Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy)

by Shirl Henke

  “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.

  What had begun as a simple ploy to annoy Oliver suddenly became something alarmingly different. What she saw in Rafael's dark smiling face was smugness and male vanity, but there was something more. Perhaps, he was as surprised as she.

  “You are an exceptional dancer, Miss Manchester,” he said softly in French.

  “Thank you. I—I seldom have the opportunity. That is, Oliver doesn't…” Her voice trailed off as the blush on her cheeks darkened.

  As if reading her thoughts, he said, “A woman who dances so beautifully should never be held back by little men. Are all your Yankees so timid?”

  She looked up into his eyes, now merry and sparkling like black diamonds. In spite of herself, Deborah returned his smile. “They're not my Yankees. Nor are they all timid,” she added darkly, seeing Oliver about to cut in on them.

  “Your betrothed,” Rafael said in French as he relinquished her to Oliver. Then he added, “Well, at least my company was of some profit to you, Moon Flower, for it moved your intended to the dance floor.” A smile half quirked at the corners of his mouth.

  As Rafael sauntered away, Oliver resumed the dance in his stiff, uncomfortable way. “What did he say? I detest foreigners speaking a language I cannot understand.”

  Deborah gave him a wistful smile. “Perhaps neither one of you understands, Oliver.”

  “Your father will make his announcement soon, my dear,” he reminded her. That damn Frenchman must have upset her.

  Looking quickly around the floor, Deborah still did not see Adam Manchester. Heavens, she must stop this farce quickly before she was even more humiliated by a public announcement! “I have something to tell you, Oliver. In private. Now.” She stressed the last word when he looked at her with that unruffled, patronizing air he so often assumed. Why had she never noticed how often earlier?

  He followed her from the floor toward a set of double doors at the far end of the room. She walked resolutely down the back hall, then turned a corner and continued farther on until she came to a small door. “We won't be disturbed in here.” As she entered the room, Deborah continued, “Our engagement is ended, Oliver. I won't marry you.”

  He stood speechless for a moment, then forced an artificial smile and said over brightly, “Now, my dear, I know you're just a little nervous.” He moved forward and tried to embrace her.

  Pushing his arms away, she said calmly, “Surely you don't expect a ‘cold fish’ like me to be capable of bridal nerves, Oliver. After all, with my ‘insane ideas’ about women's rights, I could forestall the consummation of our marriage by simply engaging you in a discussion about Mary Wollstonecraft.” She received some measure of satisfaction when he blanched. “Yes, I overheard you and Charles. Thank God I did!”

  Oliver reached for her again and said angrily, “You can't break our engagement now. All of Boston knows of it. Think of your family honor and mine!”

  “Your family honor,” she echoed in icy disdain. “The grand Havershams—a pack of fortune-hunting vultures preying on gullible women. You're contemptible!”

  “This sudden outburst wouldn't happen to be related to the attentions of that pretty Frenchman, would it? If you flatter yourself that his type would ever marry you, you are really gullible!” His eyes were like cold gray slate now as he walked over to the door and slipped the bolt.

  “Monsieur Flamenco had nothing to do with my breaking our engagement, be assured. Also, be assured it is broken. Now let me pass.” Something in his manner as he calmly began to remove his coat sent a prickle up her spine.

  “You little fool,” he hissed. “Do you honestly think I'll just let you walk out of here and destroy the planning of over a year? I need your money and I'll do whatever I must to get it, even anticipate the wedding night a wee bit...”

  As he took his coat off and unbuckled his belt, Deborah was shocked in rigid horror. Then his sallow face loomed over her, contorted in cold, calculating anger. When he reached out and ripped the shoulder of her gown, pulling it down to reveal her small upthrust breast, with its pink nipple rigid in the chill air, she came out of her trancelike state and screamed.

  “Carry on all you want. So thoughtful of you to choose such an isolated room. With the orchestra and all that crowd, no one will hear you, my love.”

  Deborah twisted furiously away from his grasp with a strangled sob and covered her breast. “No matter what you do, I'll never marry you! Never!”

  “I think you will. I rather imagine your father will insist.” He stalked her then, step by step, until she was backed against a set of double doors that opened onto the back garden.

  Frantically, she turned and tried the knob, but it was locked. He smiled. “No escape, Deborah. Just imagine I'm that pretty boy from New Orleans.”

  He grabbed her once more. She screamed and clawed at his face, raking his left cheek. When he growled in pain and loosened his grip, she lunged past him and reached for a heavy paperweight on the desk, hurling it at him. It missed and went flying through the panes in the door. The shattered shards of glass flew onto the patio bricks like an eruption of diamonds.

  Rafael paced on the cold flagstone patio behind the house, stamping his feet to keep warm as he inhaled a last draught of the fragrant cigar, then tossed it disgustedly into the shrubbery.

  “Damn, it's too cold to even enjoy a fine Havana!” Just as he t
urned to reenter the ballroom, he heard a woman's scream, then the sound of glass breaking. It came from the rear of the house. In a few strides, he was at the door with its shattered panes. Looking inside, he was amazed to see Deborah Manchester in Oliver Haversham's none-too-gentle embrace. Her dress was torn and she was obviously struggling. He tried the door. Locked! Two hard lunges sundered the wood and glass before he burst into the room.

  By the time he gained entry, Deborah was free of her tormentor, holding the shredded remnants of her gown around her bare shoulders, as regal as Aphrodite stepping from her bath. Her eyes, however, glowed with an unholy fury more reminiscent of Hera ready to reduce an offending mortal to ashes with a glance.

  Haversham appeared dazed at the sudden interruption, then sputtered ineffectually as he backed slowly away from the tall, dark man who menaced him. “See here, Flamenco, this is between me and my fiancée—soon to be my wife.”

  “She's not your wife yet and by the look of things, I don't believe she now plans to be,” Rafael said as he placed himself between Deborah and Oliver. “If you intend to challenge me, I would be most obliged to honor your request.” The softly spoken words, delivered in a musical French accent, seemed somehow doubly threatening.

  Haversham paled and whirled. Hurriedly grabbing his discarded clothing, he slipped the bolt on the door and darted down the hall. Rafael closed the door and walked over to Deborah, who was still standing with her arms wrapped around herself. She began to shiver as the cool night air drifted through the broken patio doors.

  “Allow me,” Rafael said rapidly in French as he placed his coat gently around her shoulders. Her slender body was lost in the large coat; but it felt warm and comforting, lined with thick satin that smelled faintly of expensive tobacco and a spicy masculine scent she could not identify.

  Now the anger had faded, leaving only a profound hurt and humiliation. She was half-naked, disheveled, and disgraced; her own fiancé had nearly raped her; and she had been rescued yet again by a man who seemed to appear at the most embarrassing times in her life. Suddenly, she felt her eyes sting with unshed tears. “What a fool I've been,” she said beneath her breath. Rafael took her chin in one hand and gently turned her face up to his. Her enormous lilac eyes brimmed over with jewel like tears.

  “Do not, do not, little one,” Rafael said as he took her in his arms. Her rocked her gently in his embrace and let her sob out her pain. Then he reached into the pocket of his jacket and extracted a lace kerchief.

  “Lagniappe, for each beautiful damsel in distress I rescue,” he said, presenting it to her with a small flourish when her crying had ceased.

  “Why, it's the kerchief from Hornby's!” She could feel the delicate lace pattern as she dabbed it against her hot, wet cheeks. “Why—how?”

  He smiled. “I planned to give it to you this evening as a peace offering.”

  “It seems you're doomed to spend your visit in Boston rescuing me from calamity, Monsieur Flamenco. I do appreciate your help. Oliver is a man of singular purpose, I find.” Then, recalling what he had said about her pretending that he was Rafael, she blushed scarlet.

  “Oliver is a swine and a fool. I assume you broke your engagement and he took it, ah, ungraciously?”

  “He was marrying me only for my money. I overheard him tell his cousin earlier in the study.” Her voice was steady and cold now, but he could detect the undertone of pain.

  “He really is a fool,” Rafael breathed, his fingertips lightly grazing her jaw. His other arm reached around her, drawing her into his embrace. As if pulled by a magnet, he lowered his mouth to her upraised, trembling lips. Ever so softly, he brushed them, back and forth as his hand stroked her throat and gently held her head. Then, he deepened the kiss slightly, pressing firmly on her sweet, petal-soft lips before reluctantly releasing her.

  Deborah was dizzy and warm, wanting nothing so much as to cling to this stranger. She had never experienced such a purely physical thrill. When he moved her gently but firmly away from him, she felt a sudden stab of cold. This rejection was more painful than Oliver's perfidy!

  Sensing her confusion, and sharing it, Rafael said, “You've been through a terrible ordeal, and I am a man of honor, much to my misfortune. I don't want to take advantage of you, Moon Flower. But I plan to see you again, under less distressing circumstances. That is, if you will permit me?”

  At her shy, silent nod of acquiescence, Rafael felt a strange surge of elation. Restraining himself, he asked, “Is there a way to get upstairs to your room so no one will see your torn gown?”

  “Yes, I can use the servants' stairs. Please, Rafael, find Father and ask him to come to my room?”

  “First, I'll see you safely upstairs.” He felt an odd warming when she used his given name.

  * * * *

  Hearing the noises from the street below, Rafael slowly opened his eyes, then quickly closed them once more. God, the sunlight filtering in through ivory lace curtains was blinding! He rolled over and rubbed his aching head. After his unsettling encounter with Deborah Manchester last evening, he had sent her father to her room and then had departed. Rafael suspected the party had quickly deteriorated. Restless and confused, he had frequented a couple of taverns. He had considered taking one yellow-haired barmaid to his bed, but had rejected the idea. The dark roots of her golden locks seemed an inadequate substitute for the silvery enchantment of Deborah.

  Disgusted, he drank himself stuporous. Only the honesty of a kind hackney driver got him safely to his hotel with money belt and skull intact. On second thought, perhaps his skull was not intact. He groaned and sat up, holding his aching head gingerly between his hands, fearful it might split asunder.

  By the time he had secured hot water for a bath and shave, he felt almost human. Still the memory of a lavender-eyed, ethereal blonde would not leave him. What was there about the chit? She was too tall, too thin, too outspoken. She was too American, for heaven's sake! Yet he was fascinated by her.

  “The only way to deal with such an absurd fancy is to face it head-on,” he gritted out to no one in particular. He would call on Deborah and Adam Manchester. “Perhaps she won't be so enchanting this morning.”

  Wishing he had Tobias, his manservant, to press and arrange his clothing, he selected a presentable stock of faultless white silk that complemented his tan linen suit. Tobias had taken ill the day they were to embark on the sea voyage and rather than suffer the ministrations of an untrained slave as his valet, he had elected to rough it alone. Rafael whistled as he put the finishing touches to his toilette. Damn, he'd show those gauche Yankees how to dress, even if his light-weight clothes were ill-suited to this barbarous northland. Checking his silk stock and the cut of his jacket in the mirror one last time, he smiled. Now, off to confront his Moon Flower.

  * * * *

  Deborah awakened with a sense of dread as she remembered Oliver's treachery. Her engagement had not been announced. A shaken Adam Manchester had told their guests his daughter had been taken ill suddenly. If any of them realized Oliver Haversham had vanished as well, they kept their comments to themselves—for the duration of the party, at least. Deborah was under no illusions about how gossip would treat her in the months to come.

  “Better now than after I'd married him,” she murmured aloud as she sat in the center of her bed, hugging her knees. She shivered, imagining the horror of waking up the day after her wedding to find what a vicious money grubber he was. Marriage meant total subjugation to one's husband. She had felt herself so smart, so safe, in choosing Oliver. “More fool I!”

  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 absu
rd 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?”