Letters for Phoebe by Sally Britton Page 0,12
cursory sip. “Mr. Fenwick, what are your particular favorite activities? Besides lobbing dough about in London’s finer parks.”
Rather than appear contrite, or even remotely rebuffed, the man’s slight smile grew into an approving grin. “I tend to find amusement wherever I may be, Miss Kimball. Though I do rather enjoy the parks, most of all, and gardens when I can spare the time. Spending time out of doors is far more enjoyable than sitting about in stuffy parlors.”
A sentiment she readily agreed with, but she could not let him know that. He was ruining her opportunity with Mr. Carew, after all. “Stuffy parlors? Oh, but all the ladies of London spend our time in parlors, you know. Drinking tea, embroidering, and hoping to entertain callers. What a loss your company must be, when you are out in flower gardens.” She turned to the side, sensing Mr. Carew’s attention. “As an architect, sir, you must have things to say upon the enjoyment one might find in a well-constructed home.”
Mr. Carew’s cheeks pinked. He swallowed abruptly. “Well, I am certain—that is to say, my interest lies more in public buildings. But I have set about designing a house. My own, that is. For the future.” He stumbled about in his words the way a drunkard might stumble out of a tavern.
Poor man. He must be painfully shy.
Not like Mr. Fenwick, who joined their conversation uninvited. “A future house. If you are to build your own, Phillip, perhaps you should wait until you are ready to wed. I imagine a bride would prefer to have some say in a new construction.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course. They are only rough plans, and I should like to consult the future lady of the house.” Phillip coughed into his hand, and his eyebrows rose as he looked over her head at Mr. Fenwick, as though he was trying to communicate without speaking.
How odd. And suspicious.
Phoebe turned to Mr. Fenwick, lowering her lashes and curling her lips into a smile. His expression faltered a moment, then returned to cheerful ignorance. Did he mean to pretend she had not caught him frowning darkly at Mr. Carew? Why was Mr. Fenwick determined to put himself into their conversation?
“What of you, Mr. Fenwick? Would you make such concessions for a lady?”
He leaned just a touch over the arm of his chair toward her. “For the future Mrs. Fenwick, of course. But as I have no plans to wed at present, nor any plans to build a new home, I believe I am safe from such a concern.” His teeth flashed white as he grinned.
The soup course was taken away, the fish replacing it.
“A true loss for the ladies of London,” Phoebe quipped, but her dart had no effect. Mr. Fenwick’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “It is rare a bachelor in London would so baldly state that he has no plans to wed, though I imagine a good deal of gentlemen might keep such a desire secret. What, pray tell, causes the hesitation on your part?”
He lifted his cup of wine to his lips, though he kept his gaze upon hers. “It is not hesitation, I assure you. Merely disinterest.”
“In marriage or in young ladies?”
“Marriage itself is not an unpleasant idea.” He sipped from his cup at last and lowered it back to the table. “But if I entered into that blessed sacrament with the wrong young lady, I imagine I would equate marriage with torture.”
Phoebe wrinkled her nose before hastily recalling a lady ought never to do so in public. “Are your requirements for a bride so particular that you have not come upon one woman who happens to meet them? You must have exacting standards.”
“Not at all.” His eyes twinkled at her as he twirled his fork in one hand, then speared his fish. “I would prefer a woman of good humor, sound judgment, wit, and the ability to hold a pleasant conversation. That is not asking too much, is it?”
The simplicity of his words could not possibly reveal the entire truth. No man would be content with so little. Her own brother had easily rattled off a list of twenty requirements for the woman he wished to marry. Caroline had fulfilled nearly all of them.
Her next words were something of a dare. “I suppose a large dowry and a pretty face would not matter to you then, Mr. Fenwick?”
Mr. Fenwick finished chewing his bite of food before he made his answer, and Phoebe rather hoped it would prove