by Shirl Henke
“You seem extraordinarily willing to compromise all your principles just to marry your Frenchman,” he snapped, more embarrassed by her reference to bigotry than he wanted to admit.
“He's not a Frenchman, he's Creole.” A small smile curved her lips as she recalled Rafael's kisses.
Finally, Adam asked, “Deborah, you aren't actually in love with this scoundrel, are you?”
She blushed right up to the roots of her hair. Taking a quick swallow of coffee, she cleared her throat nervously and looked him levelly in the eye. “Yes, I'm afraid I am. Is it so painfully obvious?”
Adam softened. “I thought perhaps you were only willing to go through with this to save your reputation, to escape public censure...” His voice faded away. He walked over and put his arm around her. “Has he told you he loves you?” He could feel her shoulders tense and regretted the question at once.
“He wants to marry me. For now, that will have to suffice,” she replied. He desired her, she was certain; but she could never confess such a thing to her father!
* * * *
Lydia was not so easily put off. When Deborah called on her the next afternoon to ask her to be an attendant in the private ceremony a week hence, her friend went into a romantic tizzy, plying her with endless questions about “that gorgeous Frenchman,” as she insisted on calling Rafael. She also tried to squeeze from Deborah every detail of the encounter in the deserted cabin.
“Although I positively hate Allison's tattling gossip, I think it's wonderful that it brought you two to your senses.” Lydia paused and cast speculative eyes on her friend. “Deborah, tell me, in strictest confidence, of course, did you...did Rafael actually—well, you know? I'm dying to hear what it's really like. Mama has told me the most awful things.”
Deborah was shocked at Lydia's audacity, but it was impossible to be angry with her friend's guileless curiosity. “I'll only say don't believe half what your mother has told you, Lydia. Leave it at that.”
Sighing, Lydia could tell by the stubborn set of Deborah's chin that her friend would not reveal any intimacies. Changing the subject, she said, “At least you can tell me about your wedding basket. Oh, I think the idea is frightfully romantic!”
Deborah agreed. She had shown Lydia the beautiful engagement ring Rafael had given her. It was a family heirloom, one of the pieces from his aunt's estate. Large and square-cut, the deep blue stone was surrounded by diamonds and set in delicately wrought gold filigree. At Lydia's squeal of delighted awe, Deborah had explained that it was only part of the traditional Creole wedding basket that Rafael had brought her that very morning.
According to an old Creole custom, the bridegroom brought his betrothed a basket of gifts several days before the marriage as a token of his love. It contained gifts of a highly personal nature, including expensive jewelry.
She blushed as she described the lovely items in her basket, not mentioning the way Rafael had presented them to her, slipping the ring on as he kissed a blazing path from her left hand up to her throat where he fastened the matching necklace. “Well, besides the ring, there are several other pieces of exquisite antique jewelry, Chinese jade, rubies, amethysts, and pearls. Also a white cashmere shawl, yards of delicate ivory lace, a silk fan and...a few other things.”
Lydia cocked her head saucily. “A few other things such as what? Don't you dare keep it from me, Deborah Faith Manchester!”
“Well, a night rail. It's pale lavender, yards and yards of silk, but so sheer I can see right through it,” she confessed.
“Lavender to match your eyes,” Lydia exclaimed. And then her own blue eyes filled. “Ooh, I shall miss you so when you leave, Deborah!”
“I'll miss you too, Lydia. You must make plans to visit New Orleans.”
Lydia hugged her impulsively and giggled. “I'd love to, after about a year. I expect you'll be terribly occupied for at least that long. I doubt Rafael will give you time to think about me!”
Deborah blushed furiously as she joined her friend in gales of girlish laughter.
* * * *
If Deborah was excited about her forthcoming marriage and Adam opposed to it, Rafael was ambivalent. After a long and painful night of brooding and drinking, he had acted out of a sense of honor. After all, he was responsible for Deborah's predicament, so he must offer marriage. He had written a carefully edited version of their courtship to his family with the sense of a condemned man writing his will. Marriage was so final, it made his twenty-two-year-old soul shudder.
Then, when Deborah had been summoned into Adam's study, he forgot the animosity radiating from the protective old man, the embarrassment of the social situation, even the anger in which she had parted from him two days earlier. She had stood there so fresh and innocent, all lavender and silver-gilt. He desired her even more in the clear light of morning than he had in the languid glow of firelight.
When she had set her delicate jaw and stood rigidly, defying both him and her father, he was amazed at his reaction. Her very spirit pleased him more than if she had been a quaking, acquiescent miss, eager to accept his proposal to save face. He found himself using every taunting, teasing tactic that he had practiced during the past weeks in their verbal battle of wits. To his amazement, he discovered that he would not take no for an answer.
Her heated response when she had finally accepted his proposal incited him to such a degree of passion that he had to exert iron willpower not to finish what they had begun in that deserted cabin. Teaching her the pleasures of the flesh would be an incredible delight.
* * * *
The day of the wedding dawned gray and cloudy; but despite the ride to the church in a chill spring rain, Deborah's spirits were high. She felt giddy and ebullient despite the weather's omen. Only Adam's resigned and withdrawn manner marred the occasion for her.
When they entered the old church on Franklin Street, the flickering uncertain light of the dim candles revealed delicate plaster statuary. The ornate altar and Stations of the Cross seemed alien and forbidding to Adam Manchester's eyes. Turning to Deborah before he accompanied her down the aisle, he gripped her arm and whispered, “It's not too late to change your mind, daughter.”
Her first impulse was to be furiously angry with him for spoiling her day; but when she looked into his eyes, she felt only sorrow for the way in which she must leave him. “I know what I'm doing, Father. It's for the best. You'll see.”
The wedding was small, both because of its haste and the circumstances necessitating it. Rafael, of course, had no family attending; Deborah had only Lydia and Adam. She wore a simple day dress of white raw silk. Its high neckline and softly gored skirt were plain, adorned only by seed pearls sewn across the bodice and sleeves. A lace veil covered her silvery hair. Looking down the aisle to the altar she saw Rafael's face light when he caught sight of her. Her groom was resplendent in a snowy white ruffled stock, red brocade waistcoat, and light gray wool suit. The rich clothing emphasized his swarthy coloring and striking handsomeness.
Father Jean performed the ceremony simply and briefly as the groom had requested, accommodating the Episcopalian sensibilities of his new father-in-law. When Rafael slipped the delicate gold filigree wedding band on her finger and looked into her wide lavender eyes, he felt a strong tightening in his throat. He could tell that she shared his feelings, as she, too, swallowed with difficulty and pressed her small cool hands tightly inside his large warm ones.
Although they returned to the Manchester house for a light repast, neither bride nor groom noticed what they ate. Adam's taciturn behavior and Lydia's giddy chatter went unnoticed as well. By the time they had reached the wharf where their ship awaited them, Monsieur and Madame Flamenco were simply relieved to take leave of the intrusions of the outside world.
While Deborah and Lydia hugged and exchanged a last girlish confidence, Rafael gravely shook hands with a granite-faced Adam. “I shall take care of her, sir,” he said solemnly, attempting to allay his father-in-law's misgivings.
“See that you do,” was the terse admonition.
Chapter Five
As they stood watching the bobbing sailboats and tall masts in the Boston Harbor, Rafael wrapped Deborah's white cashmere shawl more securely around her shoulders to ward off the chill. The Blue Lightning, the luxury steamship taking them to New Orleans, was heading out to sea and in the brisk April breezes a few strands of Deborah's hair came loose from the pins. Rafael caught a silky curl and ran his lips over it, then bent to place several very warm kisses on her cool neck. When he felt her shiver, he let out a low, wicked chuckle and murmured, “You'll be much warmer below in our cabin, Cherie.”
Nodding silently, Deborah let him guide her down to the spacious quarters. Their stateroom was richly appointed, the best he could reserve on a week's notice. As he had instructed, the galley had sent a bottle of chilled French champagne, an assortment of fine English cheeses, and fresh Caribbean fruit.
Deborah wandered about the room, looking out the small windows, running her hands over the sturdy varnished oak table, chairs, and wardrobe, all the while deliberately avoiding looking at the largest piece of furniture in the room—the wide double bed with its deep plum velvet spread and high mound of fluffy silk bolsters. She slipped off her shawl and folded it precisely, then placed it on top of a chest in one corner.
Rafael opened the champagne and poured two glasses. “This should steady your nerves and give you some sea legs, Amante.” He handed her a glass and she accepted it with a tremulous smile.
“I don't even know if I have sea legs. If the Atlantic is rough, I fear I may disgrace myself.” She twisted the stem of the goblet nervously in her fingers.
He touched his glass to hers and the crystal gave off a clear musical peal. “Drink deeply and don't borrow trouble you may never see,” he said with a warming smile. He followed his own advice, then laughed when she recoiled from the bubbles tickling her nose as she took a sip. Gamely, she finished the glass and he refilled it.
“I've asked the steward to bring us a very late supper. This should suffice for now.” He seated her at the oak table. A single fat candle cast its mellow glow over the exotic fruits and cheeses.
She took another sip of wine and a few tiny bits from an orange segment and papaya slice. “I'm really not hungry, Rafael,” she murmured.
“Good.” He said the word softly as he reached over and took her half-filled glass. “Then on to more important matters. Come here, silver witch.” He pulled her gently from the chair into his embrace. “Since you have no lady's maid, I'll help with the buttons you can't reach. After, I'll allow you privacy to prepare yourself—this time.” He kissed her experimentally, running his lips down to her throat; then he turned her in his arms and continued the butterfly soft caressing around her neck as he unhooked the long row of white silk-looped pearl buttons.
When she felt the back of the dress freed, she started to step away, but he stilled her with one arm and then began to unfasten the pins from her hair, skillfully freeing the shimmering silver-gilt mass to tumble below her shoulders. He grabbed fistfuls of it and buried his face in the lavender fragrance. “I've wanted to do that since the first day I laid eyes on you,” he breathed through the silken skein.
Deborah turned and placed her arms about his neck, warmed and relaxed by his expert ministrations. She raised her face with lips parted in a smile, and he kissed her, plundering her mouth with his tongue, fiercely fusing their lips and bodies together. She felt a momentary rush of panic at his sudden passion; but before she could react, he released her, taking her hands from his shoulders to plant soft kisses in their palms.
“Change quickly. I must leave you now or I'll be unable to appear in public, mon Coeur,” he said with a rueful grin, looking down unashamedly at the telltale bulge in his tight gray pants. Flushing, she did not dare to follow his gaze.
When he left the cabin, Deborah undressed and her nervousness grew. Their passion had all been so spontaneous and natural that day in the rainstorm. But now, as she donned the sheer silk peignoir, waiting for him to consummate their marriage, it all seemed so—so premeditated.
“I’m just uncertain that I'll please him,” she whispered hoarsely, recalling that he had always been able to control his passions and break free of her when he deemed it appropriate. “If only I knew what to expect, how to respond...” Her voice trailed off into silent misery.
Deborah had never been told exactly what went on between men and women. No well-bred young girl ever was; but at least most had mothers, older sisters, or some female relatives who could bolster them with some kindly advice, however euphemistically phrased or misleading. Deborah had no woman to help her; and even under more favorable circumstances, Adam would have been unwilling to discuss such a delicate matter with his daughter. Nonetheless, she had a vague idea of what must ultimately occur. She had never been at all sure she would like it; but being practical, she realized that most women married and had children, so it was simply something she must do.
Recalling how good it had felt each time Rafael put his hands and lips on her, how secure and protected his lean powerful body made her feel, she gave herself a mental shake. Soon he would return, expecting to find a wife waiting for him, not some whimpering schoolgirl with the vapors! She ran the hairbrush through her waist-length tresses. Finally, putting the brush down, she inspected herself in the mirror. Too tall, not enough bosom or curve to her hips, she concluded critically.
Rafael lit a cigar, then threw it impatiently over the rail and paced for several minutes, repeatedly checking his gold pocket watch until he decided she had been allowed sufficient time to change. Any more time alone and she'd merely develop a worse case of bridal nerves. And he'd be so overwrought with sexual tension, he might well lose control and frighten her.
When he opened the cabin door, Deborah had not heard his soft knock. She stood in front of the beveled-glass mirror in a night rail so sheer it looked to be spun of gossamer. He could see her long silky flanks and uptilted pink nipples through its illusive veiling. The pale gilt curtain of her hair obscured most of her delectable derriere; but he imagined its firm, satiny roundness.
When she reached for the heavier silk robe that matched the night rail, he said softly, “Don't.”
Hearing the whispered command, she whirled in surprise and dropped the garment. “I didn't hear you come in,” she said inanely as he slipped the bolt on the door and then began to walk slowly toward her.
Rafael took her in his arms and then bent down to pick her up with effortless ease. As he carried her to the bed, he kissed her forehead, temples, and fluttering eyelids. Then, he slowly slid her down the length of his body, still holding her closely as he reached with one hand to pull down the heavy velvet spread. “Get in and wait for me,” he commanded.
Deborah scooted quickly beneath the covers, tucking them modestly up to her chin. She huddled in the center of the large bed, watching as he doused all the lanterns, leaving the dim golden glow of only one candle on the table. Then, he began to disrobe, shedding his jacket and waistcoat in a few smooth, swift shrugs. Walking casually over to the bootjack in the corner, he slipped off his boots and peeled off his hose. When he began to unfasten the studs from his shirt, revealing the hard dark expanse of his chest, Deborah remembered the wonderful scent when she had run her fingers through the dense black hair covering it. His silk shirt fluttered to the floor with a barely audible whoosh and then he was reaching for the waistband of his pants. Wide-eyed, she watched the play of lean muscles across his shoulders and chest as he began to unbutton his fly. Suddenly, it dawned on her what he was doing—what she was doing!
As if reading her mind, he looked up. Laugh lines crinkled the corners of his eyes and lips as he said, “Do not look away now, Cherie. I am just getting to the good part.” He watched her blush as she closed her eyes and sank beneath the sheets. With a low, hearty chuckle, he quickly stripped off the last of his clothes and strode over to the bed to pull the heavy cove
rs back in one swift motion.
“You've watched me. Now I want to see you, my beautiful wife,” he whispered as he knelt on the bed beside her. Turning her averted face toward him, he said in a strangled voice, “You are incredibly beautiful.” His hands slid down her throat, grazing the peak of one breast, descending to the hollow of her slim waist, down to trace the curve of her thigh. Rafael's strong warm fingers continued to her ankle, reaching around the slender bones easily. Then, he retraced his path up her leg, pausing to caress her inner thigh through the sheer silk of her gown.
Feeling his light touch, Deborah had closed her eyes and drifted like a leaf on a warm summer breeze, reassured by his words of admiration and his gentleness. However, when his hand slid between her legs and began to stroke the sensitive flesh of her thigh, her eyes flew open. Wordlessly, he stopped, sensing her fears, realizing that he must proceed more slowly. He rolled down to lie beside her full length. “Shh, I won't hurt you, Cherie. Only relax and put your arms around me.”
Deborah obliged him instantly, holding tightly as if she were drowning. She wanted to please him, wanted to recapture the rapture she had felt that day of the rainstorm. When he began to run his hands up and down her back and kiss her face and throat, she returned his caresses, marveling at the difference in tone and texture of their skin. He was hard and dark, with crisp black hair across his forearms, chest, and down lower where a steady prodding pressure told her untutored body that he was well prepared to consummate the act. But he held back, instinctively knowing that she needed time to assimilate all these new sensations.