The Bride Goes Rogue (The Fifth Avenue Rebels #3)(28)

Jerking her hand out of Preston’s grip, she shoved blindly and hit his chest, which was like trying to move a brick wall. She hissed, “What on earth! Have you gone mad?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Preston said, his voice loaded with unwarranted accusation. “Why are you here with Lockwood?”

Her jaw fell open, not that he could see it. “How is that any of your concern?”

“Katherine, tell me what you’re doing.”

“I’m dining out, the same as you.” Undoubtedly he was here with a woman. Had he found a new mistress already? “Now let me go before my father begins to worry. This is unseemly.”

Her eyes had adjusted enough to see him dart ahead to block her path. “As if you care about unseemly, reinette.”

Unwelcome heat unspooled in her belly, and she resented him for it. “Do not remind me. I prefer to forget my lapses in judgment. Now, move.”

“Is he courting you?”

Impossible. He was utterly impossible.

Instead of answering, she asked a question of her own. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t, but you can’t seriously believe it’s a good idea.”

“He’s my friend, which is more than I can say for you. Get out of my way.”

His huff of derision, like she was a fool, filled the darkness. “Unattached men are not friends with unattached women. He wants your family’s money and to get under your skirts.”

“No, he doesn’t. Not everyone is as crass as you.”

A fingertip glided slowly across her bare collarbone. “You don’t mind crass. At least, you didn’t at the French Ball.”

Tingles cascaded down her spine at his touch, so she moved out of his reach. “Don’t remind me. I’m trying to forget.”

This wasn’t entirely true. She allowed herself to think about him late at night as she stroked between her legs. This included a very detailed list of everything she wanted him to do to her. Number one was very filthy, very arousing and not something she’d ever admit out loud.

Into her silence, he said, “You can do better than Lockwood, Kat.”

Everything fell into place. His comments, his anger. The way he’d called her away from the table. “I cannot believe it. You’re jealous.”

Preston rocked back on his heels, as if the accusation surprised him. “Hardly. I’ve never been jealous in my life. I just cannot understand what you and your father are playing at.”

Of course he would make this about her father.

“We are having dinner, Preston. Same as you. Return to your actress or singer and forget you know me.”

Considering he still blocked the exit, she had no choice but to push past him. He didn’t move, the scoundrel, and their shoulders brushed, while her skirts pressed to his legs. She sucked in a quick breath when his arm bumped her hip. The tiny space wasn’t built for a man of his size, let alone two people, and it felt like he surrounded her in the very best way.

Without warning, his fingers stroked the edge of her ear, his voice a seductive whisper. “But I do know you, mon chaton. I know what it is like to kiss you, to bite you. I even know the taste of your slick arousal and the feel of your orgasm on my tongue.”

The words sent a lick of wicked heat through her, turning her insides to molten wax, and her knees actually wobbled. Why was he torturing her like this?

Torture him back.

Without second-guessing the impulse, she placed her palm on his stomach, directly on the silk of his vest, and it had the desired effect. Muscles jumped beneath her hand and air hissed through his teeth. Emboldened, she moved in and lowered her voice to a husky rasp. “I do hope you’ve stored those memories in a safe, safe place, my king, because they’re all you’ll ever have of me.”

“Fuck,” he said on a long whisper, sounding pained.

Dropping her hand, she reached to move the curtain aside.

“Wait.” He grabbed on to her arm. “I wanted to apologize. It’s clear you didn’t tell your father about the ball, so I’m sorry for insisting you would.”

The unexpected words scrambled her brain for a moment. Preston Clarke, apologizing? “Thank you.”

Then he had to go and ruin it when he said, “Now, tell me you aren’t seriously considering Lockwood.”

She tried to pull free. “That is none of your dashed business. Now, let go of my arm or I’ll scream bloody murder.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“I might, if only to humiliate you.”

He let her go, so she darted through the curtain and back into the restaurant. The ma?tre d’h?tel avoided her eye as she passed, the coward.

She didn’t have time for Preston or his nonsense. Lockwood and her father were waiting, probably worried over her disappearance. As she walked, she deliberately did not look around to see where Preston was sitting or with whom.

Now who’s jealous?

Oh, how she hated that inner voice of hers.

The duke and her father were talking and laughing like old pals as she approached. She tried to smooth her features as Lockwood pulled her chair out. “Is everything all right, Miss Delafield?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you. It turned out the phone call was not for me after all,” she lied and retook her seat. “Did you two discuss the museum idea while I was away?”