The Bride Goes Rogue (The Fifth Avenue Rebels #3)(17)

“Without masks and costumes, you mean.”

He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. “I think we are familiar enough, no?”

“I suppose that’s true. Where did you have in mind?”

He had an apartment downtown, one he rarely used but had purchased for late nights and trysts. Arabella had hated it, declaring the place too shabby, but Preston liked the simplicity of it, a working-class neighborhood too busy to bother with anyone’s comings and goings. He wasn’t a Clarke there; he could be anyone he wished.

“My place on Jane Street. I’ll write the address for you. Would tomorrow afternoon or evening work best?” He’d rearrange any appointment or obligation to suit her schedule.

“Evening. Late, like eleven.”

“Perfect.” He could attend his dinner meeting, get some work in, then come meet her. They could fuck all night, if the mood struck.

“How will I recognize you?” She was teasing, her light brown gaze dancing.

“Shall I wear my mask?”

“I rather like you in those breeches. They’re very . . . tight.”

He laughed, feeling lighter than he had in weeks. “Now you know why King Louis had so many mistresses.”

“A man of many talents, clearly.”

“Let us not forget his excellent taste in women.”

“Are we discussing you or the king?”

“Both.” He kissed her hand again. “So, tomorrow night. You’ll meet me?”

She hesitated, then nodded. “I will meet you.”

Was she nervous? “I’ll not ask for anything you are unprepared to give. I know there are men who make such requests with expectations, but I promise I have none. I merely wish to see you again.”

“Thank you. That does ease my trepidation. Believe it or not, I don’t—”

“You don’t, what?”

The lines bracketing her mouth deepened. “I do not visit strange men in their homes like that.”

That much was obvious, and he was grateful she would consider it for him. “I believe it.”

She angled to study him. “You do? Because I’m less than—”

“Stop right there. You’re not less—you’re more. You’re real and genuine in a sea of falsehoods and deception.” He dragged a finger along her jaw, desperate to touch her. “I watched you on the floor for a long time. You danced only with your friend and not the dozens of men who tried to engage with you. You asked me to refrain from touching you until you felt comfortable with me. And you’ve never once tried to find out my address or the amount of money in my bank account.”

“But you barely know me.”

“I know enough.”

“Hmm. I’m not certain if that says something about me or the friends you usually keep.”

“Both, I think. Now, I’ll write down my address for you.” Rising, he found a program for the evening—a useless piece of paper, really—and wrote the direction for his downtown apartment. “Here you are, mon chaton.”

She folded and tucked the program deep into her bodice. “I should go. My friend is probably worried about me.”

A sharp pang went through him, a reminder of what he’d recently lost, but he pushed it aside. “It’s good to have friends who care. Here, let me help you.” He pulled her to her feet, then rested a hand on her hip. With his other hand, he cradled her jaw. Her skin was so soft, so delicate. “Thank you for tonight. I’m very glad we met.”

“Me, too. I suppose our costumes mean we were destined to meet tonight.”

He didn’t believe in fate, but no need to get into that now. Instead, he bent and captured her mouth in another kiss, the contact sending a jolt down to his toes. She was eager and sweet, kissing him back with abandon, without guile, and he drank it in like fine wine. The curves of her body fit perfectly with his, even given his height. How lucky he’d been to meet her here—an event with thousands of women.

When they broke apart, she was clutching his coat, her eyes unfocused. He felt a little dizzy himself, actually. Pressing a final kiss to her forehead, he said, “You should go before we lose our heads again. Shall I take you to find your friend?”

Stepping back, she righted her clothing. “That isn’t necessary. I know exactly where she’s waiting. Do you plan to stay longer?”

He shook his head. “No, I’ve had enough. I found what I want.”

“Me?”

“You.”

She moved in to kiss his chin. “Good. Unlike Madame de Pompadour, I don’t fancy sharing. I’ll see you tomorrow night, then.” She patted his chest, then walked out of the salon and into the corridor. He watched until she disappeared, already counting down the hours until tomorrow evening.





Chapter Six




“There you are! Where have you been?” Nellie rushed forward to take Katherine’s hand. “You had me worried sick.” She searched Katherine’s face. “Did something bad happen? You’re all flushed. And your mouth is . . . oh, my God. You’ve been kissing someone.”

Katherine tried to suppress a grin—and failed. She held up a hand. “Give me a moment to breathe, will you? Where is Adrian?”