A flutter at the window drew his gaze, and he spied a pair of green eyes watching him from the corner. The moment Malcolm met them, Miss Leigh skittered away. This was ludicrous. Surely she didn’t understand. If she simply gave him a proper chance to explain things, she would certainly forgive him and welcome him back.
Raising a hand, he knocked on the door a few more times, but it remained shut on him.
Malcolm stiffened, straightening his shoulders as he stared at the solid wood. How dare he? How dare she! For all that she condemned him for his callous behavior, she had just shouted at him in the street like a fishmonger’s wife and run off like a coward. She held herself as a paragon, but Miss Leigh had just shown herself to be a hypocrite of the highest order.
Spinning on his heel, Malcolm strode away, his jaw tensing as he clenched his teeth together tight. But as much as he wanted to speed away, his breath was still too unsteady to allow such an exertion. So, he forced his footsteps to slow, though it was a battle between breathing and seething. Which didn’t help his mood, for he longed to march away at a clipped pace, but Miss Leigh’s jog along the streets had left him winded.
Clearly, he’d been wrong about her. Miss Leigh had seemed the pinnacle of ladies. His perfect partner in life and love. But all his scheming had still ended in the same dreaded conclusion: Miss Leigh was not the lady he’d thought her to be.
Dodging around passersby, Malcolm pulled his hat down low, hoping that no one would feel the need to stop and chat, for he was in no mood for such things. With each step, the pressure in his chest built until he was liable to explode at anyone foolish enough to attempt a conversation.
Miss Leigh’s anger was understandable. Malcolm couldn’t deny that he had, in fact, lied to her. His reasons had been sound, but that did not mean the revelation wasn’t startling and disconcerting.
However, his peace offering was more than a trifle. Not some mere posey or treat to cover his sin. Had she seen the phaeton? Even by the most ostentatious standards, it was a mighty gift. Far pricier than the gig it was replacing and better suited for the Leigh family. Yet Miss Leigh had stormed away as though it was a slight upon her honor.
Malcolm paused at that. Did he truly think to buy her forgiveness? The gift hadn’t felt like a bribe, but considering Miss Leigh’s views on the matter and the thought that had just popped into his mind, Malcolm couldn’t say that he had the moral high ground.
Despite the hubbub of the street, the passing people bumping him and the whinnying horses pulling their loads beside him, Malcolm stilled. And in that moment of quiet, he noticed something buried beneath the indignation and anger.
Defensiveness was a worrisome sentiment. Not that defending one’s stance was inherently a bad thing, but feeling the need to convince others of it was a symptom of a larger problem. In his thirty years of experience, Malcolm knew justification was merely guilt masquerading as something noble and righteous. One needn’t force the issue if one was secure in one’s position, after all; a peaceful conscience requires no outside validation.
A pair of horses pulled to a stop beside him, and Malcolm glanced over to find his groom driving that ridiculous phaeton. The lad said not a word, simply awaiting his instructions, and some childish part of Malcolm longed to tell him to take the phaeton back to Boxwood Manor and sell the blasted thing.
But that only served to emphasize his previous revelation. Vindictiveness was never a good sign.
Malcolm let out a long breath, leaching out the remnants of his childishness. “Deliver it to the Leighs with my compliments. Tell them it is reparations for the damage I did to their gig. Miss Leigh will explain it when she arrives home.”
“Yes, sir,” said the lad, and with a flick of the reins, he drove the phaeton down the street.
The answer and movement were just as one expected a servant to react, but Malcolm couldn’t help but study the nuances of the interaction with Miss Leigh’s critical eye. She was wrong. Of course, she was. He was no villain, looking to subject his retainers to unbearable treatment. Malcolm had known plenty of autocrats in his time, and he couldn’t see a similarity between his actions and theirs.
But her words returned to his thoughts, picking at the certainty he felt and leaving him once more feeling defensive and looking to justify his actions.
Not a good sign.
Standing on the street, he watched the carts and carriages passing by. It was not as though he’d expected his wealth to earn him immediate forgiveness. Yet even as he tried to defend his pride against Miss Leigh’s accusations, his conscience supplied far too many words he’d thought and uttered over the past day that proved he had expected her to be more pleased with his money than upset at his duplicity.
Which didn’t speak highly of him.
Malcolm’s gaze tracked the crowds, watching yet not seeing the world around him.
This whole trip to Greater Edgerton had been a fool’s errand. He ought to have simply stayed in London or gone to the family estate in Kent with his mother. But he was so very tired of the matrimonial dance and the indomitable Tate matriarch tossing every female in the area at him. Greater Edgerton had proved just as terrible, but now he was stuck letting a property he didn’t want to reside in.
He couldn’t remain here. Continue to see her at every party and social event.
Yet the thought of surrendering made his stomach sour. Her words echoed in his mind, digging into his heart with the finality of her tone—as though she truly did not wish to see him ever again.
Someone bumped into him with a murmured, “Pardon,” and Malcolm forced himself to move.
Having been hiding at Boxwood Manor, he hadn’t explored much of Greater Edgerton, and though his feet guided him along the streets, he couldn’t say where he was going or what he was doing. His thoughts were fixed upon Miss Leigh, unable to stray from their conversation and everything that had preceded it.
“Mr. Tate!”
Malcolm refused to stop at the sound of his name. It wasn’t a voice he recognized, but he knew the feminine glee did not bode well for him. Of course, if he’d bothered to look up or pay attention to his surroundings, he would’ve noticed that he was walking straight into trouble rather than away from it.
A wall of ladies blocked his path, and Malcolm stopped short of bowling them over. Forcing his gaze from the ground, he found Mrs. Goddard and her tittering daughters watching him.
Chapter 19
