Page 32 of Letters for Phoebe

The gray clouds above, while not precisely threatening, might keep her away, too. Hyde Park was terribly deserted for such pleasant April weather.

He paced beneath the tree branches for a time before realizing he only added to his agitation with each step. So instead, and without a care for who saw him, Griffin sat down on the grass directly beneath the arching limb. He stared out over the water, watching a pair of swans glide slowly across the pond.

Griffin took his hat off and put it on the grass by his side. He drew up his knees and folded his arms, considering what he would say when Phoebe arrived. How did he explain himself? He could justify his first note to her, perhaps. But not all those which came after. Not really. He ought to have written Caroline to issue the warning about Richard Milbourne. Then dropped the matter entirely.

But he couldn’t. Because every time he thought of Phoebe, thought of writing to her, hoping to catch sight of her, he found he wanted more. More of her words, her time, her conversation.

He scrubbed one hand through his hair before he remembered he wanted to look his best. He tried to press it back down into the style his valet had recommended, but gave up with a sigh.

All Griffin could give Phoebe by way of explanation was the truth.

He ought to have watched the paths but given that he did not expect Phoebe to come—not really, because why would she wish to give him even another moment of her time after his trickery?—it seemed better to watch the swans and birds.

A horse nickered behind him. Griffin did not turn. It could be anyone riding along the nearly deserted paths.

But then he heard her voice.

“If you will stay with the animals, Thompson, just there. Yes. I should like to take a moment and walk.”

“As you say, miss,” a young male voice said.

Griffin slowly rose to his feet, then turned to see Phoebe upon the path. A groom held two horses, and he made a point of not watching Phoebe approach Griffin.

He swallowed, squaring his shoulders and preparing to accept whatever she wished to say to him. If she railed, accused, stormed at him, he deserved it.

Phoebe wore a red riding habit, with silver epaulets, and a black hat with a red band. She looked rather like a feminine soldier marching toward him. Her red bracelet showed between the sleeve of her riding coat and the black wrist-length glove she wore.

Her eyes were not upon him, but upon the ground, until she stood only a few feet away from him. Then she looked up, her brown eyes full of questions. And pain.

“I am here,” she said, voice soft. “To meet my mysterious friend.”

Griffin swallowed and reached for his hat, only to realize he had left it upon the ground. He curled his hand into a loose fist instead, tapping it against his thigh. “Good afternoon, Miss P. K.”

Phoebe stared at him, her lips pressed together tight, and her face rather pale. Then she licked her lips, looking away. “Why did you not tell me who you were?”

He must be honest. Make no excuses. Only explain. “When I wrote those first letters, you did not seem to like me much. I thought it best to remain anonymous, so you would not discard my words as those of a fool.”

Her eyes darted upward, her lips parted in surprise. “A fool?”

He shrugged and tipped his head to one side, trying for a smile. “I am fairly certain that was your opinion of me. At least at first. And here I have proved it by creating this uncomfortable situation for you.”

Phoebe stepped closer to him, her expression still neutral. “Perhaps at first, I did not recognize that you were a gentleman of wit as well as folly. But the more I saw you, I found myself rather hoping to be friends.”

Griffin lowered his gaze to the ground between them. “I hoped for the same. That is why I did not admit to my secret, and why I kept writing. I wished to come to know you better, and I thought if I revealed myself too soon…” He squeezed his eyes shut and released a deep sigh.

“What did you think would happen?” she asked, her voice soft. “I would be upset?”

Though his laugh was short, and rather without humor, Griffin hastily looked up at her. “Are you not?”

“I am most upset.” She took another step nearer. They were almost within touching distance, if he were to raise his hand. “Or I was. I find myself more curious now. When I met you near the flower girl, were you there for our exchange of letters?” Her eyes were narrowed, her focus intent upon him.

Curious was far better than angry, which was likely what he deserved.

“That was why I was there. To leave a letter, or retrieve one, but I also hoped each time that I might be fortunate enough to meet you there.” He wanted to close the remaining distance between them himself, but he rather doubted he should.

Color entered her cheeks, giving them a rosy hue he found charming. “And that list of eligible gentlemen you provided to me. You included your own name. Why? Did you mean to use your letters to persuade me to give the men a chance?”

He swallowed, then nodded. “I did not intend to do it—not until the night of the ball. When we danced, and I had to introduce you to others, I knew I wanted a chance of my own.” He lowered his gaze again, wondering exactly how pitiful he must sound to her.