The Bride Goes Rogue (The Fifth Avenue Rebels #3)(70)

“Or, what? My invitations will dry up? I don’t give a damn about society, Lloyd. You have no leverage over me. And I’d worry about your own relationship with Katherine before you worry about mine.”

Turning on his heel, he hurried out of the office. Hopefully he could still catch her before she disappeared.





Chapter Twenty-One




Katherine hurried from her father’s office building, ready to put as much distance between herself and Preston Clarke as she could.

He’d forged a deed. Swindled the property right out from under her nose.

I may be a dishonest man, but I promise to always be honest with you.

That liar.

As she flagged down a hansom, she could barely breathe through all the anger clogging her throat. The entire time—while he listened to her talk about her mother and the museum, during their intimacies—he was planning this. That unbelievable scoundrel. The immoral cad. That . . . that . . . criminal.

How had she ever believed herself in love with him?

Madness, clearly.

He was undeserving of her heart. That man cared only about himself and this ridiculous feud with her father. About winning and getting his way, keeping control of everything around him.

God, she was such a fool. One year! She’d wasted one year of her life, thinking they were betrothed, then she’d fallen into bed with him, more than eager to give him her body and her trust.

And what had he done in return? Betrayed her.

The hansom rolled away from the curb just as the man himself emerged from the office building, his head swiveling up and down the block. She was not embarrassed to admit that she ducked down in the carriage so Preston wouldn’t see her. His apologies and explanations meant nothing.

Tears began forming, pools of hot moisture gathering on her eyelids. She was so tired of men dictating her life. It was exhausting. She wanted to be independent, to have control over her own future.

The city crowded around the carriage, the buildings reminding her of their narrow world and all the restrictions that came with it. She wiped her eyes, brushing away her tears of frustration. Part of her longed to go off and live in the woods somewhere, alone, as Thoreau had done. A pure and simple existence where every day was her own.

It was clear nothing would ever change. For all her bluster and planning, she was no better off than she was a year ago. Actually, things were worse. She’d fallen in love with a thug, a wealthy criminal dressed in a fancy three-piece suit who wasn’t above lying and cheating to achieve his goals.

God, she was so stupid.

When she arrived home, she hurried inside—then froze as she passed the front drawing room.

Mrs. Whittier was here. Having tea with Aunt Dahlia.

Katherine’s back went ramrod straight, her mind scrambling to keep up. Why was her father’s . . . lady friend here, in their home? And why was Aunt Dahlia laughing and smiling?

She must’ve made a noise because both women turned toward the doorway. “Katherine, hello,” Aunt Dahlia called, waving her inside. “Come and sit with us. You remember Mrs. Whittier?”

Katherine tried to force a polite smile as she approached. “Good afternoon. I wish I could stay but—”

“Nonsense,” Aunt Dahlia said. “Take a lemon cookie and visit for a moment. We should celebrate the good news together.”

Good news? They couldn’t mean the news that Mrs. Mansfield had agreed to design the art museum. That would be short-lived, in any case, as Katherine would need to put the project on hold until she found another location.

That’s why I’ve purchased a piece of land for you, one that’s bigger.

She didn’t want anything from Preston. Ever.

Temporarily shaking off her misery, she asked, “And what are we celebrating?”

Aunt Dahlia’s smile vanished, the lines of her face deepening in confusion. “Surely your father told you. He cabled to say you’d just left his office.”

“Told me . . . ?”

“About the engagement.” She gestured to Mrs. Whittier. “He and Rebecca.”

Engagement?

Katherine blinked, the pain so sharp and fierce that she dropped back a step. No, this wasn’t happening. Her father had asked Mrs. Whittier to marry him? Without telling Katherine first?

She glanced helplessly at her late mother’s best friend, who seemed to be growing alarmed, if the pallor of her face was any indication.

Mrs. Whittier set down her teacup. “Katherine, I . . . I had no idea you didn’t know. I am so sorry to be the one to tell you. Lloyd—”

A noise escaped Katherine’s mouth at that word, her father’s given name on this woman’s lips. Katherine could still hear her mother calling his name throughout these walls, or laughing at the dinner table when he said something amusing. She wasn’t ready to hear this particular woman use it, too.

“No,” she said aloud. “I don’t believe it. Daddy would not do this without telling me. He wouldn’t.” She looked to her aunt. “Why is this happening?”

Aunt Dahlia rose, her hands out as if to soothe a wild animal. “Calm down, Katherine. There’s no reason to get upset, especially in front of Rebecca. This is happy news.”

“Is it?” The terrible pressure in her lungs increased. “If it’s happy news then why didn’t he tell me? Why didn’t he mention this when I saw him?” Not that she’d given him much opportunity during her argument with Preston. Still, he could’ve asked her to stay or followed her outside. “Why didn’t he warn me? Why does no one tell me anything?”