one gentleman's hands to another's in a night. She had also heard about the other amusements offered above stairs in such establishments; but when her mother-in-law took the announcement with such disinterested calm, she could see no reason to protest. Surely if the men had planned anything more than playing cards, they would not be so casually open about going to “Toto” Davis's famous establishment.