Lena giggled, her blush nearly as bright as her hair. “Not if Mrs. Mulligan has anything to say about it, sir.”
“And even I don’t dare cross Mrs. Mulligan.” He made a little shooing motion with his free hand. “Off you go. I’ll keep our guest company.”
“Yessir.” Lena curtsied. There was something sly in her sideways glance, something that made the back of Vivian’s neck prickle warily. Lena smiled. “I’ll tell Mrs. Buchanan you’re waiting when she arrives.”
“Thank you,” Vivian said. But she only glanced at the maid briefly as she said it, not wanting to take her eyes off Mr. Buchanan after seeing Lena’s smile. There was a tray on the table in front of him, with a silver carafe that was still steaming and a cut-glass decanter of some amber liquid. The smell of strong, good coffee filled the air, andVivian had to hold back another yawn. Buchanan set down his cigar long enough to take a drink from his cup as he looked her over.
Judging by appearances alone, he was the sort of man she often saw at the Nightingale, the kind who waited for an old-fashioned waltz to ask pretty girls onto the dance floor. Their shoulders were still broad, and their gray hair made them look distinguished instead of stooped and tired like the men where Vivian lived. They wore expertly tailored clothes, the fabrics so luxurious that she wanted to rub her cheek against them like a cat while they danced. They threw a little money around because it made them feel important, drank and danced because it made them feel young.
Buchanan smiled, beckoning her forward with a hooked finger as he took a puff from his cigar. Vivian stepped farther into the room.
Plenty of men like him were polite—harmless, even—gallantly trying to recapture the feel of their youth.
And some of them she wouldn’t trust farther than a Charleston kick.
“You’re very kind, sir, but I’m not a guest. I’m the dressmaker.”
“I can see that,” he said, still smiling as he nodded toward the boxes she held. “You can put those down if you like and take a seat. I promise I won’t think you’re shirking. I’ve no idea when Mrs. Buchanan will return.” He shook his head, looking a little embarrassed, as he stood and glanced out the window.
Vivian set the boxes on the table, then perched on the edge of the velvety sofa. She clasped her hands in her lap to keep from stroking the soft nap of the fabric and shivered a little.
He noticed. “Oh, my apologies, my dear.” Stubbing out the cigar in a crystal ashtray, he closed the window against the cold air before turning back to her with another smile. “There, that’s better, isn’t it? Shall I pour you something against the chill? Coffee, perhaps? Or…” He smiled, almost like a mischievous boy. “Something stronger?”
“No, thank you.” She liked a good time as much as the next girl, but she preferred it on her own terms.
Buchanan chuckled as he refilled his own cup. “Really? I wouldn’t have expected a girl with hair like yours to say no to a drink.”
Vivian resisted the urge to reach up and touch her bobbed hair, which fell like a straight black curtain to just below her jaw. “No, thank you,” she repeated. “Sir.” He sounded like he meant it as a joke, but she had to go in and out of too many houses like this one to risk word getting around that the delivery girl from Miss Ethel’s shop was fast.
Buchanan gave her a shrewd glance, then sighed as he returned to his chair. “My apologies, again. I’ve made you uncomfortable. But I promise, my philandering days are long behind me, if you’ll forgive my bluntness.” This time, the smile he gave her was self-deprecating. “I’m just an old man hoping to enjoy a little conversation to pass the time.”
“You’re not that old,” Vivian said without thinking, though she regretted it right away. She didn’t want him to think she was flirting.
But he only laughed before taking another drink. If she took a deep breath, she could smell the whiskey in it, floating just under the scent of the coffee itself.
“Thank you, but age is a fact we must all face eventually.” His expression grew distant as he stared down at the cup in his hand. “If we are fortunate. Not everyone lives to face it.” He cleared his throat, then looked her over with a critical eye. “Your coat is too skimpy for a girl who must be out in this weather. Allow me to provide you with coffee, at least, while you wait. It would be a great kindness to me, so I don’t have to worry about you.”
He spoke politely enough, and his smile was disarming—fatherly, almost, as if he had sensed that his tone needed to shift to something less playful. It made Vivian wary, that he could read her so clearly and change so quickly. But the coffee did smell good, and she was already fighting back another yawn. “Well, all right then. For your sake.”
He chuckled as he poured her a cup. “What have you brought for my wife, then?”
Here she was on safer ground. Vivian glanced down at the boxes. “Three very pretty dresses for the spring.”
“And very expensive, I don’t doubt,” he said, smiling as he handed the cup over. He wasn’t wrong, but Vivian wasn’t about to agree with him out loud. A man could make fun of himself for spending too much money if he wanted, but the girl delivering his wife’s dresses would keep her mouth shut if she was smart. “Did you make them yourself?”
Vivian shook her head as she accepted the coffee. “I used to do the dressmaking. Now I just handle deliveries. But I know the girls who did the sewing. One gown has over a thousand beads stitched onto it.”
She took a sip. It tasted even better than it had smelled—rich and sweet, which her coffee at home almost never was because sugar was an expense she could live without. The heat was a welcome pain against her chilled hands, and she took another sip, her eyes closing for a moment in pleasure.
“Thank you,” she said as she opened them.
Buchanan was looking at the door, a frown pulling down his brows. “Well, I am sorry Evangeline is keeping you waiting.” He stood, his own cup in hand, and paced toward the window once more. “She’s new money, I’m afraid, and still likes to make people wait for her. She’ll move past such games eventually.” He shrugged, crossing to the sofa where Vivian perched. To her relief, he sat at the other end, so most of the expanse of velvet was between them. “Or not. Many do not.”
It was an odd comment to make about his own wife, and not entirely kind. Vivian wondered whether their marriage was as new as the house. It was on the tip of her tongue to say he, at least, didn’t seem like new money, but she stopped herself just in time. Being tired was no reason to get careless and say something he might take as an insult to his wife.
“I don’t mind the wait,” she said instead, giving him a smile that was friendly but not too familiar—the sort of smile she employed onthe dance floor at least once a night. Buchanan seemed decent enough, but she knew the assumptions he might make about a girl like her. Still, she didn’t want to offend him. Miss Ethel would throw a fit if she lost his wife’s business. It was a delicate balancing act. “The company and the coffee both are nothing to sneeze at.”
He lifted his cup to her in a small toast, the slight wobble in the gesture making her think that he had been sitting there enjoying his whiskey-laced drink for longer than was typical on a Monday morning. She thought there was something sad, though, in the look he gave her. But whatever he might have said next was interrupted by a knock at the door. Vivian started to her feet, quickly setting her cup down on the side table.
