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If Mr. Buchanan weren’t acting so very weird, she’d think that between the rose and the candlelight that this was a date of some kind, except his manner seemed to say the exact opposite.
“Blue Girl,” he said abruptly, moving to the far end of the table and pulling out a chair.
“What?” She turned to look at him.
He averted his gaze, as if not wanting to meet her eyes, and gestured at the chair that he’d held out for her. “The rose I sent you. It’s called Blue Girl.”
Gretchen took a step forward, noticing that when she did, he subtly shifted to one side, unconsciously moving to ensure that the good side of his face remained in her sights. Interesting. “I see. It’s a lovely rose. I thought it was more purple than blue, though.”
“It is. Very hard to get a true blue color from roses. Most soil is not acidic enough.” His tone was brusque, as if explaining things to a fool.
“Ah.” She sat down at the table and he pushed in her chair for her, then moved to her right. She noticed he didn’t sit at the far end of the table but moved to the center of the right side, sitting at a ninety-degree angle from her. To hide his face again? She couldn’t see the scars on the right side when he sat there. The only thing she could see was a clean, crisp profile.
He was handsome enough, she supposed. His jaw was square and strong, his features regular. His nose was slightly larger than beautiful and, on most men it would have overwhelmed his features. On him, it just looked . . . commanding. His eyes were narrow and dark, and his mouth was thin, as if he never smiled.
Of course, then when he turned slightly to the side, she saw the reason for his serious mien. The scars that covered the right side of his face were hideous. They marked the smooth rise of cheekbone and marred the strong lines of his chin. He was careful to keep his face angled away from her, but she recalled long gouges of scarring that crissc
rossed his entire face. His brow was striated with white scars, and the scarring even went into his hairline.
She wondered what had happened that would have caused such scarring.
He glanced up and noticed her watching him. He dropped the silverware he was holding, and it clanged to the tabletop with a bang.
“My apologies,” he said.
“No problem,” she told him, a little curious at his mannerisms. Was he . . . nervous? “Sorry I didn’t dress up. I figured this wasn’t a date, so you know . . .” The words trailed off and for a moment, she felt a little uncomfortable. What if he viewed this as a date?
“Of course not,” he said. And as if to prove her wrong, he gave his napkin a rough snap of the linen and placed it in his lap. “I simply wore a jacket because it was pleasing to me to dress well.”
Well, so much for that, she thought. She couldn’t tell if his words were intended to put her at ease or put her in her place. Actually, it was never easy to tell with him.
Mr. Buchanan reached over to a bottle of opened wine. “Would you like some?”
“Are you just trying to get me liquored up?” she teased.
He stiffened.
“That was a joke,” she told him quickly. Wow, he really didn’t know how to interpret her humor, did he? “I’d love a drink.” Gretchen extended her empty glass toward him, still watching him. His fingers were long and skilled, and he poured the glass with remarkable grace. If she hadn’t seen him drop his knife earlier, she would have never suspected him of such a thing. He finished pouring and tilted the bottle back with a practiced flourish, not spilling an ounce.
His manners were beautiful, even if his words were abrupt.
The candles flickered as she sipped her wine and he began to pour his own glass. She wondered for a moment if the candlelight was for ambiance or to hide his scars. If it was for the latter, it was a bad idea—the flickering light made his scars that much more hideous with the shadows. And again, she found herself wondering about them.
“I’m Gretchen,” she offered when he finished pouring. “I don’t know that we ever had a formal introduction.”
“We did not,” he said in a crisp voice. “I find it hard to introduce myself when I am naked and unawares.”
Her mouth dropped a little at that, and it was on the tip of her tongue to offer another apology when he glanced over at her, and she realized . . . that was a joke. Was he waiting for her to laugh? Or respond?
“Yes, I do imagine it’s quite hard when a madwoman approaches you in the gardens shouting about how she saw your penis,” Gretchen offered back. “I can understand how that’s not much of an icebreaker.”
She tried to gauge his reaction, curious. Would he get upset again, or would he be a bit more at ease now that they were sitting and talking?
To her disappointment, he showed no reaction. Instead, he nudged a covered silver plate closer to the two of them. “I’m Hunter. Buchanan.”
“I figured it was Buchanan,” she said. “Unless you were related to Eldon and you had the real Buchanan locked away in the attic.”
He snorted, though there was no smile on that grim face. “Eldon is my assistant and butler.”
