Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) (3 page)

      
“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 total, 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 brandy.

      
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.

      
“Oh, I'm so sorry,” she gasped as a pair of strong hands reached out to steady her. Deborah looked at the shiny black boots in front of her own slippered feet, then her gaze traveled up faultlessly tailored gray wool-clad legs to a slim waist encircled by a maroon brocade waistcoat. When her gaze reached the dark, intense face, she gasped, then murmured, “Oh, no!” The last person on earth she wanted to see at this ignominious moment was Rafael Flamenco!

      
“Are you all right? You look white as porcelain.” His hands remained on her pale, trembling shoulders.

      
“Yes, yes, of course. I just felt a bit warm from the stuffy air in the ballroom. It's quite crowded and I was going to slip into an unheated sitting room for some cool air.” She freed herself from his grasp and whirled in a blur of aquamarine silk, vanishing down the hall.

      
Shrugging, Rafael entered the large ballroom where a lavish buffet table groaned under beef roasts, lobsters in cream sauce, and other sumptuous foods. Next to it stood a bar, complete with champagne fountain and an extensive selection of fine rums and scotch whiskeys. A twelve-piece orchestra played at one end of the room and dozens of couples danced, while even more stood about laughing and talking.

      
“Quite an impressive turnout for the betrothed,” he mused under his breath.

      
Almost immediately, the short, plump wife of Aunt Jolie's attorney recognized him and descended with a homely young girl in tow. He sighed. It was going to be a long evening. After several dances and glasses of Adam's excellent champagne, he glimpsed Deborah out of the corner of his eye. She still seemed a bit wan and subdued; but she looked lovely in a soft blue-green gown, cut low off her shoulders, accenting her slim, supple body. Excusing himself from the company of several bankers, Rafael wended his way over to her. As the music resumed, on impulse and without even asking her, he swept her into the waltz, much to the chagrin of the two men with whom she had been conversing.

      
Once more those enlivening spots of color appeared in her cheeks as he felt her stiffen in anger. “You look more yourself now,” he said genially, “all pink and feisty.”

      
“And you're completely in character, as always, Monsieur Flamenco—rude, arrogant and thoroughly insufferable.” She prepared to pull free of his embrace, then caught sight of Oliver watching her from the far side of the room, a scowl on his sallow face. Deborah suddenly relaxed into the rhythm of the waltz and let Rafael lead her in an exhilarating exhibition. Seldom had either of them had a partner tall enough to allow them complete freedom to dance in such an unrestrained manner. Matching his graceful, long-legged strides, Deborah floated on a cloud of music, thoroughly enjoying herself as never before.