Choices were never simple. There were always consequences for any action, and for every good outcome, there were bound to be horrid ones as well. When Malcolm had chosen to take his own carriage, he’d simply thought to save himself the irritation of being stuck at the assembly if he wished to leave and the Bracegirdles didn’t.
He hadn’t thought about how irritating the drive to the assembly rooms would be.
Traffic was a beast. When arriving at events, the sheer number of carriages made it impossible to simply arrive and alight. There were long lines as the coachmen jockeyed for a place to deposit their passengers, at times creating the feeling that the carriage was stuck in place, never to move again. Not that riding in a friend’s vehicle removed that irritant, but those long minutes of waiting were far more enjoyable when one was trapped in a carriage with amiable company.
Malcolm stared at the window, frowning at the static image. They hadn’t moved in some minutes, and there was nothing to occupy his thoughts. With a flip of the latch, he lowered the window and stuck his head out.
Just as he had expected. There was an excruciatingly long line waiting to drop off their occupants. However, it was hardly more than a few minutes walk for him.
Popping out of the door, he called instructions to the coachman and made his way across the final distance on foot, passing all the other carriages that were patiently (and some not so patiently) waiting their turn. In short order, he stepped into the assembly rooms and searched for a certain lovely young lady.
But it was not meant to be.
Before Malcolm could give more than a passing look, attendees swarmed him. The ladies ushered their daughters forward (though the Goddards were noticeably absent, thank the heavens), and the gentlemen followed suit, trotting out bits of news from London and more than a few wild financial investments guaranteed to beggar Malcolm.
Why did every gentleman with two pounds to rub together believe himself to be a master of speculation? More fortunes were lost in investments than in the gaming halls, and gentlemen who would never risk their fate on the turn of a card readily did so when presented with a wild scheme “guaranteed” to make them wealthy.
Thankfully, the sycophants hardly required any true conversation, and they elbowed each other to speak, prattling on about the subjects that interested themselves. Giving only the vaguest of pleasantries, Malcolm ignored the lot of them and scoured the crowd beyond for a particular person.
And it wasn’t difficult to spy Miss Leigh. Her position was much like his own, for she was circled by ladies and gentlemen, but rather than looking harried or hounded, Miss Leigh shone. The chaos of the conversation and the crowd churning about him vanished, and all Malcolm saw was her.
Reaching for one of her companions, Miss Leigh took hold of the lady’s hand and laughed. Not some demure sound that tittered like an overeager bird, but one that resonated deep from inside, filling the whole of her. Miss Leigh’s eyes sparked as she glanced at her companions, and it was as though she were fashioned from sunlight, all glittering and aglow.
It was something more than her usual self. Not that Miss Leigh wasn’t a beauty in every facet, but there was an intensity to the brightness that hadn’t been there before.
“Excuse me,” he said whilst maneuvering past the others. His gaze didn’t falter from her, holding onto that point as he sidestepped anyone who attempted to waylay him.
It was only in the last few feet that Malcolm came enough to his senses that his insides gave a niggling twist. What would his reception be? It was impossible to tell. Their last interlude hadn’t gone well for him, but Malcolm couldn’t surrender. Not if there was still a chance.
And this time it would be different: he was different. It had to go differently.
Her light eyes met his while he was still some steps away, and the laughter in her expression fled like a fox before the hounds. Malcolm struggled to keep his smile in place, and he felt it tighten, but there was nothing he could do about that. His ribs constricted, making it difficult to breathe, but he forced his feet forward.
Though his mind whirled with all the reasons this would be a disaster and supplied various methods of escape, Malcolm forced his feet forward. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, as they say. And winning Miss Leigh’s good opinion was well worth venturing far more than bruised pride.
“Miss Leigh,” he said, sweeping into a bow.
“Mr. Tate.” The lady greeted him appropriately, but there was a pinch to her brows that bespoke surprise or doubt—Malcolm couldn’t say which, nor could he ascertain why she felt uneasy.
“I was hoping you saved me a set this evening,” said Malcolm.
Miss Leigh’s brows rose at that, and he refused to fidget as the silence drew out.
“You wish to dance with me, Mr. Tate?”
Malcolm had imagined this moment—including her possible responses—and not a single one of those possibilities had included that one. His brow furrowed for a brief moment before he smoothed his features. There were too many eyes and ears trained on them to question her about it.
“Of course I do,” he replied with a smile. “If you have one available.”
It felt as though an hour passed as he waited for Miss Leigh to respond. She stood there, watching him with thoughts clearly passing through her mind, though none of them passed her lips.
“I do,” she replied. “And it is yours if you wish it.”
Again, Malcolm fought to keep the question from his lips. With her companions all watching them, he couldn’t venture into personal subjects. And finally, his mind provided something useful.
“As the dancing hasn’t started yet, might I entice you to join me for a game of cards? Or some refreshment, perhaps?”
“Certainly, Mr. Tate.” Thankfully the answer came quicker now, and when he motioned for her to precede him, she did so without hesitation. “But I would much rather walk a bit.”
