The Bride Goes Rogue (The Fifth Avenue Rebels #3)(27)

“Sure, until it blows up and then I have to choose between your friendship and keeping my wife happy. Can you guess which I’ll choose?”

Definitely not Preston. Kit was madly in love with Alice.

“It’s not going to blow up. She wants nothing to do with me.”

Kit went back to studying his menu. “Good. Leave her the hell alone.”

Leg bouncing under the table, Preston continued to stare at Katherine and Lockwood. The two were appallingly cozy, talking easily with no awkward silences, while Lloyd looked on proudly. The urge to disrupt their charming little group was nearly unbearable.

He imagined charging over there and informing Lloyd and the duke how thoroughly acquainted he was with Katherine, how he’d felt her orgasm on his fingers and his tongue. How he’d been the first man to give her pleasure.

How she belonged to him.

Shit.

Dragging a hand through his hair, he tried to pull himself together. This was not good. He was not impulsive or hotheaded. He was careful and logical, which meant he couldn’t be jealous of Lockwood. Or any other man. Whomever Katherine married was none of his concern. Preston had no right to interfere.

Please, my king. Give me more.

Damn it.

Preston was tossing his napkin on the table before he even knew what he was doing. “Excuse me.”

“Where are you going?” Kit snapped. “I sincerely hope you aren’t intending to cause trouble for her. Lockwood, fine. Cause him all the trouble you like. But leave her alone, Preston.”

“I’m not going to cause a scene. Relax and enjoy your drink. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Rising from the table, he went to the front and located the ma?tre d’h?tel. Preston slipped the other man a fifty-dollar bill. “I need a favor.”





Chapter Nine




“Thank you for agreeing to dine with us tonight,” Katherine’s father said to the duke as their drinks were poured. “I haven’t been here in ages, and I do miss their lamb chops.”

Lockwood was perfectly situated in his chair, every inch a duke. “I’m quite fond of their oysters myself.”

Katherine lifted her coupe and waited for the other two to do the same. “Cheers.”

They drank and carried on with small talk for a moment. On the way over, Katherine had warned her father—again—about not trying to match her with Lockwood. She liked the duke well enough, but as a friend. She had no designs on being a duchess or moving to England.

So she held her breath when her father said, “I must admit, I had an ulterior motive in inviting you here tonight, Lockwood.”

The duke’s face remained bland. “Oh?”

Please, don’t let this be about me.

“I have a piece of land on Twenty-Third Street,” her father began.

She paused, uncertain she’d heard him correctly. This was about land?

Daddy continued, looking at her. “I was thinking of gifting it to you, Katherine.”

“To me? Why?”

“Independence. I’ll ensure it’s yours and that it stays yours, even after you marry.”

The enormity of such a gesture caused her throat to tighten. Of course he was trying to take care of her. “Thank you, but what would I do with it?”

“Whatever you like, though I do have an idea.”

“Yes?”

“This showing of your mother’s paintings, the one you’re organizing at your social club? Why not do it on a permanent scale?”

“Like a museum?” Lockwood asked.

Her father lifted his glass in confirmation. “Exactly. Katherine came home from Spain going on and on about the museums there, and she knows quite a bit about art. Just as her mother did.”

Katherine couldn’t speak. The prospect of opening an art museum felt daunting. Yet it also felt . . . right. Could she do it?

“Excuse me, Your Grace, Mr. Delafield.”

The restaurant’s ma?tre d’h?tel now stood by their table. “Yes?” Lockwood asked, one brow lifted in arrogant annoyance.

“I have a telephone call at the front for Miss Delafield.”

A telephone call? This made no sense. No one knew she was here, other than her aunt and their butler. “For me? Are you certain?”

“Yes, miss. Shall I tell them you are unavailable?”

“No, I’ll take it.” She smiled at her father, who was scowling. “I’m sure it’s nothing, Daddy. It’s probably Aunt Dahlia. I’ll return momentarily.”

Lockwood rose, as well. “Shall I come with you?”

So considerate. He would make a fine husband to some lucky woman one day. “No, that’s all right. You both enjoy the champagne. Order the Blue Point oysters and I’ll be back before they arrive.”

She followed the ma?tre d’h?tel to the front. Instead of handing her the telephone, however, he motioned toward the small coat closet. “Please, forgive me, miss. He was insistent on speaking with you.”

What on earth? She tamped down her growing alarm and stepped to the closet. “Hello?”

A hand shot out and dragged her into the darkness. The aroma of tobacco and spice filled the small space—and instantly she knew who’d orchestrated this ruse.