Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) (2 page)

      
“I can see it now.” Lydia rolled her large blue eyes in exasperation. “There you are, on your honeymoon, all alone on a cozy winter's evening, sitting before a roaring fire. He takes your hand in his and looks deeply into your eyes, sighs, and says, ‘Deborah, my darling, how shall we while away the hours tonight—discussing Mr. Smith's ‘Wealth of Nations or Mr. Malthus' ‘Essay on Population’?”

      
Always lurking beneath the surface of her seriousness, Deborah's sense of humor burst forth as she let out a hearty chuckle. “Why, Lydia, I never knew you were such a bluestocking! When did you read Adam Smith or Thomas Malthus?”

      
Lydia shrugged disgustedly. “I never did, thank God! I just picked up the names from all those boring books you leave lying around. Don't you see, Deborah? You may resent social conventions. Lord knows, Boston is a stuffy, prudish old place, and women's lives are dull and rigid. But that's all the more reason to find an exciting man, one who'll cherish you, dote on you and let you have your way because he loves you, not because of some abstract philosophical ideas. I'd never trust a man who thinks too much, especially if he's not handsome either.”

      
“Really, Lydia, Oliver may not be the most dashing man in Boston, but he suits me. I don't want to wheedle my way around a husband! I certainly don't want him to dote on me. I can't abide weakness.” Her eyes were dark with anger now and a bit of ill-concealed hurt.

      
Lydia was instantly contrite. “Oh, Deborah, I didn't mean to disparage Oliver, or you either. I just wish you'd get over your feelings of inferiority. You are beautiful—why, I'd give anything to have your silvery hair, violet eyes, and statuesque figure.”

      
“You're beginning to sound like Father. Statuesque, indeed! I'm too tall, and men are put off by me. I suspect it's my mind and my manner as much as my looks, but I can't change my ideals any more than I can my height. Be satisfied if I tell you I'm marrying Oliver because he's tall enough for me. Or because he's the only one who has asked me,” she finished on a note of grim humor that silenced Lydia's protests.

      
Just then, they pulled up at Learned Street, which housed the best dressmaker and tailor shops in the city. Deborah's trousseau was being assembled here. She alighted from the carriage with a sigh, thinking of the endless fittings. While Lydia reveled in such frippery, Deborah never had. She had learned the social graces, and how to dress to accent her striking coloring; but she had never exerted any effort to make herself attractive to men.

      
They spent the next two hours at the dressmaker. By the time they left the shop, Deborah was smarting from pin pricks and stiff from posing. “I positively hate fittings. If only one could walk into a shop and select from large rows of gowns already made up and nicely arranged by size.”

      
“What odd notions you have, Deborah.” Lydia skipped a step as they were strolling down the street, heading toward the milliner's shop in the next block. “It's such a lovely day, let's take a stroll through the park across the way,” she said impulsively.

      
“What are you up to, Lydia? I know you never walk when you can ride. You'll get your curls mussed in the breeze.” Deborah looked around as they stepped across the street and began to walk toward the small tree-shaded common, ringed by elegant tradesmen's shops.

      
Suddenly, her soft lavender eyes locked with a pair of liquid black ones, staring intently at her from a scant fifteen feet away. “Oh,” was all she could manage before her throat seemed to collapse on itself and her heart started to thud. Quickly, Deborah looked down at the walk. She forced her feet do her bidding and take her swiftly away from the tall, foreign-looking stranger who was lounging against a light post, watching them—no, watching her, she amended. She could still feel the heat of his black eyes scorching her back.

      
Before they were even out of earshot, Lydia was giggling. “Slow down. We're just out for a stroll in a public park, after all. Now, that was a specimen I'd think you might consider taking on a honeymoon!”

      
Deborah gasped and blushed again at her friend's teasing, walking faster as if to escape.

      
Lydia grabbed Deborah's arm. “He's heading toward the central path. If we walk slowly around the corner at Jacobs Street, he'll cut across our path before he leaves the park. Honestly, Deborah, isn't he the most gorgeous man you've ever seen!” Lydia looked at her friend's flushed face and continued with a superior smirk, “Don't bother to deny it. You thought so, too. Do you suppose he's a foreigner? The clothes, that dark, mysterious air about him. Maybe he's a count or a duke.”

      
“Oh, will you stop it. He's simply some French or Italian dandy, looking for a rich and foolish young woman to charm. Anyway, I don't like his forward manner! No gentleman stares at a lady that way!” Deborah could still picture in her mind the sardonic arch of those black brows as the jet eyes bored into her, dancing with mirth at her flushed discomfiture.

      
“Don't look now, but he's crossing our path again and he really has his eye on you,” Lydia hissed, half-amused, half-jealous; for the handsome stranger was indeed strolling across the park on a collision course with them, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on Deborah.

      
Just as he stepped onto the paved sidewalk in front of them, he stopped and removed the flat-crowned white hat from his head of curly black hair. Making a sweeping bow, he flourished his hat in a courtly manner as he allowed them to pass. He smiled but made no attempt to speak.

      
Against her will, Deborah found her eyes drawn to him. For several seconds, which seemed like hours, she scanned the classically handsome face, shocked at his boldly admiring gaze. Lewd, that's what it was, absolutely, positively libertine! As if she were some cheaply dressed streetwalker, parading her wares for sale!

      
Furiously, she hissed to Lydia, “Now what do we do? We have to get to the milliner's shop and that means circling all the way around the park or backtracking. Either way he'll know we deliberately cut across to meet him.”

      
“Well, he cut across to see you again, too,” Lydia said with a smirk. “Anyway, I'd think an independent woman like you wouldn't care a fig what he thought!”

      
Gritting her teeth, Deborah replied, “You're right,” and headed toward the street. “We'll just walk back on the other side of Jacobs Street.”

      
So intent was she on escaping the scorching smile of the stranger that she failed to hear the thundering roll of wagon wheels as a huge dray filled with coal careened down the street. Lydia stood rooted to the curb in horror as Deborah stepped abruptly into the path of the onrushing wagon. However, before the mules' sharp hooves could claim their victim, a blur of white intervened. The stranger scooped her into his arms and lifted her back onto the sidewalk as if she were no more than a feather.

      
Once the overloaded wagon had rumbled past them, he slowly released her, still saying not a word, his night-black eyes mesmerizing her. Deborah could feel the heat of his fingers as they seemed to burn through the thin muslin of her gown. As she reached up to brush her windblown hair from her face, he released her arm. Despite the chill, she felt flushed and weak-kneed but knew it was not from the accident.

      
Taking a deep breath, she looked up at him and said, “I thank you, sir. You probably saved my life.”

      
“
Enchante, mademoiselle
,” he replied, dazzling her with a blinding white smile. His complexion was swarthy, but his classically handsome features made him look like some marvelous Greek statue sprung suddenly to life. A lock of ebony hair fell carelessly onto his high forehead as he spoke in a surprisingly soft voice, saying in French, “It was my greatest pleasure to be of assistance. Rafael Beaurivage Flamenco at your command, beautiful Moon Flower.”

      
Raising one delicate silvery brow, Deborah replied in perfect Parisian French, “I'm scarcely a flower, Mr. Flamenco, just a woman who is grateful for your timely help. Now, if you will excuse me...”

      
Deborah saw that he was surprised at her French. Good. Then he smiled insolently and made another flourish with his hat as she turned her back to walk away. Lydia trailed unwillingly after her. If he had only given Mademoiselle Beecher a glance or the slightest encouragement, Deborah knew her friend, in violation of Boston propriety, would have stayed behind to introduce herself. But he had looked at her—tall, gawky Deborah. He had not even seemed to notice petite, curvaceous Lydia. Was that why her heart was hammering and her blood racing?

      
“Do you suppose he's from France? What did he say?” Lydia was as breathless as Deborah, but a great deal less self-conscious about showing it.

      
“What he said is of no consequence,” Deborah replied blithely, attempting to calm her shattered nerves. “He was rather forward and introduced himself. I merely thanked him for his assistance.”

      
Lydia snorted in disbelief at her friend's prim manner.

      
All afternoon, as they shopped, Lydia chattered about their mysterious Frenchman. Deborah volunteered nothing but became more quiet and withdrawn, pondering her emotions, as runaway as that teamster's dray.

      
“Only one last stop, Hornby's Merchandisers,” Deborah said with a sigh. She did not favor the establishment, for the English merchant who ran it was noted for his sharp business practices. However, Lydia had ordered some oriental brocade from the man. One paid dearly, but the kind of merchandise he offered was available virtually nowhere else in the New World.

      
They once more climbed aboard the Manchester family carriage and their driver Simms flipped the reins. He had spent many a long day transporting his mistress and her friends on shopping excursions. At least the weather was pleasant.

      
For Boston, the April day was unseasonably warm. To Rafael Flamenco it seemed miserably cold. February was spring in New Orleans. Here in this godforsaken Yankee wilderness, it was probably winter until July! His elegantly cut white linen suit, so comfortable when he had left home, was definitely not keeping the chill harbor wind from cutting into his shivering bones. He grinned, remembering the way those Boston misses had stared at his unusual planter's clothing.

      
“Well, not only my suit,” he chuckled, half-aloud. The brunette was flirtatious and open; but the tall one, that lilac-eyed Amazon with the silver-gilt hair, had been fascinated and then angry with herself for her attraction to him—an interesting reaction. She was a cool one and her French was flawless. Perhaps they might meet again, he mused as he paid the hack driver and stepped into the interior of the enormous import house.

      
By the time Deborah and Lydia arrived at Hornby's, Deborah had a pounding headache.
Just nerves
, she thought to herself in vexation. As they walked through the crowded emporium to the draper's counter, Deborah heard a familiar voice, cursing stridently in French.

      
“You dare such an insult, you son of a bitch! If you were a gentleman, I'd call you out.” Rafael's face was a thundercloud of furious anger as he threw a bolt of brocade at the Englishman whose narrow eyes were now opened wide in apoplectic anger.

      
“You see here, you French bastard—”

      
“Excuse me, Mr. Hornby, Monsieur—Flamenco,” Deborah interrupted the tirade, embarrassed at hearing such language and at encountering the Frenchman for the third time in one day. Still, he was a stranger in her country and no doubt spoke little English. It would be like the calculating Hornby to try and fleece a foreigner. At least she owed Monsieur Flamenco her offices as translator after he had saved her life!

      
Both men turned toward her, surprised as her clear, calm voice intervened in their shouting. “Now, what is the nature of your disagreement, gentlemen?”

      
“He's a damn froggy thief, that's what he is, Miss Manchester,” Ian Hornby said, then muttered a halfhearted apology for his language.

      
Rafael spoke rapidly in French. “A misunderstanding, I am afraid, Miss Manchester. I agreed to make a most sizable purchase of cloth of gold and brocade, at exorbitant cost. It seems not to be a Yankee custom to bargain over the price as it is where I come from. When I suggested one of those paltry lace handkerchiefs as lagniappe, this swine flew into a rage as if I were a common thief bent on slipping it into my pocket!”

      
“
Lagniappe
,” Deborah echoed questioningly. Her French was excellent, but she was uncertain of this word.

      
Rafael smiled and once more her heart seemed to stop. “Just a colloquial expression, Miss Manchester. It's a custom to throw in some small item when a customer makes a large purchase,” he explained, glowering again in Hornby's direction.

      
“Look here, Miss Manchester, I don't want no trouble. You vouch for this Frenchy and I'll let it go.”

      
“Just how much were you charging him for that bolt of brocade?” She indicated the deep rose cloth lying across the counter.

      
Hornby seemed to wriggle inside his ill-fitting clothing. “Well...”

      
“How much were you paying for the brocade?” she asked Rafael in French.

      
“One hundred fifty American dollars,” he replied with one handsome brow arched sardonically, awaiting her reaction.