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

“I am not marrying you.”

“But . . .” She blinked at him and bit the inside of her cheek. “We are betrothed. Our fathers agreed on our marriage years ago.”

“You didn’t really believe them, did you? They had no right to make that betrothal on our behalf. This isn’t medieval Scotland. We aren’t two rival clans that must be joined in marriage to keep the peace. It’s nearly the twentieth century.”

“I suppose, but I always expected my father would choose my husband. It’s how things are done.”

“Not for me,” he said firmly. “Even if he were alive I wouldn’t allow my father to choose my wife.”

Air trickled into her too-tight lungs, like they’d been wrapped in twine, and a strange ringing started in her ears. “Is it because of the way I look? Too tall? Not tall enough? Is my hair too plain? My eyes are too close together, aren’t they?”

“Good God, no. It’s not about how you look. You’re lovely. It’s about me. I’m not ready to marry anyone. I may never be ready to marry. Do you understand?”

There had to be a reason. Most men his age were married. It was what people in their circles did.

“This doesn’t make any sense.”

“Miss Delafield. Katherine,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. “I apologize, but I cannot marry you. I really am sorry if you believed otherwise, but believe me, it’s for your own good.”

For her own good? And he was sorry? This was like a terrible dream, worse than the one where she was running and couldn’t find her way home.

Mouth dry, she swallowed. “Perhaps you need more time to come to terms with the idea. I can wait.”

His lips flattened into a thin line, the skin above his collar turning a deep red. “I do not need time, Miss Delafield. Not a year, not a decade. I cannot marry you, ever. Is that clear enough for you? Or shall I write it down in list form?” He gestured to her forgotten paper on his desk.

Realization hit her like a douse of cold rainwater. She finally understood. He didn’t want to marry her.

She had been waiting for . . . nothing. Absolutely nothing. For one year she’d believed herself betrothed, putting off her future until he was ready. How silly. How stupid.

How naive.

Hot prickles gathered behind her eyes, every breath scraping like needles inside her chest. She couldn’t pull enough air into her lungs, and the urge to flee overrode everything else. “I see. I’m terribly sorry for bothering you.” She snapped her journal closed and shot to her feet. “I won’t trouble you again. Good day, sir.”

“Wait,” he called behind her, but she didn’t listen. She kept right on walking. She’d already given Preston Clarke too much of her time.

She wasn’t about to waste one second more.





Chapter Two




“I told you not to make her cry,” Mrs. Cohen said as she entered his office.

Preston dragged a hand over his face and dropped into his chair, the wood creaking beneath his weight. “Believe it or not, I did not intend to upset her.”

“Is she truly your fiancée?”

No, Katherine absolutely was not his fiancée. His late father had arranged the betrothal eons ago, but everything had changed since then.

“She told you? Why on earth didn’t you warn me?”

Mrs. Cohen lifted a shoulder. “You deserve a shock every now and again. It’s good for the heart.”

“While I’m not up on all the latest medical research, I believe the opposite is true. Furthermore, I should fire you for that.”

“But you won’t, because I know all your secrets. And your father’s secrets, may he rest in peace.”

True. Mrs. Cohen had worked for the Clarkes longer than Preston had been alive, and she was indispensable. “To answer your question, no. She is not my fiancée.”

“Why not? I liked her father, back when he worked with yours. She’s quite pretty. You could do worse.”

Yes, she was pretty. Beyond pretty, actually. Tall and stately, Katherine had light brown hair streaked with faint strands of gold. Eyes that sparkled with innocence and decency. Kindness. He felt dirty just staring at her.

Preston was far from innocent and decent. Instead, he’d done terrible things, corrupt things, in the name of earning a dollar. His grandfather rose up from the slums of the docks through violence and blackmail, then Preston’s father had lost nearly everything before he died. When Preston took over, the Clarkes were mired in debt, and a return to their unscrupulous roots had been required to save the business, their home and their legacy.

No one gained a fortune in this city through honorable and just means.

Soon he’d rebuilt what his father lost and, no matter what else took place, Preston would never allow that to happen again. The worry over their future had nearly killed his mother the first time, and if he had to sell his soul to the Devil himself, Preston would do it to spare her another moment of anxiety.

“You are aware of my feelings regarding that family,” he said to Mrs. Cohen. “The idea that I’d marry her is laughable. Lloyd should know better.”

“Now, you can’t blame Mr. Delafield for what happened to your father. But even if you do, his daughter had nothing to do with it.”