* * *

  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.

  “Mr. Fenwick,” she said, not even bothering to meet his gaze. She stared past him toward the ballroom. “I had no idea you would be present.” Though tempted to sweep by without another word, Phoebe had no desire to give anyone the cut direct. There were enough other people standing about in the hall to notice if she behaved that rudely.

  “Oh.” He sounded disappointed. “Caroline did not tell you?”

  Phoebe winced and finally looked at him. “What ought my sister-in-law to have told me?” She knew, when she saw his smile reappear, that he’d had something to do with the invitation that had surprised her when it had arrived.

  “The countess is a friend to my mother, and she has met Caroline often enough that when I suggested she extend the invitation to your family, she agreed at once. I am delighted you are here.” He did not seem to boast. The cheerfulness in his tone sounded genuine.

  How could the man prove both irritating and charming?

  Gritting her teeth, Phoebe offered him a tight smile. “Most kind of you to think of us, Mr. Fenwick.”

  He offered his arm, and she had no choice but to take it. “Might I secure a set of dances with you, Miss Kimball? The next set to begin, if you have not yet promised them elsewhere.”

  Dreadful man. Unless she wanted to spend the whole of the evening in a chair, she had to agree.

  “My first set is yours, Mr. Fenwick.” If only he did not appear so pleased, she might have forgiven him. He did not seem to understand, not in the slightest, that she held him in some contempt.

  They had barely entered the ballroom, which was actually several large rooms with doors flung open to connect them all, when the music ended. Their first engagement upon the dancefloor was to begin at once.

  Phoebe saw Caroline and Joseph standing near the wall. When they spotted her, Caroline’s expression changed from merely cheerful to something bordering on excitement. Joseph, ever the protective older brother, merely raised his eyebrows. If Mr. Fenwick noticed them at all, he gave no indication as he swept her toward the couples arranging themselves upon the floor.

  The countess never gave out invitations on a whim, as all of Society knew, so her ball could not be called a crush. But thirty couples stood ready to dance, and more lined the walls. A set would easily take up half an hour, and perhaps a quarter more depending on the forms. Giving so much time to Mr. Fenwick made Phoebe sigh as she took up her position. Finding enough gentlemen to repopulate her list of eligible bachelors in a single evening had already felt like a challenge without such devotion of time to someone completely unsuitable.

  As she stood across from the gentleman, Phoebe kept her expression bored. The man seemingly went through life with the goal of self-amusement. She would give him nothing to laugh over that evening.

  He grinned at her anyway.

  “I have been pondering something, Miss Kimball.” He stepped forward and took her hand, raising it above them both and stepping back again.

  “Have you?” Phoebe refused to show interest, pretending to concentrate on the movements of the dance.

  “Yes. Your name.”

  She did not trip, but she did narrow her eyes at him. She lightly skipped to one side as the steps called for. “I cannot see how my name could possibly give you more than a moment’s thought.”

  “Your Christian name is quite lovely and unique. I cannot say I know of many ladies with such a name. It comes from mythology, I believe. Is it not the name of a Titaness? The first ruler of the moon, according to the Greeks.” He smiled as though he had said something particularly clever.

  Phoebe felt her nose wrinkle before she hastily reminded herself such an expression was not ladylike. “I do know the origins of my name, sir.”

  “Of course. But I wonder how it came to be chosen for you. Knowing such things, I believe, is telling.” He did not appear the least put off by her expression. The dance took them away from each other for several moments. When she returned to stand before him he spoke as though there had been no interruption. “Who named you? Your father or mother?”

  Though reluctant to engage in any conversation which might be perceived as meaningful, Phoebe knew he would not allow her to ignore the question entirely. “My mother suggested it. Her Christian name is Mary. She never liked that there were a great many who shared her name.”

  “She wished your name, and you, to be unique.” Mr. Fenwick nodded sagely, though his eyes brightened. “My mother named me with the same thought. Everyone on my father’s side argued with her, thinking I ought to be named something sensible like William.” His grin flashed as he walked around her and bowed to another lady before returning. “She said, and my father agreed, that she should like me to stand out among gentlemen rather than merely be sensible.”

  “Given what you were up to the day we met, I should say you succeeded in fulfilling her expectations.” Though likely not the way the woman had expected. Despite her earlier commitment to avoid being amused by the man, Phoebe had to smile a touch at that.

  He laughed aloud, drawing attention from other dancers, including smiles from several females.

  A gentleman with such open good humor was rather rare, especially in a ballroom where every man was either hunted or on the hunt himself. Mr. Fenwick’s above average good looks likely contributed to the indulgence of his humor. His bright eyes and dark hair, his lean and tall stature, would pull eyes in his direction even had he frowned.

  “Griffin is still more unlikely a choice than a Greek god’s name.” Phoebe snapped her mouth shut over the observation.

  “I know.” He took her hand again and moved in close, staying so a second longer than the other gentlemen in the line of the dance. As though he had rather be near her than keep perfect time. For an instant, his grin turned into a soft smile, and an emotion she could not name appeared in his eyes. Whatever it was, it made her heart skip most traitorously.

  He stepped away, and she released her breath without knowing when she had begun to hold it.

  His merry smile reappeared. “My mother was rather enamored with a Grecian fresco with a griffin standing guard over a fallen man. She and my father brought me up to be a protector, as all gentlemen should be, of those who stand in need.”

  Phoebe cleared her throat, impressed despite her desire to remain otherwise. “A noble calling, indeed. Do you feel you have honored their wishes?”

  “Not perfectly, but I have tried.”

  Her lips parted, but Phoebe could not think what to say. Most men of her acquaintance would have boasted of such a trait, or protested in a way that reeked of false-humility. She detected neither in the way he spoke. The last strains of the orchestra signaled their time to bow and curtsy to one another.

  As she stood, she barely noticed which couples left the row and who arrived. Phoebe’s gaze remained on Griffin Fenwick, who spoke to the gentleman on his left with animation. Phoebe recognized the man, but could not put a name to him immediately.

  “Your partner dances well, Fenwick,” the man said, casting Phoebe a polite smile, though he did not address her directly. They must not have been properly introduced.

  Griffin’s wide smile was his first answer, before he surprised her with his words. “Indeed, Miss Kimball’s grace lends at least some dignity to my own limited abilities.” More modesty, for he danced as finely as any man she had ever partnered. “After this dance, if you are very fortunate, the lady will allow me to introduce her properly.”

  Phoebe lowered her eyes, feeling a blush creep into her cheeks. It was thoughtful of Griffin—she suddenly could not think of him as anything else—not to assume he could make introductions without her approval. His words had been kind.

  Why, again, had she been angry with him? It took some thought to remember.

  Griffin started to relax at last. Though Phoebe had begun the evening with a cold demeanor, by the time the second dance in their set began she had warmed considerably to him. Her smile appeared more, rendering her already lovely face more beautiful. Here was the girl who had walked with him in the park, before he’d muddled things at her doorstep.

  It had taken Griffin time to sort out how his conversation with her that day had turned into a low moment. Arranging for the Countess Vailmoore to invite the Kimballs to her ball had been the first step in his apology, though Phoebe did not yet know it. The next step would be to offer up the words themselves, and the final must be the introduction of several eligible gentlemen to her.

  Except Griffin found himself rather wishing he could ask her to dance again. Perhaps reserve another set, or the supper dance at the very least.

  “I find myself wondering, Mr. Fenwick, what you do when you are in Town. Do you come for the Society or for another reason entirely?” Phoebe asked, drawing him out of his study of her smile.

  “I come for the company. I enjoy being among friends,” he admitted. “Though I have an uncle in the House of Commons—my father’s younger brother. We support him with our presence, and our connections. He represents our little corner of England to great credit. Where we are, everyone is of the opinion that sheep need more rights.” As loathe as Griffin was to discuss politics, he enjoyed the way she laughed at his mention of the sheep.

  “Your wooly population must be quite pleased if he represents them well.” She did not hide her smile again. “I confess, my favorite part of the Season is rarely the balls. I rather like all the opportunities presented to see new things. I dearly love plays, though I know it is not the fashion to admit to enjoying them.”

  Griffin sighed deeply. “A sorrowful state of things, to be certain. Merely because no one goes to see the actors and actresses, but to spy upon the other boxes.”

  Phoebe danced with a lightness he had not seen in her character before. Upon their first meeting, he had thought her too staid. But coming to know her, and getting glimpses of her character still more through her letters, gave him leave to like her a great deal. How could he not, when the only things she most wished for in a husband was a man who would be both a generous husband and kind father? She had not mentioned the wish for a title, for a certain amount of land or wealth, a house in town, or someone excessively athletic or handsome.

  His hand grasped her just above the wrist as they completed a turn, and he felt the presence of a beaded wristlet. Was it the same he had seen before? She had not been without it since he first noticed the red upon her wrist.

  They were nearly down the line of couples, which meant their time together would soon end. Given the way other gentlemen had been watching Phoebe as he promenaded her along, he would not get more than a moment or two to escort her from the floor before there was a clamor for introductions.

  Which meant it was time for his apology.

  Griffin sobered. “Miss Kimball, though this is not ideal timing, I fear I will not have the ability to offer you a sincere apology if I do not make it now.”

  She blinked at him, and then her expression clouded over. She turned away, walking beneath the joined hands of another couple, then returned to him. “I do not know what you mean, Mr. Fenwick.”

  “The other day, upon your doorstep, I misspoke. I only wish to tell you that I am sorry for speaking like a bumbling fool. I would never wish to offer you insult. I rather like conversing with you, and I wish to be friends.”

  Her cheeks turned a becoming shade of pink, and he felt his chest warm in response.

  Phoebe took hold of her skirt, preparing to curtsy, and he clenched his fists at his side waiting for her acceptance of his apology. “Mr. Fenwick, of course you are forgiven. Thank you.”

  Relieved, he offered up his final bow, and then held his hand out to her. Her fingers slipped into his palm, and despite the material of their gloves between them he would have sworn in that moment there was a very real physical connection. His heart leapt, and his grip tightened upon her.

  No fewer than four gentlemen converged upon them, as he had known they would, and the moment was lost. Given the brightness of her greeting to each of the men, Griffin doubted he would be granted another opportunity to engage her hand.

  The disappointment he felt upon watching her walk away on the arm of another ought to have surprised him.

  “Griffin.”

  He jolted and looked down at Caroline Kimball.

  “Oh. Good evening, Caroline.” He realized his greeting lacked warmth and smiled rather hastily to make up for it.

  She laughed and took his arm. “Do not sound so happy to see me, sir, or my husband may get jealous.”

  He relaxed, then looked again to where Phoebe smiled at her new partner. “I would not wish to stir such an emotion in one who loves you, Caroline.”

  “No. I imagine not.” Why did she sound so sly as she spoke?

  Griffin looked down at her again, but something told him he ought to change the subject quickly. “I hope you are enjoying your evening.”

  “Very much, thank you.” Caroline peered at him most thoughtfully, then turned her attention to her sister-in-law. “Thank you for displaying Phoebe’s dancing skills so well, and introducing her to so many. I am afraid I have not been an ideal sponsor this Season.”

  “I am certain you are doing quite well,” he said at once, purposefully guiding her to walk away from the dancers. “Though I had wondered why it is you are here and not the senior Mrs. Kimball.”

  “Oh, did you not know?” Caroline’s expression turned serious, her eyebrows drawn down along with the corners of her mouth. “Dear me. The family does not mean to keep it a secret, of course, though I suppose we have not discussed it much outside of our own home and friends.” She looked to the wall of chairs, where her husband conversed with other married men.

  “If you do not think you should tell me,” Griffin said, though his curiosity rose, “then please do not. I would not like you to betray any confidences.”

  Caroline shook her head. “It is not a secret, as I said.” Then she sighed. “Last autumn, my mother-in-law was struck rather suddenly. Apoplexy, her doctor said. She has improved a great deal, though she could not even speak for a time. I am afraid she is not able to move about as freely as she once did, and she thought her presence in London would hurt Phoebe’s ability to focus on the task at hand.”

  The task at hand, of course, was to find a husband. Griffin relaxed and looked out to where Phoebe danced, immediately finding her among the throng. His eyes were drawn to her rather like a magnet to metal. “I imagine someone of such a kind nature as Miss Kimball would be more concerned with her mother’s well-being than her own.”

  “That is precisely true of Phoebe.” Caroline’s smile appeared almost sorrowful. “Last Season, Phoebe kept apologizing for entertaining that scoundrel of a suitor. She takes things very much to heart. My sweet sister-in-law puts burdens upon her shoulders when they are not hers to bear.”

 

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