Page 16 of Letters for Phoebe

But the little flower girl would warn her if there was something amiss, wouldn’t she?

The memory of Griffin Fenwick’s smirk, his hurtful words, goaded her at last.

Biting her bottom lip, Phoebe took up the pen.

Chapter 6

An Evening of Dancing

My Dear Friend,

I am not certain many would call me clever. How clever is it, for example, to write out one’s hopes and wishes to a complete stranger? I will have to trust to your honor, sir, whoever you might be.

I suppose I wish for the usual things in a gentleman, in terms of health and general good nature. But when I think on those things that I most hope for, that I want to be part of my life, I find myself hoping for a generosity of spirit. I also wish to find a man who will be an attentive and kind father, as my father was, yet how can one know such a thing? I would hope for a gentleman who will view me as his equal in our marriage.

As you can see, these things are quite impossible to know about a gentleman. No amount of afternoon carriage rides, ballroom meetings, or afternoon teas will reveal so much about a person’s character.

But worry not. I do not expect you to find such a companion for me. For now, if you might point me toward someone of honor and financial stability, I will be pleased enough. This will be my last Season in London. I suppose I ought not be too particular.

With all my gratitude,

P.K.

To The Charming P.K.,

Allow me time to ponder on your requirements. I do think they ought to be requirements, as each item is most reasonable and understandable. Why should any woman settle for less than a gentleman with whom she can have happiness as well as mutual respect and devotion?

You mentioned this is your last Season. Might I be so bold as to ask why?

Yours, Etc.,

A Friend

* * *

Phoebe bit her lip in an attempt to darken it from a shade of coral to something more like cherries. She stood before a mirror in a withdrawing room at the Countess Vailmoore’s annual ball. Then she turned to inspect her hair, pushing a stiff curl back into a pin.

“Phoebe, you look lovely. Do stop fussing.” Caroline took Phoebe’s hand and gave it a gentle tug. “Your brother is waiting for us in the ballroom, and you know how Joseph dislikes balls. We ought not leave him to his own devices too long.”

“Of course.” Phoebe turned away from the mirror, her stomach twisting. It was no use delaying; she had to go up to the ballroom. Her brother was not the only one who disliked swirling about in a crowded room, filled with the smells of too many perfumes and the noise of a hundred or more people.

But ballrooms were where matches were made. Phoebe needed to meet new gentlemen and construct a new list, with her old list pulled apart by her mysterious friend. As his advice on bachelors had proven correct twice, Phoebe trusted the man knew what he was doing when he gave her warning. Though she did not know exactly how to avoid settling for less than her ideal gentleman. Not if she hoped to be wed that year.

Starting over again when the Season was half over daunted her. Not that anyone would suspect as much, given her poise. Or so she told herself.

Before she entered the ballroom, Phoebe touched the bracelet, this time hidden beneath her long, ivory gloves. Tonight she wore a gown of yellow, trimmed in lace. The cheerful color reminded her of daffodils, her favorite flowers.

Phoebe came to the foot of the staircase where her hand landed upon the rail. She swallowed once, twice, and then looked up to begin her ascent.

Griffin Fenwick stood at the top of the stairs, leaning against the rail on one elbow as he watched her. One corner of his mouth went upward when their gazes connected. He wore a rich brown coat that reminded her of chocolate and a yellow waistcoat that nearly matched her gown. His hair had been tossed about expertly, given it a windblown look that only increased the charm of his appearance.

Not that she would be charmed. Not when she remembered too well the insult he had given her when last they had spoken. He thought her conversation amusing, not to be taken seriously, and for a woman to speak her mind—well. Dwelling upon that would not improve her mood.

Setting her chin at a level a notch or two above where she normally held it, Phoebe took up her gown in one hand then allowed the other to glide along the banister as she walked up. Let him make light of her intelligence if he wished. She would not spend another moment entertaining Mr. Fenwick.

He pushed away from the rail as she approached and bowed when she attained the landing. “Miss Kimball, good evening. I am pleased you could come.”

He spoke as though he had issued the invitation rather than the countess.