Marcus Lowth stood before him. The young man appeared to be fighting an urge to slump his shoulders, but his chin was firm and his gaze determined.
“Mr. Bentley,” he said with a respectful nod of his head.
“Lowth.”
Marcus had managed to slip past the guard Bishop had set at his door by recklessly climbing down the trellis outside his window. The boy had likely still been piss-drunk when he did it. The idiot was lucky he hadn’t broken his neck, though perhaps that had been part of his intention.
There was an awkward pause, then Lowth cleared his throat and stood a bit taller.
“I owe you an apology, sir.”
Roderick raised a brow.
Interesting.
Seeing that Roderick did not intend to interrupt, the young man continued. “I was an addled arse, sir, and had no right to bust into the club like I did and…and threaten you…and try to…”
Roderick took pity on the fellow. The boy’s remorse was as disconcerting as his painful lack of self-assurance. That Marcus found it in himself to admit wrongdoing and apologize for it told Roderick he had far greater character than Marcus likely believed himself.
He gave the young man an earnest look. “It took a strong spine and a level head to offer your apology and admit your mistake to me tonight.” He flicked his gaze to the small crowd that had gathered around them to watch their conversation intently, straining to hear what they said. “Especially with such an audience.”
Marcus blushed, but to his credit did not falter or glance away from Roderick. His chin lifted by a small degree, revealing an independent nature that had likely instigated his reckless behavior in the first place. “I felt it the right thing to do, sir.”
Roderick crooked a smile. “Your brother would probably disagree.”
“To hell with that self-important snob,” Marcus muttered angrily, his spirit returning at the mention of Tindall.
Roderick laughed at that. The words too closely resembled Roderick’s own thoughts regarding his old friend.
Marcus Lowth would make it through his current despair and become a better man for it.
As soon as Roderick finished that thought, it was followed by a rush of certainty similar to what he experienced when he came across a lucrative investment.
He smiled. Tindall was not going to like this one bit.
“Walk with me, Marcus. We have a few things to discuss.”
“We…we do?” There was a hint of hope in his question.
“Let us see what can be done about the trouble you are in,” Roderick replied as he turned to leave the ballroom, making certain to walk a path that took him away from Emma’s position by the matrons. He could only hope the small crowd around them had hidden him from her view.
Marcus fell into step beside him. “You would really help me?”
“If I can,” Roderick replied.
“Why?”
“You will prove to be a good investment, Mr. Lowth. I have a sense of such things.”
Emma had no idea how she managed to continue talking when her breath had stopped completely.
What on earth was Mr. Bentley doing at the Michaels’ anniversary ball?
She didn’t think he had seen her, but it had been awfully close. Only half listening to Portia go on about an argument she had witnessed between two young ladies on the dance floor over a supposed elbow jab, Emma cast an eye over the crowd, her heart racing as she waited to see where Bentley might reappear.
She had gotten only a brief glimpse of his profile. Maybe it had not been he after all. She could have been mistaken.
But she wasn’t. She knew it was he. She knew it by the way her stomach had fluttered and her cheeks had warmed. By the sudden sensitivity of her skin and the tingle down her spine.
How was she going to manage evading him all night?
She couldn’t let him see her in this guise.
Why not? an internal voice prodded.
Because he would start asking questions, and she would feel compelled to answer truthfully. It was getting more and more difficult to lie to the man. And then, because he was clever, he would figure out she had been the girl behind the curtain, and she would have one less reason to deny her dangerous and increasing infatuation.
Against her better judgment, she kept glancing back to where she had last seen him. Finally, the crowd shifted again to reveal his presence once more. Her stomach clenched tight at the sight of him. He stood with his back to her now, but the subtle defiance in his posture and the proud tilt of his head had become inordinately familiar to her. The other gentlemen in the ballroom melted away in comparison. Their overblown confidence and practiced arrogance were nothing more than background to Bentley’s innate self-assurance. In the midst of the ever-elegant nobility surrounding him, he stood apart.