Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) (5 page)

      
Then she pictured another face, an exotic countenance with jet eyes and haughty sculpted features. Pressing her fingertips to her lips, she relived his kiss, so soft and yet so compelling. Oliver had certainly never affected her that way! She put her head down on her knees, feeling lost and forlorn. “He's only a visitor. Soon, he'll return to New Orleans, and I'll never see him again.”

      
Feeling foolish for the momentary lapse into an absurd romantic fantasy, she brushed tears from her eyes. “Deborah, you're just in shock. That beautiful, arrogant man is the complete opposite of everything you admire. Forget him.”

      
The future loomed bleakly as she considered her options in proper, staid Boston. “I had few enough suitors before this scandal. Now everyone will be whispering behind my back. Oh, damn!” She threw back the covers and practically leapt from the bed in frustrated anger.

      
Deborah was still pacing agitatedly in her upstairs parlor, debating how to handle the disastrous situation, when the butler interrupted with a calling card. Monsieur Flamenco had just arrived and requested the honor of seeing her. Feeling her heart accelerate and her cheeks grow pink, she murmured to Ramsey that she would be down shortly. Frantically, she raced to the mirror.

      
When she entered the parlor several minutes later Deborah appeared the epitome of serenity. She was dressed in a periwinkle blue linen gown that complemented her ivory skin and made her unusual lilac eyes seem enormous and vibrant. Rafael found himself wanting to pull the gleaming silver-gilt hair free from its pins and bury his face in it.

      
“Good morning, Monsieur Flamenco.” She greeted him, her clear musical voice betraying nothing of her inner turmoil.
How handsome he is, how dashing!

      
He reached for her hands and raised them to his lips, saying, “Last evening you called me Rafael. Please, don't become formal once again.”

      
“I want to thank you once more, Rafael,” she emphasized his name, finding the sound of it pleasing on her tongue, “for saving me from Oliver. My father never approved of him; but I was too foolish to listen, and I almost paid a terrible price for that stupidity.” Her cheeks burned in humiliation.

      
“That's one reason I am here this morning, that is, if you do not think it too presumptuous of me.” He paused for a beat.

      
“What do you mean?” Her eyes were wide in puzzlement.

      
Rafael favored her with a dazzling smile. “Your engagement, I trust, is ended?” At her firm nod, he continued, “Now all of prim, orderly Boston will be waiting to see how you behave. Will you retire under the pressure of gossip, or will you face them down?” He gave her a measuring look. “I think an outing, a very public outing—say a carriage ride and luncheon—would be just the thing, don't you, Mademoiselle Manchester?”

      
“Deborah, please, Rafael,” she said with a hesitant smile. However, her clear violet gaze was steady when she answered him. “I would be delighted to go for a ride and have luncheon with you.”

Chapter Three

      
The morning was sunny, the weather so truly springlike that even Rafael was warmed by it. As they rode about in the elegant open carriage he had hired for the day, Deborah gave him a quick tour of the cradle of American democracy, from the Old North Church to Faneuil Hall in which the Sons of Liberty had met during the Revolution.

      
While they were visiting the harbor, site of the Tea Party, Deborah explained how Boston's patriots had led the protest against tyranny. When she finally paused, he chuckled and said, “Obviously you are very proud of your city, Deborah. All this time I had been led to believe it was Virginia, not Massachusetts, that instigated the American Revolution.”

      
Despite his teasing tone, she felt uncomfortable. Here she was, once more running on like a damned bluestocking when she simply had wanted to enjoy his company and forget her woes. “I didn't mean to sound like a schoolteacher,” she murmured. “I'm certain your city rivals any in the United States for history and beauty.”

      
Rafael had a faraway look in his eyes for a moment. “Yes, it is unique. For a French Creole, no place on earth is quite so lovely, but I am enjoying learning about Boston from such a beautiful guide. Perhaps someday you will be in New Orleans and I may be permitted to return the favor?”

      
Improbable as it sounded, Deborah found herself wishing for just such an opportunity and nodded, feeling the pulse in her throat accelerate under the spell of Rafael's glowing black eyes and blinding white smile. She was saved from making a fool of herself with a vacuous answer when the carriage stopped in front of the familiar four Ionic columns of the Tremont House.

      
“I've taken the liberty of reserving a table for us since I have eaten here several times and found the fare excellent.” He stepped down from the carriage and reached for her hand to assist her.

      
Tremont House was the last place she would have chosen, although he was right about the food. It was one of the most popular new hotels and restaurants, one frequented by Oliver Haversham and many of their mutual friends. She felt a tight knot of dread forming in her stomach but was unwilling to confess such cowardice to Rafael.

      
Regal as a queen, she took his arm and they walked into one of the spacious dining rooms. Catching their reflection in the mirrors, Deborah was startled by the striking couple they made: he so dark, she so fair, both of them tall and slim. Heads turned as more patrons noticed the subject of the previous night's debacle, now on the arm of an exotic stranger. Shocking.

      
While they chatted over their soup course, Deborah was increasingly aware of covert stares and rapidly averted gazes. Judith Lowell and Allison Smythe were seated across the room. Judith, a plain little wren from a distinguished Boston family, had always been enamored of Oliver and spiteful to Deborah. Her ears burned as she imagined what Judith was telling Allison Smythe in stage whispers, doubtless overheard by all at adjoining tables.

      
Rafael knew they were the subject of much speculation. “Does it bother an intelligent, strong-willed woman like you to endure their gossip?”

      
Deborah was so startled by the question she almost dropped her spoon. “No—yes, if I'm honest, it does. I must live here by society's rules even if I disagree with them, for my father's sake at least.”

      
“You weren't marrying Oliver for your father's sake, were you?” He was frankly intrigued.

      
Looking into Rafael's night-dark eyes, she felt herself hypnotized, drawn to pour out her fears and longings. “I chose Oliver as a compromise, I suppose,” she began carefully. “He's from the requisite old Boston family; but more to the point, he seemed to be in sympathy with my ideals.”

      
“Which are?” he prompted.

      
“You'll be appalled.” Suddenly, it became a game to see if she could shock him.

      
One brow arched, giving his face a sardonic cast. “Mademoiselle, I do not appall easily.”

      
“All right.” With that encouragement she launched into a discourse on the inequity with which women were treated under the law. She finished by saying, ”A woman is an adult, with an adult's mind; yet when it comes to her own money or land, even her own children, she is treated as a ward of her husband, father, or nearest male relative—in other words, like a child!”

      
He shrugged. “I'll not debate the accidents of history or the physiological reasons behind the whole course of civilization. Men have always ruled the marketplace, the church, the government. Women have more essential duties in the home, for which they are admirably equipped.” At this he couldn't resist reaching across the table to give her hand a gentle squeeze. She blushed and withdrew her fingers quickly, just as he knew she would.

      
“So, you decided to marry a man who would never rule you or challenge your ideas or inflame your senses?”

      
Deborah sat up very straight and said in frosty affront, “I scarcely want my senses inflamed if that means losing my capacity to reason.”

      
“Everyone should lose his or her reason once in a while.” His eyes smoldered for a moment; but not wanting to provoke her further, he broke the intensity of their conversation. Smiling he said, “There, you see? For the past hour you've completely forgotten every gossiping tongue in Boston.”

      
She smiled in spite of herself. “Yes. I suppose I have and I do thank you for a most diverting day, but it is late. Father will be home shortly and concerned that I'm still out.”

      
“Then by all means I shall have to accede to the wishes of your ‘warden’ and see you back under his protection forthwith,” he said in good-natured teasing.

* * * *

      
Late that evening, Deborah sat alone in the parlor, deep in thought, especially about her unexpected, uncharacteristically emotional reaction to Rafael Flamenco. He was the most attractive man she had ever met. But despite his undeniable appeal, he was anathema to everything she held dear. The man was arrogant, patronizing, and downright infuriating. She felt sure he was a womanizer and a rake. Of course, he was charming and well educated, as good at witty wordplay as she. In fact, he often bested her, for her prim Boston sensibilities were easily embarrassed by his subtle Latin innuendos.

      
“Why am I being such a goose over a man to whom I'm only a brief diversion?” She picked up the book she had been trying unsuccessfully to concentrate on for the past hour.

      
Just then, the door opened and Adam came in. Noting her distracted air, he tried to comfort her. “You were quiet all during dinner, Deborah. I realize you're upset, but only thank your lucky stars Haversham revealed himself before it was too late.”

      
She colored in guilt, for in fact, she had not given Oliver a thought all evening. “I am grateful, Father. But my situation is all the more painfully clear to me. No man will accept me for what I am—they want to change me; and failing that, they try to deceive me to get my money. I will never marry. It will be hard to ever trust a man again.”

      
Adam was genuinely alarmed, for he had long feared the stubborn, reclusive nature of his only child. “Deborah, most men are not like Oliver.”

      
She fixed him with a level gaze. “Most men truly think women inferior, though, don't they? Father, I can't live that way. I can't accept being treated as if I were a child with no mind or will of my own.”

      
“How does Rafael Flamenco treat you?” Adam's keen blue eyes never left hers.

      
“He's every bit as insufferable as you might imagine,” she replied without missing a beat. “Is he a fortune hunter like Oliver?”

      
Adam gave a mirthless chuckle. “Hardly. His aunt Joline Warden left him a tidy sum; and he's already heir to the Flamenco and Beaurivage family wealth. His father controls half the sugar production in Louisiana.” He paused and looked sharply at her. “You're not considering anything so insane as marrying a New Orleans Creole, are you?”

      
Deborah forced a laugh. “Hardly! The last thing either of us contemplates is marriage.”

* * * *

      
“Father doesn't think Rafael's at all suitable to be squiring me about,” Deborah said, popping a fried clam into her mouth and looking over at Lydia for her reaction. They were at Lydia's summer house in the country having a picnic to celebrate the warm weather.

      
“Posh! He's gorgeous, charming, romantic—ooh, that French accent and those wicked black eyes! He looks like a painting I saw in a museum in London—of a...” Lydia searched her memory—“yes, of a Spanish matador—or was it a conquistador? Well, anyway he was lean and dark and dashing, just like Rafael. You'd be a fool to let him go back to New Orleans alone, you know.”

      
Deborah looked across the field at the subject of their discussion. Rafael was mounted on one of Mr. Beecher's best thoroughbreds, a big gleaming black that he handled with consummate ease. As he cantered up to her, she watched his bold, supple movements. The hawkish features of his face betrayed Iberian bloodlines that went back a millennium. “A conquistador, indeed.”

      
“Would you favor me by accompanying me on a ride? Mr. Beecher has a pretty little filly down at his stable.” Rafael slid effortlessly from the big black and reached one hand down to pull her up from the picnic cloth where she sat with Lydia.

      
Before she could reply, Lydia said, “Oh, go ahead. I invited you here for a few days of rustic fun, including romantic trysts on horseback. Of course, Benjamin and I will join you—just to preserve propriety,” she added teasingly. Benjamin Landon was her latest beau.

      
Another young couple who were also Lydia's house guests joined them. Jacob Wyler and Allison Smythe were from old Boston families, both bursting with curiosity about the mysterious Southerner who seemed to be sweeping Deborah Manchester off her feet. They tried to hide their interest behind a veneer of polite small talk; but questions kept popping into the conversation about Rafael's family background, religion, and the property he owned—in general, anything regarding his suitability as a husband.

      
Finally, mortified and angry, Deborah pleaded a headache and turned her filly quickly away from the group, intent on heading back to the house via a shortcut through a stand of maples. Soon she heard the pounding of hoof beats and Rafael's big black pulled abreast of her little filly.