The Bride Goes Rogue (The Fifth Avenue Rebels #3)(7)

Katherine chewed on the inside of her cheek. “Perhaps, though it sounds like a lot of work. Couldn’t I just go to a ball or a club and find someone? Somewhere downtown, where no one would know me and I wouldn’t have to worry about my reputation.”

“If that’s what you really want, then you’re in luck.” Nellie’s mouth curved into a knowing smirk. “There’s a masquerade happening next week at Madison Square Garden.”

“There is?”

“Yes, the French Ball. It’s quite risqué.”

“That sounds perfect. Have you ever been?”

“No, though it sounds like fun. Demimonde and theater types, along with High Society and Wall Street traders, all mingling in a late-night bacchanal. I hear they sometimes toss the women from the dance floor up into the boxes above. But, Katie, I think that event might be too much for you. Perhaps wade in first before jumping into the deep water.”

“No, that is exactly what I want. I’ve waited a year to have any fun whatsoever!”

Nellie held out her palms. “I’m all for women having fun whenever and however they wish. But do it for you—not as revenge on Preston Clarke, who certainly does not deserve one more moment of your time or ounce of your energy.”

Katherine had recounted her meeting with Preston when Nellie first arrived today. Her friend had been properly outraged. “Nels, I saved myself for him. All the while he’s seeing mistresses and cavorting around town. I’m such a dunce. No other woman on earth would’ve been so stupid.”

“Stop disparaging yourself as if you did something wrong. You didn’t.” Nellie’s face sharpened, her voice laced with irritation. “Your father arranged a marriage for you—something that occurs up and down Fifth Avenue nearly every day—and you honored the betrothal. All the blame lies with Preston Clarke.”

It made sense, but Katherine knew most women wouldn’t have waited a year to finalize wedding details. Nellie would have demanded answers after a few weeks. So, why had Katherine been so complacent, so willing to put her life on hold? Why was she so dashed nice? “Thank you, but I can’t help but feel foolish.”

“Would a fool have talked the Meliora Club into letting her host a showing of her mother’s paintings? Would a fool be one of my very best friends, who makes lists and tries to help her friends find love? Stop being so hard on yourself, Katie.”

Katherine reached over and grabbed Nellie’s hand. “Thank you. I’ll try. So back to the French Ball . . .”

“If you want to have fun, then I will help you have fun.”

Of course Nellie would understand. She lived however she wished, seemingly uncaring that her invitations to the decent events dried up eons ago. It was quite admirable.

Grinning widely, Katherine exhaled a relieved breath. “Thank you. Will you come along? I don’t think I can work up the nerve to go alone.”

“I would love to go with you. Are you able to sneak out?”

“I’ll manage it somehow. The bigger question is are we able to get tickets?”

“You’re adorable, thinking I wouldn’t be able to secure us tickets. Now, come to my house beforehand and we’ll get ready and go together. What shall we wear?”

Katherine’s heart began to pound. Were they really planning this? “Something with a mask and a wig, so I’m unrecognizable. What do you think the other women will have on? We’ll need to fit in.”

Nellie gave her a bland stare. “Katie, they are not the kind of women worried about their reputations. They will wear tights or short skirts. A corset with no chemise.”

“Then we should definitely follow suit.” She raised her teacup in a toast. “To cavorting.”

Nellie laughed and lifted her own cup. “To cavorting.”



Preston tossed his derby onto the small sofa in Kit’s office and threw himself into a chair. He rubbed his eyes.

Kit smirked and went back to his paperwork. “Hello, sunshine.”

Preston grunted. It had been a miserable past few days. “Hello.”

“Do you want a drink?”

“No, and you know why.”

Kit held up his hands. “I won’t force you, but you are not him. Furthermore, abstaining won’t bring him back.”

“I’m well aware.” He hadn’t consumed any alcohol whatsoever in three weeks. He was dashed tired of tea and lemonade, if he was being honest, but he wasn’t ready.

“You look terrible,” Kit said.

“Thank you.”

Kit rolled his eyes. “With all seriousness, I’m worried about you. I’ve hardly seen you since the funeral, and when I do you’re grumpier than usual.”

“I’m . . . not over it, I suppose.”

“I’d be shocked if you were, to be honest, and neither am I. Never thought one of us would actually die, not this young.”

“I know.” Preston scrubbed his face with his hands. Every time he closed his eyes at night, he saw the morgue, Forrest’s mangled body on a cold metal slab. “Let’s not talk about it.”

“What should we talk about, then?”

“I had a visit from Miss Delafield last week.”

“Lloyd’s daughter?”