The Bride Goes Rogue (The Fifth Avenue Rebels #3)(57)

She laughed, apparently not taking offense. “And it’s refreshing to learn you’re not as cold as the rumors say.”

Had Katherine told her friend about the affair? He was curious as to what had been said—not that he’d ever ask. “Are you an art lover, Miss Young?”

“Not at all. I much prefer beauty that I can touch and feel.” She smirked before sipping from her coupe. “And yes, I realize how improper that sounded, but I meant plants and flowers.”

“You don’t strike me as a gardener.”

“People are rarely what they seem on the outside. Haven’t you learned that by now?”

His gaze flicked to Kat, who was talking excitedly to an older couple. Indeed, the remarkable woman surprised him at every turn. “Yes, that’s quite true.”

“I do feel the need to warn you that I’m very protective of my friends—especially Katie. I won’t have her hurt.”

“You needn’t worry about that. I won’t hurt her.”

“You might hurt her unintentionally. She’s not Arabella or one of your other mistresses, Preston. She’s not a woman used to the kinds of relationships in which you normally engage.”

“I’m well aware,” he said. Annoyance prickled across his shoulder blades, but he tried to remember that Nellie was merely looking out for her friend’s best interest. And an affair with a man she didn’t intend to marry was definitely not in Kat’s best interest. Still, Preston would never harm her—at least not beyond his refusal to marry her.

“Don’t take that grumpy tone with me. You know I’m right.”

Preston glared down at Nellie. “You don’t like me, do you?”

“I haven’t made up my mind, not that it matters. I’m more interested in watching out for Katie. I don’t want her getting ideas in her head about the two of you, then ending up heartbroken because you’re too stubborn to see what a wonderful woman she is.”

“I know she’s a wonderful woman.”

“No, you don’t. Because if you did, you’d marry her despite your obvious issues.”

His fingers tightened on the coupe, nearly sloshing champagne onto his cuffs. “You have no idea what my issues are, Miss Young—and perhaps Kat should make up her own mind regarding her future.”

“Kat?” Her lip curled. “You already have a nickname for her? Dear God, it’s worse than I feared.”

He couldn’t help needling her, if only in retribution for the “issues” comment. “I have many nicknames for her. Would you like me to recount them to you?”

“I might vomit champagne on the floor if you do, so please refrain.”

“Do you hate all men, Miss Young, or just me?”

He expected a snappy response but she remained silent. Instead, she seemed distracted. Preston followed her eyes and discovered that the Duke of Lockwood had arrived. A growl rumbled out of his chest. “What the hell is he doing here?”

“Perhaps he’s publicly courting her, as any decent man would. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ve seen enough art for one night.”

She slipped into the crowd, but he wasn’t watching her. Instead he was transfixed by the sight of Kat greeting the duke and introducing him to the couple standing next to her. Lockwood and Kat made a striking couple, Preston supposed, albeit boring. They were both nice, upstanding people, liked by just about everyone.

Lockwood kissed Kat’s hand, and Preston thought his teeth would crack, he was grinding them so hard. He had no right to be jealous, though. He couldn’t court or marry Katherine. And a respectable woman like her deserved a husband she could be proud of—not a thug awash in criminality and corruption. No, she needed to keep her rose-colored glasses firmly on her face, remain untainted by Preston’s vices and sins.

Perhaps he should encourage the duke to pursue Katherine. It would be the honorable thing to do, considering Preston had no plans to marry her himself.

Except he was far from honorable, and he wasn’t ready to end his affair with her any time soon. The duke could damn well choose someone else.

Continuing around the salon, Preston looked at the art. Kat’s collection was lovely, with some pieces that even he, a novice, could see hanging in his home. Perhaps she’d make some suggestions about paintings to buy, as she’d subtly done with his office.

He’d just edged around two attendees when a hand grabbed his arm. “Preston Clarke!”

The face took him a moment to place. “Tommy Stone?”

“I knew you’d remember.” Tommy turned to his friend. “I was a year younger than Clarke in school, but we played baseball together. You’ve never seen a better first baseman than Preston Clarke.”

True, they’d been on the team during Preston’s brief stint at Harvard, but they hadn’t been friends. Preston kept his tone polite but cool. “Surprised to see you here, Stone. Hadn’t thought you were an art aficionado.”

“I’m not. Came here with my friend.” Introductions were made, but Preston didn’t recognize the name of the other man. Tommy smirked at Preston. “You don’t strike me as an art lover, either. More of a woman’s thing, if you ask me. I guess that’s why the place is crawling with pussy. Meow.” He imitated a cat scratching, and his friend laughed.