Letters for Phoebe by Sally Britton Page 0,27

turned to allow him to lay it over her shoulders. Despite the layers of fabric between them, the warmth of his hands lingered a moment after he removed them from her arms.

He cleared his throat, and when Phoebe looked up she saw his good-natured grin had finally returned. “Shall we?” he asked, offering her his arm.

“Yes, please.” Phoebe walked out the door upon his arm, and her eyes went to the very fine vehicle waiting in the street.

“My father decided to come as well,” Griffin said, voice low. “Once he realized Caroline could not come. We have a box to ourselves, and he is not one to miss an evening in my mother’s company if he can help it.”

Phoebe tilted her head up to look at Griffin’s rather calm expression. He did not look as though he had just said something extraordinary. “Your father and mother enjoy one another’s company that much?”

Griffin chuckled. “They adore one another, Miss Kimball.” He paused outside the carriage and took her hand to help her in. He gave her fingers a gentle press. “You will see.”

Phoebe entered the carriage and took her seat next to a woman of median age and a fine figure. The immediate welcome the woman gave, along with a warm smile, reminded Phoebe of Griffin at once.

Mrs. Fenwick’s tone was as playful as her son’s. “At last we meet you, Miss Kimball. Griffin has mentioned you so often these last several days that I confess myself most curious about you.”

Griffin, who had barely sat down next to his father in the rear-facing seat, groaned. “Mother. You promised.”

“Oh, pooh.” His mother waved a hand at him. “Miss Kimball must know she is a lovely woman. I am certain she is used to the attention.” Mrs. Fenwick gave Phoebe’s hand a maternal pat. “Do not mind him, dear. Griffin is far too sensitive.”

A giggle escaped Phoebe’s lips, and she looked at Griffin in time to see him appear surprised.

Mr. Fenwick chuckled. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Kimball. I do hope my wife and son will not drive you to distraction this evening. They both delight in teasing.”

Griffin and his mother immediately protested that statement, amusing Phoebe enough that she relaxed in their company. An evening with such company promised entertainment, even if the play proved unamusing.

When they arrived at the theater, their carriage near the entrance, throngs of people already lined the walk and the steps to the entrance. The grand columns never failed to elicit admiration of its grandeur in Phoebe. When the original theater had burned down, though she had not yet been out in Society, she had mourned its loss.

Mr. and Mrs. Fenwick stepped out of the carriage first and waited arm-in-arm for their son to exit the vehicle. Griffin’s shoes hit the pavement and he immediately turned back to her, his smile broad, and held out his gloved hand.

A thrill of excitement, like an electric bold, went from Phoebe’s fingertips to her toes when she took his hand. Such was her love for the theater, of course. The tingling sensation had nothing to do with the way Griffin’s eyes gleamed with admiration. Though not a great beauty, Phoebe had enough self-assurance to call herself pretty. But to be the object of a gentleman’s favorable assessment was rather enjoyable.

“Come, come. We need to get to our box.” Mr. Fenwick led them forward with his head held high. He had to be nearing sixty years old, but he stood at the same height as his son.

“He is a spry old chap,” Griffin murmured in her ear, as though he had read her thoughts. “I think the rest of us are lucky to keep up with him.”

Phoebe’s mind turned to her father, home at their country house tending to her mother. “You are fortunate to have parents in such good health that they actively seek an evening out with each other, and with you.”

Griffin chuckled, a low sound she found she rather liked. “Come now, Miss Kimball. While I admit that they would both do very well on their own this evening, we will not pretend they are here for my sake at all. They both wished to meet you.”

Her cheeks warmed and her stomach tightened into a knot. “Me? Oh dear. Why would I matter?”

They entered the theater where the lights blazed in wall sconces and a chandelier. It was louder inside, with people calling to one another and an excited hum grew into rumblings. The noise necessitated that