Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy)

by Shirl Henke

  Ever since she had tried to leave him at the lake house last summer, Rafael had resumed his attentions to her in bed. They slept together; but if they were passion-enslaved lovers by night, they were distant strangers by day. An uneasy truce had been gradually established in the Flamenco household. Claude and Celine were icily civil to her in return for her acquiescence as Rafael's wife.

  She never again attempted to leave her husband after he informed her precisely of his legal rights. He could drag her out of Adam Manchester's very house—in the unlikely event she got that far. No one could shelter a runaway wife if her husband wanted her back. And Rafael had made it clear that he did want her, at least physically. Under the law, she had no more say in her life than did a Congo slave.

  In spite of her hurt and resentment at Rafael's high-handedness, Deborah desperately wanted her relationship with her husband to return to what it had been when they were first married. They must find a way to recapture the magic, the love.

  A child might bring us close, she thought wistfully. However, even in that most basic duty Deborah was proving an unsatisfactory Creole wife. Rafael made love to her every night, yet she did not quicken. Perhaps I’m barren, she thought sadly, then forced the disquieting thought from her mind as she walked down the long hall.

  When she entered the parlor, Rafael saluted her coolly by raising his crystal glass of sherry the tiniest bit, then sipping it as he watched her with brooding midnight eyes. “Your gown is superb,” he said with the voice of a connoisseur. A small smile tipped his lips as he watched her flush at his inspection, which lingered overlong on her décolletage. He took her arm proprietarily and said, “Shall we go, my love?”

  When they arrived at the opera house, Orleans Street between Bourbon and Royal was jammed with vehicles and pedestrians, everyone splendidly attired in their finery for the beginning of the New Orleans social season. Because of the press of carriages, the Flamencos had to wait their turn to pull up the short block in front of the theater.

  Since it had been a dry fall, the streets were mercifully free of mud and easily traversable. A number of elegantly dressed Free People of Color were making their way along the street to the special theater entrance reserved for them. The second tier of the Orleans had been their exclusive domain for many years and no white would ever have intruded. The separation of colored and white by floors comprised a racial layer cake with many a wealthy Creole gentleman seated on the first floor with his white family, while his quadroon or octoroon family sat directly above him.

  It was a warm evening and the Flamencos had taken an open carriage, affording them an excellent view of the kaleidoscope of humanity on its way to the gala. Looking out over the press of pedestrians, Celine said, “Some of the costumes for tonight's performance came directly from Paris, so Madame du May says. The lead soprano—” She stopped in mid-sentence and emitted a small, quickly stifled gasp as she turned her head and fanned herself furiously. Claude coughed and initiated a rather inane discussion with Rafael about the sugar harvest.

  Sensing the undercurrent, Deborah's eyes scanned the crowd her mother-in-law had been surveying. The sight of two young men, elegantly dressed and startlingly handsome, riveted her to the carriage seat. If she had thought Georges Beaurivage resembled her husband, the two tall, slim men passing on the opposite side of the narrow street were his doubles—and they were most obviously Free Men of Color! With a sinking sensation, Deborah realized that the older woman they escorted was the source of Celine's upset. The quadroon was tall and slim, youthful looking but probably past forty. Her tawny skin was clear, her aquiline features strong and flawless. Beautiful gold coin eyes flashed as she laughed lightly at a riposte from one of the young men. The trio swept inside the theater, oblivious to the Flamenco carriage.

  Intuition told Deborah that the sophisticated woman was the mother of those two young men. Obviously, Claude Flamenco was their father. Why am I so shocked, she thought to herself, feeling Rafael's eyes on her.

  She had not lived in New Orleans for nearly eight months without learning about the demimonde and the shadow world of second families fathered by wealthy Creole gentlemen. A seasoned roué such as Claude Flamenco would certainly partake of such fleshly pleasures. Rafael had half brothers, the additional sons that Celine had been unable to give Claude. But they were sons who could not carry on the Flamenco name. A great many things were now beginning to make sense to Deborah—the underlying tension between Claude and Celine and the way Lenore had always avoided the subject of her father's overnight absences. Deborah tried to stop the logical progression of her thoughts, which moved from Claude to Rafael.

  He must not have a beautiful young quadroon. I’m not an unresponsive, frivolous wife like Celine. I must hold his interest! Surely, all he had done since they were married was visit some of the elegant bordellos in the city when he was displeased with her, nothing more binding—certainly not another family. After all, he was only twenty-two years old!

  Numbly, she took her husband's hand and allowed him to assist her down from the carriage at the front door of the theater. Celine's chatter resumed with forced brightness. For the first time, Deborah felt a stirring of pity for her mother-in-law.

  Rafael swore to himself as he watched Deborah's face pale and freeze when she saw Damon and Paul, then their mother. She knows, damn! He cursed Flamenco heredity that always seemed to make the males in the mirror image of their fathers, regardless of who the mothers might be. If only she understood Creole social conventions. He laughed bitterly to himself. If only she were a proper Creole wife.

  When he felt her trembling, he wished that he did not love her so obsessively.

  * * * *

  “All right, out with it—what's upset you so, Deborah? You're pale and jumpy as a cat.” Lenore sat pouring tea in her parlor while her sister-in-law fidgeted. They spoke English, as they did on all Deborah's visits, since Lenore insisted on perfecting her fluency in her husband's native tongue.

  “I have a question to ask you, Lenore. One no proper Creole lady would ever ask.” Deborah took a cup from Lenore and downed several sips of the hot, spicy beverage to fortify her courage.

  A warning look came into Lenore’s calm blue eyes. “Why is it I feel this might be a question better left unanswered?”

  “I have to know. I haven't been able to sleep since I saw them three nights ago at the opera. Oh, Lenore, they look exactly like Rafael, both of them!”

  Lenore set her cup down. “I take it you saw two of Rafael's half brothers,” she said gently.

  “Two? You mean there are more?”

  “Four. Sophie gave Papa all the sons Mama could not.”

  Deborah almost dropped her cup. “How can you be so—so calm about it? How can you accept such behavior from your own father?”

  “I grew up with it, Deborah. Although it's never spoken of, we know. We overhear servants' gossip, whispers at the opera, we see. We're just supposed to pretend we don't know—or care,” she finished bitterly. “I love my father, but...”

  Deborah picked up her sister-in-law's unfinished thought. “You would never want to marry a man like him—or like your brother.”

  Placing her arm around Deborah's shoulder, Lenore said, “I only meant that I can love Papa without excusing his behavior. And I know that Mama never...” She flushed and continued. “Well, she never enjoyed his attentions. I actually think she was glad when he went elsewhere.”

  “How can any woman want her husband to give another woman children? To have another family—a divided loyalty?”

  Lenore took a deep breath, realizing she must prepare her vulnerable sister-in-law for the inevitable. “I remember when I first found out about our half brothers—I was twelve years old. I went to the market with Wilma and several other servants. Tonette and I were just children, more ignored than anything else. We slipped off to watch the glass blowers while the older servants made their purchases. I came back sooner than expected, I guess.

  “
Strange, how a child can sense when to keep silent, knowing she's hearing something forbidden. Wilma and the stall-keepers were speculating as to whether Sophie or Mama would sooner have another of Papa's babies. I'd grown up knowing about the placées, but I'd never connected such a practice with my papa. When I got home, I ran sobbing to find Mama and begged her to tell me they were lying. I'll never forget her face. For the first time I could remember, she didn't cosset me. She took me into her sitting room and closed the door. Then, she began to explain some things to me, things she coldly told me would never be mentioned again. And, she was right. She never again spoke of Sophie, and I certainly never tried to bring up the subject!”

  “But you've heard other gossip?” Deborah asked. “Some of it more recent?”

  Lenore sighed, “I suppose you'll pursue this until you have all the answers, won't you? No matter how painful.”

  “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.