The Bride Goes Rogue (The Fifth Avenue Rebels #3)(11)

“No, don’t be silly. Have fun. I’m perfectly capable of amusing myself for a little bit.”

“I will stay in this general area so you’ll know where to find me later on. In the meantime, do not wander into dark corners and only get your drinks from the attendant in the wine gallery.”

She loved Nellie’s protective streak. She kissed the other woman’s cheek. “I promise. No corners and no strange drinks.”

“Good. Now, go have fun, madame.” Nellie playfully slapped Katherine’s bottom with her palm. “And do everything I would do.”

Chuckling, Katherine carried her coupe and strolled along the corridor. The music continued below but it was quieter up here, and she could hear moans and grunts coming from the private rooms. One woman reached her peak right as Katherine walked by, the loud chants of “Oh, God, yes!” echoing off the walls. Unexpected heat blossomed in her lower half. Whatever was happening in that room sounded pleasurable, much more so than when she used her fingers between her legs. Was this what she had to look forward to with a lover?

“Fuck me harder!” the same woman demanded. “Give me that big cock.”

Ducking her head, Katherine darted past and tried to cool her flaming face with a long drink of champagne—and almost ran right into a wall of blue velvet.

Only, it wasn’t a wall. It was a man coming out of the gentleman’s retiring room. King Louis. She gave a swift intake of breath. Goodness, he was absurdly tall up close, his shoulders wider than the Brooklyn Bridge. She couldn’t see much of his face, just his mouth and jaw surrounded by a long white wig, yet her insides heated as if a match had been struck.

“It is you,” he murmured, then the edge of his mouth hitched in an arrogantly attractive move. “C’est impossible, madame.”

He spoke French perfectly yet she could hear the Upper Fifth Avenue in his speech. Perhaps it was the two and a half glasses of champagne, but she returned in French, as well, making certain to adopt a saucy attitude. “And why is it impossible, your majesty?”

“Because I have been looking for you everywhere on the dance floor.”

“Is this true?”

He placed a hand on the wall above her head and leaned in, his frame creating an intimate space for just the two of them. Her heart began pounding in her ears. “Indeed,” he said. “I quite liked your high kicks.”

Katherine would have blushed at such a compliment, but Madame de Pompadour accepted it as her due. “Thank you. A king’s mistress must flaunt her joie de vivre.”

“And is that what you are—a king’s mistress?”

The words were loaded with meaning, a question that could easily lead her down a path of depravity. Nerves and excitement bubbled like the champagne in her glass. Still, it seemed surreal. Who was this woman, talking so brazenly with a man she’d never met before?

He doesn’t know you. Stop worrying.

Precisely. This was why she’d come tonight, to have anonymous fun. Nellie wasn’t afraid to go after what she wanted, so why should Katherine second-guess herself?

Boldly, she moved a bit closer to the king. “I don’t know. Am I?”

He took her elbow. “Come with me to my box and we shall discuss it.”



Preston could not believe his luck.

He’d somehow found Madame de Pompadour in the corridor after watching her for the better part of the night on the dance floor. The French Ball was impossibly crowded, and he’d held little hope of meeting her after losing sight of her long legs and tall white hair. Yet, here she was.

He suspected her an actress or chorus girl out for a bit of fun. Bold and adventurous, she was exactly the type of woman he’d hoped to meet tonight. Her costume was risqué but she hadn’t shown her tits or lifted her leg to reveal the part in her drawers, which made her all the more tantalizing. He wanted to peel back those layers of cloth to see what lay underneath and, based on her décolletage, he had very high hopes, indeed.

Honestly, she was the only woman to pique his interest since he arrived. Sitting in his box alone, he’d brooded, watching the rest of the revelers enjoy themselves. Even whiskey hadn’t helped his dark mood.

A distraction in the form of Madame de Pompadour was exactly what he needed.

He opened the door to the box he’d reserved for the event. “Here you go, ma chérie.”

The salon in the back of the box contained a sofa, two chairs and a small table. An ice bucket and a bottle of champagne had been delivered earlier, so he offered her some. “More bubbly?”

She arranged herself on the sofa, taking great care with her short skirts, and eyed the unopened bottle. Was she checking the label to ensure it was quality champagne? He didn’t mind. It was the most expensive bottle available tonight.

“Yes, please.”

He popped the cork and poured her a glass, then settled next to her, reclining to give her more space. Hopefully his size wouldn’t intimidate her, as it often did with strangers. The last thing he wished was to make her uncomfortable.

“You’re not imbibing?” she asked in English, nodding to his empty hands.

“I had a glass of whiskey earlier. That was enough.”

“I’m surprised to find you up here all alone, without any loyal subjects to amuse you.”