“Such fresh faces,” said Mrs. Goddard. “Still in the blossom of their youth. Unlike some.”
There was a hardness to her last sentence that Malcolm couldn’t pretend to misunderstand, having heard it so many times before. It took the tiniest of leaps in logic to know that his overtures to Miss Leigh had been noted. Did the ladies believe that jealousy and criticism, however subtly spoken, were attractive?
All the Miss Goddards possessed “fresh” faces, but only because they were hardly women. Malcolm would lay vast wagers that Miss Veronica was not older than sixteen, and her elder sisters couldn’t be much older. They certainly giggled like the schoolgirls they were.
“As you say, Mrs. Goddard.” Only the strongest sense of decorum allowed Malcolm to keep a hold of his tongue and refrain from adding that only a fool cared only for a fresh face. Such things faded quickly enough, and there was nothing appealing about a silly wife.
“But please excuse me,” he said, quickly moving around the girls before they had time to regroup.
“Mr. Tate—” began Mrs. Goddard, searching for some excuse that would force him to remain with her daughters, but Malcolm was a wily fox, not easily run down by the hounds, and he gave them a quick bow of the head and stepped around.
However, another pounced, snatching him up in a conversation that mirrored the previous one. Having suffered through countless versions of it, Malcolm was able to smile and nod as appropriate whilst giving the conversation no true attention. Each mama was certain her daughters were so ravaging that he would sweep them up into a courtship after just one look and were dumbstruck when he moved past.
The whole thing was tedious, and Malcolm struggled to hold onto his welcoming expression. It seemed to him that as host, he ought to be less restricted by such niceties, as it was his drink and food they were consuming, his musicians they were listening to, and his money paying for the gathering, yet he was not allowed to rail against the mobs that surrounded him. Malcolm had invited them into his home, and it was his duty to ensure that they had a pleasant time.
Hang it all. Hang the people in London and Kent, who’d driven him to seek out quieter pastures. Hang the people of Greater Edgerton, who were proving themselves just as frustrating—if not more so. And doubly hang the guests keeping him from seeking out Miss Leigh.
Chapter 15
With some effort, Malcolm progressed through the line of ladies, though it was followed by the gentlemen, who had dreams broader than merely marrying off their daughters but no less self-serving.
“Mr. Tate, such a pleasure to meet you at last,” said one gentleman, taking him by the hand.
Malcolm nodded and tried moving past, but the fellow’s grip tightened, holding him in place.
“I host weekly games at The Royal Oak for discerning gentlemen such as yourself,” he said. “I do hope you will join us for a few hands.”
“That is intriguing,” said Malcolm, not caring in the slightest that it was a bald-faced lie. The fellow cared only for securing a connection to add to his collection of acquaintances or for another investor in some madcap speculation; if the man truly wished for friendship, he would’ve bothered to have a proper conversation before inviting a random gentleman to spend the evening with his “discerning” friends.
“I fear I cannot give thought to it at this very moment, but perhaps we can discuss it later,” Malcolm added before moving on.
Drawing in a breath, he tried to remind himself that this party had been his idea. And usually, it was the perfect means by which to get all this folderol out of the way, rather than eating up every day for the next few weeks as the families insisted on calling upon him. Get it all out of the way at once. But when he’d first asked Molly to organize an introductory ball, Malcolm hadn’t expected Miss Leigh to fall into his life.
Clinging to an affable expression, he nodded and smiled at all the guests as he slowly made his way through the crowd. If not for her, Malcolm would consider this entire scheme—moving to Greater Edgerton included—a failure. But he had met Miss Leigh, and he simply must be patient as he inched around the room in search of her.
Perhaps it was for the best that it was taking some time to navigate through the sycophants. No doubt she was overcome by the revelation and had sought out privacy in which to contemplate this splendid turn of events. Now, Malcolm need only to discover her hiding place and speak to her as the true Mr. Tate.
The first strains of the music began once more, and several of those around him moved to find their partners. Just as Malcolm lunged for a hole that had opened in the crowd around him, Mrs. Goddard pounced with one of her giddy daughters in tow.
“Oh, Mr. Tate, are you not dancing this set?” she asked with a broad smile.
“I fear my duties as host are too demanding at present,” he quickly replied with a bow.
But Mrs. Goddard stepped into his path. “Nonsense. Mrs. Bracegirdle is such a capable hostess and has managed everything so brilliantly. You must take at least a little pleasure for yourself.”
Malcolm glanced about as though some salvation might arrive to rescue him from the trap lying before him, but for all that he’d congratulated himself for being a crafty fox, the hounds were nipping at his heels.
“Surely you ought to stand up for a set,” she prodded whilst nudging her daughter forward. Malcolm supposed it was meant to be subtle, but he’d witnessed the best that London had to offer, and Mrs. Goddard was not in their league. Though there was no point in judging her lack of skill when it achieved its desired result.
Miss Goddard stood there, watching him with such hope. Her gaze begged him to accept, and Malcolm felt the walls press in on him as he was fully trapped between being (at best) rude or (at worst) cruel to this poor girl and having to suffer through a dance with her.
“Would you do me the honor?” he asked, holding out his hand to Miss Goddard, who beamed as she took it.
“The honor is all mine,” she said as the pair strode towards the dance floor.
A lively tune struck up, and Malcolm moved through the steps, his gaze darting between his partner, staring up at him with wide eyes, and the crowd, searching for his blond temptress.
“You are quite the dancer, Mr. Tate,” said Miss Goddard.
