The Bride Goes Rogue (The Fifth Avenue Rebels #3)(58)

Now Preston remembered what Tommy had been known for—inappropriate remarks and demeaning jokes. Tommy’s mouth had landed him in trouble more than once, and Preston would not have this fool ruining Kat’s event. He glowered at the other man. “Watch your mouth. We’re in polite company.”

Tommy held up his hands, but moved closer. It appeared he intended to continue his commentary, merely at a lower volume. “Polite, indeed. Did you see? There’s a real duke here. I suppose the rumors are true, that he’s desperate enough to take any old pair of gams at this point.”

Preston remained quiet, but the friend cast a curious glance in Lockwood’s direction. “Is that so?”

Tommy nodded. “They say he’s going to offer for the Delafield girl that’s been sitting on the shelf for a few years.” He gave a deep chuckle. “Hope he can find his way to her cunt through all the cobwebs—”

Before he even knew what was happening, Preston’s fist connected with Tommy’s cheek.

Tommy fell to the ground with a sickening thud and the room went deathly silent.

Anger monopolized Preston’s system as he stared down at the other man. He could feel the fury, dark and terrifying, as it rolled through his veins. The need to kick or hit Tommy again was so real, so raw, that he could taste it in his mouth. His limbs trembled as he tried to gain control over himself, but the red mist wouldn’t leave his brain.

“What on earth . . . ?” Katherine was suddenly there, her expression horrified and concerned as she studied Tommy. “Sir, are you all right? Have you need of a doctor?”

A red spot bloomed on Tommy’s cheek, but he was otherwise fine. His confused glare landed on Preston. “No need, miss. I’ve taken worse.” He started to get up, yet Preston offered no assistance. Instead, his friend helped him to his feet. The other attendees moved away, giving them space, except for a waiter, who arrived with a cloth to clean up the champagne and broken glass on the floor.

“What happened?” Katherine looked between Preston and Tommy.

“Nothing,” Preston said crisply.

Tommy touched his cheek tentatively, as if testing the injury. “Yeah, nothing. Just seems some people have lost their sense of humor since college.”

Preston had never enjoyed Tommy’s sense of humor, but he didn’t bother explaining that. “I apologize, Miss Delafield. I’ll see myself out.”

She put her hand up to stop him. “You are not leaving, Mr. Clarke.” Then quieter, “We shall discuss this later.”

Then she and Tommy’s friend helped Tommy to the exit and the room came alive once more, murmurs swelling with speculation on what had happened. Mind reeling, Preston stood there, unable to move, trying to understand his emotions. Never had he lost his temper like that in public—or even in private—before.

A fresh glass of champagne appeared before his eyes. Looking over, he found the Duke of Lockwood there. “Thank you,” he said, accepting the glass.

“Figured you could use it. That was a hell of a right hook you have there, Clarke.”

They’d never been properly introduced but clearly they were beyond formalities. Preston took a long swallow, wishing it was something stronger to dull his fury. “I haven’t punched anyone in a long time. Not since boxing in college.”

“If you’re rusty I couldn’t tell. What did he say to annoy you?”

“I don’t care to repeat it.”

“Ah.”

Lockwood’s tone implied he knew exactly what Tommy had said, which was ludicrous. Preston couldn’t resist asking, “What does that mean?”

“There’s only one reason a man would lay out another man like that in public. Because of an insult to a particular woman.” Lockwood watched Preston’s face for a reaction, which Preston perversely withheld. The duke nodded, as if the lack of response had confirmed it. “I see I’m right.”

The man’s smugness grated on Preston’s nerves. Wasting no time, he asked the question he most wanted to know. “Why are you here tonight?”

The duke sipped his champagne. “Miss Delafield asked me to attend. What’s your excuse?”

The same, but Preston didn’t wish to admit it. An ugly feeling settled in the bottom of his stomach, one that had him longing to strike Lockwood, as well. He drank more champagne and forced those irrational feelings aside.

There was no need for jealousy. Katherine was his—for the time being, anyway.

Still, he couldn’t resist asking, “Are you intending to marry her?”

Lockwood’s head cocked, his gaze turning shrewd. “Miss Delafield, you mean? Well, someone should, don’t you think? Enjoy your night, Clarke.”

Preston stared at the watercolor on the wall. Surprisingly, the image brought him a tiny bit of serenity.

Perhaps I should buy it.

He might need that serenity when Katherine got him alone and demanded answers about his violent behavior.





Chapter Eighteen




Indeed, it was a first. Fisticuffs at the Meliora Club.

Katherine hoped her membership wasn’t stripped away—or worse, that her art show was considered a failure. She needed to generate excitement for her modern art museum, not gossip and scandal.

What on earth had come over Preston? He wasn’t the type to react emotionally, with hot anger and swinging fists. He was cool and logical—almost to a frightening degree. So, this aggression made no sense. Why would he strike another man in a public place?