Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) (24 page)

      
“No matter how painful,” Deborah echoed, bracing herself. “Like father, like son. Perhaps I always knew, ever since the first time we quarreled and he spent the night away from me. Who is she, Lenore?”

      
“Her name is Lily Duvall, an octoroon. Papa made the arrangement for Rafael when he was sixteen.”

      
“Sixteen! He was only a boy!” Deborah cried in outrage, infuriated with her depraved father-in-law.

      
Lenore smiled sadly. “The same age at which
Granpere
Flamenco made a similar arrangement for his son.”

      
Deborah felt herself growing dizzy and struggled to regain her calm. “Are there any children?” Her voice sounded flat and dead.

      
Lenore shrugged helplessly. “I don't know.”

      
“Have you ever seen her?” Why this self-torturing need to know everything? She couldn't seem to stop herself.

      
Lenore said firmly, “Deborah, nothing's to be gained by ripping yourself apart this way. The arrangement was made over seven years ago, but Rafael still resisted marrying a Creole girl despite our parents' pressure. He married you. He loves you. Build on that. Forget Lily—make him forget Lily. It's not unheard of for a Creole man to pension off his mistress after making a happy marriage. Only...” She paused here and placed a hand over Deborah's cold clenched fist. “Don't force the issue and confront him. I know his Flamenco pride. He won't stand for that.”

      
Deborah's eyes darkened in anguish. “Pride, it seems, is a luxury reserved only for the male of the species.” She rose and reached for her reticule. “Thank you, Lenore, for telling me the truth and for being my friend.”

      
“Only remember, my brother does love you.”

* * * *

      
My brother does love you. The words echoed over and over in Deborah's mind. Creole men sometimes pensioned off mistresses. It was possible that if Rafael loved her enough, he would do so, too. She must win him in the oldest way a woman ever won a man, with her body, using the same sensual skills that his beautiful mistress used.

      
Deborah soaked in a violet scented bath while Tonette rinsed her hair with rainwater and toweled it dry. If I've gotten used to the constant ministrations of slaves, I must be adapting to Creole life, she mused as she eyed the black silk peignoir laid out across the bed.

      
Rafael was home from his evening of shooting at the river, even now bathing in preparation for going to bed. Bed. She could hear the splashing of water next door and knew he would enter in a few moments with his late-night cognac in hand. He would expect to find her trembling on her side of their big bed, feigning sleep, hoping he would leave her in peace for one night. That was how it had been these past months. But it would be different tonight.

      
Slipping from the silken embrace of the oiled water, she let Tonette wrap a towel around her slim body and dismissed the girl with thanks. Then she brushed her hair to crackling splendor. When she slid the silky gown over her shoulders, she felt her pulse begin to race.

      
My God, it shows everything, she thought with a small gasp as she ran her hands down her body's curves and hollows. Quickly, she pulled on the matching black robe, tied the belt, then arranged the lacy ruffles around her throat.

      
A touch of violet perfume and—the door opened. Rafael stood very still, silhouetted in the dim light from his dressing room. He was wearing only a blue velvet robe, carelessly belted at his narrow waist. His face was shadowed, but his black eyes glowed like coals.

      
Boldly walking across the floor to him, she reached up and took the snifter of cognac from his hand. She deliberately turned it to place her mouth where his had been and then took a sip of the fiery liquor. When she handed it back to him, she looked into his face but could not read it except for the blaze of desire so obviously written across it. Taking his hand, she led him to the bed.

      
Nervously, Deborah reached up and slipped her arms around his neck. “Am I too bold for a proper Creole wife?”

      
“No more than I want you to be,” he murmured just before he devoured her lips in a searing kiss.

      
She returned his fire with her own, opening to him, entwining her tongue with his as he had taught her, doing everything he had taught her, pressing her body closer to his and undulating her hips against his. When she slipped her hands inside his robe and ran the palms down his shoulders, sliding the robe off them, he groaned and reached up to unfasten the lace covering her breasts.

      
“Let me,” she whispered and slowly slipped off the frilly outer layer of the peignoir.

      
He reached up and touched her proudly upthrust breasts as she unfastened his belt and pulled the robe completely off him, then stepped back to admire his dark male beauty as he stood naked, his skin still warm and damp from his bath. Her palms were irresistibly drawn to rub soft, caressing patterns in the thick hair on his chest and follow it downward until she reached his pulsing shaft. When she took it boldly in her hands, he groaned again.

      
“Better slow down, Moon Flower, or I won't be able to wait for you.” He knelt and lifted the hem of the sheer gown. Its whispering black silk rippled softly as he peeled it slowly upward, revealing her long, sleek legs and softly rounded hips, gleaming like cream in the dim light.

      
“The gown is beautiful, but not nearly as beautiful as the woman under it,” he breathed as he tossed the filmy garment on the floor. “All silver and ivory, my pale, perfect Moon Flower.”

      
Deborah pulled him with her onto the bed, her hands busily caressing while her lips sought his. Breathlessly, she broke the kiss at last and rained swift, sweet nibbles and bites over the hard muscles of his neck and shoulder, then down his chest and lower. When she neared his pulsing shaft, she slowed, feeling it must be natural to kiss him there, too, but her courage failed her.

      
Sensing her reticence, Rafael whispered, “Let me show you,
Cherie
” With that he sat up and pressed her down onto the sheets. When his hands pushed her thighs apart and held her firmly spread-eagled, she stiffened in alarm. But when the warmth of his mouth moved across her belly and then began to caress around the pale, silvery curls between her legs, she discovered that her body had a will of its own. She arched up and cried out in shocked pleasure as he continued, licking and suckling ever so softly. Slowly and evenly he plied his caresses, tasting the heady essence of her, feeling the delicate tissues swell and pulse in ecstasy.

      
Deborah writhed in a haze of passion, unconsciously digging her fingers into the curly black hair of his head, until a series of exquisite, blinding contractions released her from sweet, sweet torment. She lay replete, panting softly to catch her breath.

      
Rafael raised his head and placed several soft, quick kisses on her inner thighs and belly, then levered himself up to lie alongside her and hold her in his arms. His breath was warm on her face as he whispered, ‘That is how it's done, Deborah.” He kissed her lips softly.

      
“You taste of me,” she said in a breathless voice. “Now let me taste you.” He rolled onto his back, allowing her to trail soft kisses down his chest and belly. This time she did not hesitate as her lips approached his staff, which was rigidly hard with unspent passion. As her long, silver hair fell like a waterfall between his legs, she slowly took him in her mouth and began to emulate the soft, suckling pressure on him that he had used with such devastatingly delightful effect on her. He thrust his hips up and tangled his hands in her hair as he guided her to rougher, longer strokes. She gladly accommodated him, feeling a primitive thrill of power from knowing she could please him this way, as he had pleased her. Suddenly, his fists clenched and his whole body shuddered in a swift, beautiful explosion.

      
Rafael lay dazed with pleasure and amazement as he felt his wife's lithe silky body slide up to lie beside him. Remembering Lily's question about whether his wife could do what she did for him, he almost chuckled aloud. Instead, he said, “Deborah,
Cherie
, you are a continuous surprise...and delight.” He punctuated his words with kisses to her nose and eyes, then her mouth.

      
“I—I wanted to please you,” she said hesitantly.

      
“Do you think, after that, that you failed?” he asked with mock severity.

      
“I was awfully bold for a proper Creole wife,” she replied.

      
He laughed then, a rich, deep rumble, and said, “Or for a proper Boston wife, either, but I want you like this, Deborah. Don't let us lose this closeness,
mon Coeur
, not ever.”

      
“Not ever,” she echoed.

Chapter Fourteen

      
January 1836 arrived with rain and fog, but it was mild and warm even as New Orleans winters went. The weather was the least of Lily Duvall's concerns. Rafael had sent a note in mid-December requesting to see Melanie for Christmas. When he visited Lily a week later she had informed him that she did not want the child traveling in winter and had not sent word to her mother to bring Melanie. Rafael had coldly informed her that he would send his daughter's presents to St. Louis by post. Hers had arrived the same way. For the first time in seven years, Rafael had not visited her over the holiday. She was bereft and angry.

      
“As if he has come that often in the past months anyway,” she muttered as she paced in the empty parlor. In truth, since he had returned home last spring with that damnable Yankee bride, he had neglected Lily. For a while through the summer, he had resumed his attentions to her; but since October he had made scarcely half a dozen visits. And none at Christmas! Lavish gifts, yes, but he gave nothing of himself. Would he pension her off? She shuddered. She must recapture his interest. No other mistress or illicit amour held his fancy. Her servants had carefully checked this on the slaves' grapevine, which was infallible when it came to such matters. Her enemy was clearly Deborah Flamenco, no other.

      
But what could she do? How could she fight a white woman who had position, wealth, power—her lover's name? On the few occasions he had deigned to visit her lately, Rafael had seemed more interested in reports of Melanie’s schooling than in bedding his seductive mistress. How could a white lady hold him in that way—compete with Lily and all her carefully nurtured courtesan's skills?

      
When Lily had first sent her servants to spy on Rafael's bride, they had said she was thin and tall, purple-eyed and silver-haired, with skin as white as a fish. Deborah had sounded unattractive and strange. The unflattering description had satisfied Lily's vanity at the time, which was exactly what her slaves had intended. Now, with Rafael's interest so obviously held by this unlikely seductress from Boston, Lily wanted to see her rival firsthand. But how? She might go to the opera and watch for Deborah, but Rafael would be furious if he caught her. No, it must be some place when he would not be present. But where?

      
Then, she remembered the scandalously juicy gossip about Madame Flamenco's penchant for accompanying the household slaves to the public market, actually grubbing about in the oyster bins. Rafael had purchased Lily ample domestic help so that she need not bother with the mundane chores of marketing. Now, however, she suddenly found herself desirous of making a personal selection of Adolfo's shrimp.

      
Melanie must also be brought home. Their child was one way to bring Rafael to her. She sat down at her escritoire to compose a letter to her mother.

* * * *

      
Deborah felt the cold morning air hit her as she threw back the covers on their warm bed. Rafael rolled over and grasped a slim wrist and planted a kiss on the inside of it. With a sleepy, languorous expression on his face, he said, “Why arise so early,
Cherie
? We were awake late last night.”

      
She flushed at his subtle reference to their lovemaking the preceding evening. “It's marketing day and I promised Wilma I'd help her haggle with the German sausage maker.”

      
He rolled his eyes in mock exasperation, and lay back on the bed. “Well, good luck, foolish wife. I plan to sleep another hour, then attend a most diverting horse race, if the weather holds. There will be ladies present. Want to join me?”

      
She still found it difficult to accept his indolent life-style but was slowly becoming resigned to it. Grateful for his invitation, she replied, “I'm sorry, darling, but I already promised the du Mays that I'd have luncheon with them.” It was tacitly understood by both of them that Mrs. Armstrong would also be a guest of Anna du May. Her eyes pleaded understanding for her covert friendship with the disowned Flamenco daughter.

      
He shrugged philosophically and said, “If you've already given your word, you cannot break it.” It was as near as Rafael could go to giving permission for his wife's and sister's friendship.

      
As she and Wilma rode in the back of the large wagon to the bustling market, Deborah mulled over her ever-shifting relationship with Rafael. Her attempt to win him away from his mistress seemed to be working. He was seldom gone overnight anymore and his attentions to her were almost the same as they had been on their honeymoon. Although he spent fewer nights away from her bed, he still did so on occasion; and he still refused to explain his absence.
Just like Claude
, she thought bitterly.
But I'm not like Celine. It isn't fair!