finished. Then why was he so restless, so desperately unhappy?
Deborah's face, pale and delicate, her lilac eyes glistening with tears, materialized unbidden in his mind. He would never forget her, she of the fiery temperament, sparkling wit, and lush body. But she was American. A tall, blonde Protestant. His family would be aghast. He was aghast. He had come within a whisper of losing himself in her sweet silken flesh, damn her!
Just then he caught sight of the cadaverous figure of Oliver Haversham moving toward him in deliberate haste. Groaning, he considered crossing the street, then decided it was beneath his dignity to allow the fortune-hunting bully that satisfaction.
“Well, Flamenco, I'm surprised you've stayed around, considering the gossip. Old Adam Manchester will deal with you now. It's no longer my concern what anyone says about my former fiancée.” His gray eyes glowed with malice. He moved to pass Rafael but was able to take only a quick sidestep before a steel-fingered grip stopped him.
“Exactly what do you mean, Adam Manchester will deal with me now?” Rafael's other hand fastened securely on Haversham's stock and squeezed.
Oliver's sallow complexion darkened several shades to the color of aged newspaper. He choked out, “You didn't expect your affair with Deborah to go uncommented upon, not after your blatant tryst at the Beechers' summer house!” He pulled free of Rafael's restraining hands, shrinking from the menacing Creole.
“Who told you we had a tryst?” Rafael's voice was soft but steely.
Realizing that what had been an irresistible chance to taunt his rival was taking a distinctly dangerous turn, Oliver was immediately at great pains to elucidate. “Allison Smythe was at the Beechers. She said the two of you vanished for hours.”
“So, I assume you have spread this tale the length and breadth of Boston.” Rafael swore softly in French and turned to walk away, then whirled back toward Haversham and said in a deadly calm voice, “If I hear another word about Deborah Manchester on your lips, I'll thrust a rapier through your skinny gullet.”
Early the next morning, he appeared at the Manchesters' house while Adam was still eating his breakfast. The butler announced him in consternation. No one called on Mr. Manchester at the uncivilized hour of seven a.m.!
From her vantage point halfway up the stairs, Deborah heard voices coming from the entry hall, then saw Rafael disappear into the study after her father. What is he doing here? Trembling, she picked up the hem of her velvet dressing robe and rushed back upstairs to complete her toilette. She would find out what was going on, at once.
She selected her clothes as if girding herself to do battle. In a way she was, for she sensed the two men downstairs were arrogantly deciding her future. By the time she was satisfied with her appearance, Ramsey had arrived bearing a summons. Her father and Mr. Flamenco awaited her in the study.
What does he want? Why is he here? These thoughts had raced through her head all the while she had dressed. Good lord, he might provoke her father into a fight! By the time she reached the study door, she was out of breath and flushed.
When she stepped inside, glacial blue and glowing black eyes stared at her. Her father was very angry but was concealing it from his adversary as he always did. Only she was aware of how tightly he held his temper. Rafael's disposition was much more difficult for her to gauge. Was he, too, angry? His expression held a sensual, heated quality, which made her tremble unaccountably. She nodded uncertainly to both men but volunteered no greeting. In truth, she didn't trust her voice not to squeak.
Without preamble Adam announced, “Mr. Flamenco has asked my permission to marry you,
Deborah's face, pale and delicate, her lilac eyes glistening with tears, materialized unbidden in his mind. He would never forget her, she of the fiery temperament, sparkling wit, and lush body. But she was American. A tall, blonde Protestant. His family would be aghast. He was aghast. He had come within a whisper of losing himself in her sweet silken flesh, damn her!
Just then he caught sight of the cadaverous figure of Oliver Haversham moving toward him in deliberate haste. Groaning, he considered crossing the street, then decided it was beneath his dignity to allow the fortune-hunting bully that satisfaction.
“Well, Flamenco, I'm surprised you've stayed around, considering the gossip. Old Adam Manchester will deal with you now. It's no longer my concern what anyone says about my former fiancée.” His gray eyes glowed with malice. He moved to pass Rafael but was able to take only a quick sidestep before a steel-fingered grip stopped him.
“Exactly what do you mean, Adam Manchester will deal with me now?” Rafael's other hand fastened securely on Haversham's stock and squeezed.
Oliver's sallow complexion darkened several shades to the color of aged newspaper. He choked out, “You didn't expect your affair with Deborah to go uncommented upon, not after your blatant tryst at the Beechers' summer house!” He pulled free of Rafael's restraining hands, shrinking from the menacing Creole.
“Who told you we had a tryst?” Rafael's voice was soft but steely.
Realizing that what had been an irresistible chance to taunt his rival was taking a distinctly dangerous turn, Oliver was immediately at great pains to elucidate. “Allison Smythe was at the Beechers. She said the two of you vanished for hours.”
“So, I assume you have spread this tale the length and breadth of Boston.” Rafael swore softly in French and turned to walk away, then whirled back toward Haversham and said in a deadly calm voice, “If I hear another word about Deborah Manchester on your lips, I'll thrust a rapier through your skinny gullet.”
Early the next morning, he appeared at the Manchesters' house while Adam was still eating his breakfast. The butler announced him in consternation. No one called on Mr. Manchester at the uncivilized hour of seven a.m.!
From her vantage point halfway up the stairs, Deborah heard voices coming from the entry hall, then saw Rafael disappear into the study after her father. What is he doing here? Trembling, she picked up the hem of her velvet dressing robe and rushed back upstairs to complete her toilette. She would find out what was going on, at once.
She selected her clothes as if girding herself to do battle. In a way she was, for she sensed the two men downstairs were arrogantly deciding her future. By the time she was satisfied with her appearance, Ramsey had arrived bearing a summons. Her father and Mr. Flamenco awaited her in the study.
What does he want? Why is he here? These thoughts had raced through her head all the while she had dressed. Good lord, he might provoke her father into a fight! By the time she reached the study door, she was out of breath and flushed.
When she stepped inside, glacial blue and glowing black eyes stared at her. Her father was very angry but was concealing it from his adversary as he always did. Only she was aware of how tightly he held his temper. Rafael's disposition was much more difficult for her to gauge. Was he, too, angry? His expression held a sensual, heated quality, which made her tremble unaccountably. She nodded uncertainly to both men but volunteered no greeting. In truth, she didn't trust her voice not to squeak.
Without preamble Adam announced, “Mr. Flamenco has asked my permission to marry you,
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