Page 12 of Letters for Phoebe

Phoebe glanced toward the trees, then back to him. Where had he come from?

“I must say, Miss Kimball, that running into you is becoming a habit. I cannot yet discern, however, if it is a good one I ought to keep, or a bad one I must attempt to break.” He sighed dramatically, then offered her his arm. “What do you think?”

She accepted his escort, almost without thinking about it. “I hardly see that what I think matters. We seem rather doomed to such meetings.” She looked down at her bracelet, peeking out at her from beneath the sleeve of her spencer. “Or fated, depending upon your perspective.”

Surprise colored his tone. “I had rather expected you to put me in my place again, Miss Kimball. Not offer your agreement upon the matter.”

“I have not agreed with you,” she argued at once. “And I cannot put you in your place, sir, because I know not where you belong.” There. Let him puzzle that out. Odd man.

“I suppose I belong wherever I am at the moment. If we believe in fate, that is.” Mr. Fenwick clicked his tongue upon the roof of his mouth. “That would mean, Miss Kimball, that I belong right here. With you.”

Phoebe’s heart skipped a beat before she saw the glimmer of laughter in his eyes and the upturned corners of his mouth. Of course he had not meant anything serious by such a statement. She hastily put aside her odd reaction to his words.

“Do you ever get tired of teasing?” she asked darkly, shaking her head at him.

“Never. It does little harm, if any, and usually makes people smile.” He kept his steps measured, short. Perhaps for her benefit. Perhaps to prolong his time in her company for more verbal torture.

Phoebe’s thoughts turned, and an excited sort of flip took place in her stomach. Why not play his game? She could tease and torture as well as he, and it had proved rather amusing at the dinner table the other evening.

That thought gave her the perfect topic to pursue.

“It may surprise you to know, Mr. Fenwick, that I have given some thought to your words from the other evening. On marriage.”

He coughed away a small gasp, turning his head from her. His voice sounded strained when he spoke again. “I thought we had said all that was necessary on that particular topic.”

“Have we? Or are you merely reluctant to reenter the conversation on the chance that I might come out the victor this time?” She tipped her head to the side and attempted to appear more innocent than conniving.

Mr. Fenwick’s eyes narrowed. “I was not aware we were keeping track of points in our conversations, Miss Kimball. But do go on. You have my interest.”

“Thank you.” Phoebe lowered her gaze to the walk. “I should like to begin the topic, Mr. Fenwick, with an inquiry. I have wondered why a man of your age would persist in claiming no interest in marriage. While I concede that gentlemen may take longer at such a choice than ladies, you are rather in your dotage, are you not?” Teasing him served him right, after he had amused himself at her expense more than once of late.

His head turned abruptly, and she sensed his eyes upon her, studying her. “Dotage, Miss Kimball? I’ll have you know I am younger than you are.”

Phoebe stopped walking and turned toward him, releasing his arm. “Sir, I cannot believe you would say such a thing. You are not. You must be nearer thirty than twenty.” She narrowed her eyes and studied the charming, tiny lines near the corners of his eyes; they grew deeper as he smiled. At her. He had a rather nice smile.

“I will have you know that I have only marked my birthday on six occasions.” His eyes glittered, bluer than gray in his amusement.

Phoebe crossed her arms over her chest. “That is absurd. Indeed, the most absurd thing I have ever heard.”

He mimicked her stance. “I swear to you, on my honor, it is the truth.”

Phoebe opened her mouth to argue, then snapped it shut again and stared hard at him. There was a puzzle in his words somewhere, and she would find the answer. Perhaps his family had not done anything on the anniversary of his birth to mark the occasion. That might be what he meant. Yet she had heard, from Caroline, all about the Fenwick family. They sounded as though they were all quite close, and if they had produced someone such as the gentleman before her, they likely did not ignore excuses to celebrate.

“Six birthdays.” She wrinkled her nose.

His grin turned almost cocky. He offered his arm again. She accepted it. “Six,” he confirmed. “I will wager you have celebrated twenty years of your life passing.” Their walk continued, even slower than before.

“I have.” Drat and bother. “Six marked birthdays. What happened during the unmarked anniversaries?” She ought to hate how curious he had made her. Yet she had always had a weakness for riddles. Especially those with logical conclusions.

“There were none. Only the six have passed since my birth.” He chuckled, sounding far too certain of himself.

Phoebe sighed. “I will think on this, sir.”

“Do. Take whatever time you need.” He was leading her around the square, she realized. They had passed Number Fourteen several houses before.

“Mr. Fenwick,” she said, turning to look up at him. He was taller than she by a head. “Are you very well acquainted with the Carew family?”

His smile momentarily faded, and though he did not look down at her, she sensed caution in the way his eyes narrowed. “Yes. Very well. I consider Phillip to be one of my oldest friends.”