“Nearly two.”
His mouth fell open and then, as if remembering he was still seated, he rushed to his feet, knocking his thighs against the desk so roughly his cup and saucer gave a small rattle. Additional bits of paper slid off the tabletop and drifted toward the floor.
“I’m so sorry,” he said while Calista stooped to pick up the fallen papers. Receipts, from the looks of it.
She wrinkled her brow. Clearly he’d gotten distracted by work and lost track of time, though judging from the exhaustion that clung to his face and the state his desk was in, it wasn’t quite so simple. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes. No.” He raked his fingers through his hair, tousling it in a way that made her own fingers itch to dive into those haphazard locks. His shoulders slumped. “Apparently Mr. Pontoppidan’s eyesight isn’t the best. I’ve sent him to the ophthalmologist for an evaluation. Hopefully, he’ll receive a pair of spectacles soon, but in the meantime, I’ve got to put these accounting errors he made to rights, so you’ll have to forgive me, but I cannot escape the Imperial today. My apologies for keeping you waiting. I…” He waved at his desk in a helpless gesture.
“It’s quite all right,” she said. “If you like, I can help. I’m actually rather good with numbers and keeping track of expenses.”
He stared at her as if she’d just sprouted wings. “Who are you?”
Puzzled, she stared back at him. “How do you mean?”
He gave his head a shake as if trying to figure out how to respond to that. “Wouldn’t you rather visit the shops or enjoy an ice at Gunther’s? You can even see the museum with Emma, if you like.”
“I’d much rather stay here and lend you a hand,” she told him honestly, earning a baffled laugh. She shrugged one shoulder. “If we collaborate on this, you’ll finish faster, and perhaps then we’ll be able to do something more entertaining later. Together.”
“How would you like to visit the theatre?”
She hesitated briefly before admitting, “If it’s not too much of an imposition, I’d rather see Vauxhall Garden, which I understand is rather unique.”
He grinned at that. “Very well, Miss Faulkner. Vauxhall will be our reward.”
17
When Calista finished sorting out the account books two hours later, she’d carefully removed the pages containing errors and re-written every purchase with neat precision, adding income and subtracting expenses in the appropriate columns. Seated on the floor despite Mr. Donahue’s protests, she glanced at him. The floor had made sense. He’d needed the desk so he could write his letters while she’d needed space to spread things out. It was how she’d been doing a great many things for most of her life, from reading, to drawing, to building shadow theaters and cutting out paper dolls. Always on the floor.
“I have a strange question,” she said when he set his quill aside moments later and blotted the page he’d been working on.
“How intriguing,” he murmured, allowing the edge of his lips to quirk in that way that invariably made her insides flutter.
“Well, perhaps it’s more unexpected than strange.” When he merely raised an eyebrow in question but said nothing more, she flattened her mouth and asked, “What should I wear tonight? To Vauxhall? I worry an evening gown might be too much, but I don’t want to be underdressed either. What are you wearing?”
“Whatever you like.” When she merely stared at him, trying to figure out what to make of that comment or how to respond, he blew out a breath, set the letter aside with the rest, and stood. “People wear all manner of clothes there. Some are stopping by for a stroll or to see the cascade, others might visit on their way home from the theater. It’s a mixed crowd, so as I said, whatever you like.”
He rounded his desk, towering over her while he extended his hand. Clean lines wrapped in tailored grey trousers and coal-black superfine wool filled her vision.
“You would let me choose for you?” she asked. A mixture of incredulity and excitement sped through her veins. She clasped his hand and allowed him to help her rise.
“Within reason,” he said. “But yes. If gala wear is your desire, I shall dress in evening black.”
“If there’s walking to be done as you have described and the chance of a large crowd, evening attire would probably be impractical.” She pursed her lips while studying him. It took a moment for her to gather her courage. “If it were up to me, you’d wear a pair of tan trousers, brown shoes, and a navy blue frockcoat.”
“No shirt, waistcoat, or cravat? How original, though perhaps a touch daring for my taste.” There was that lopsided half smile again, this time with an added wink to boot.
Calista’s knees almost buckled. She steadied herself on the desk. “I didn’t think the shirt and cravat required mentioning. As for the waistcoat, I’ll leave that up to you.”
“Very well.” His gaze swept the length of her body, heating her from the inside out. “Do you perchance have a plain white muslin dress?”
“I do.” She’d not worn it yet though since she preferred colors, but Emma had insisted and Calista had relented, since doing so was less exhausting than fighting the issue.
“Then I should like to see you in that,” Mr. Donahue said. He bent to gather the ledgers she’d piled together, placed them on his desk, and gave the pages she’d worked on a quick albeit dedicated moment of perusal. “Thank you for your help here today, Miss Faulkner. I’d still be at it had it not been for you. And I see you truly do have a mind for order and sums, much like myself. This is excellent work.”
It was hard not to beam with pleasure in the face of such a compliment. In Calista’s experience women weren’t praised for having sharp minds but rather for their grace, their ability to paint well or play a musical instrument, or how well they could embroider. She could manage a few of those skills with a fair amount of ability, but what she truly excelled at was numbers, particularly with regard to bookkeeping.
There was reliability and structure to be found there as opposed to the messy chaos that so often seemed to dictate her life, like unexpectedly losing her beloved grandfather from one day to the next, of being whisked from obscurity into social mayhem when Father became a senator, and of now having to marry a man she despised in order to pay off his debt.
“Thank you, Mr. Donahue. Helping with this was a pleasure.” And a small way in which to repay some of his kindness.
He answered with a gentle smile. “Allow me to escort you to your room.”
They walked in silence though not an uncomfortable one. In fact, it surprised Calista to realize that she did not feel a need to search for a topic of conversation when she was in Mr. Donahue’s company, as she so often did on the few occasions when she’d been out in New York society with her parents.
“Will an hour give you enough time to prepare?” Mr. Donahue asked when they reached her door. When she answered in the affirmative, he retrieved a beautiful silver filigree pocket watch and noted the time. “I’ll knock for you at five o’clock then.”
“I’ll be ready,” she assured him and slipped inside her room with every awareness that this man threatened to make her want something she’d never have: the freedom to walk away from duty and choose her own path.