The Bride Goes Rogue (The Fifth Avenue Rebels #3)(72)

Dahlia’s nose wrinkled as she asked, “What if I came with you?”

Katherine knew the offer cost her aunt dearly. Dahlia hated the woods and the cabin, saying it was impossible for anyone to happily exist outside of a city. Each sound caused her to jump, convinced a man-eating bear lurked behind every bush.

“That wouldn’t be relaxing for either of us,” she said. “And you know from our travels together that I’m perfectly self-sufficient.”

“Your father won’t like you on a public train by yourself.”

Katherine didn’t give a fig about her father’s opinion at the moment, but to ease her aunt’s mind, she made a quick decision. “I’ll ask Nellie if I can borrow her family’s private railcar, then.”

“Fine.” Her aunt huffed, like she knew she’d lost. “But if something happens to you . . .”

“It won’t. I’ll take the train up and stay in the house the entire time. No one will even know I’m there.”



Three days later and Katherine still wouldn’t return his notes.

Preston should’ve followed her right away, but he lost her in the crowd after she left her father’s office building. Then when he arrived at her home, he was told she wasn’t receiving callers, so he decided to give her space. She was a rational, levelheaded woman. Once she calmed down, she would see he’d done nothing wrong. He’d even warned her not to count on putting her museum there.

When he didn’t hear from her the next day, he began sending messages. Two a day, each begging her to let him explain. But it appeared she was planning on ignoring him.

He didn’t like it.

At the very least, she should yell at him. Then they could talk it out and everything would go back to the way it was before. He’d take her up to One Hundred and Fifty-Ninth Street and show her the parcel of land he bought for her. Then they would go downtown and fuck like rabbits.

He decided to visit the Delafield home again, hoping she would see him. Lloyd could make of that whatever he wished. Preston owed Katherine an explanation, not her father.

Someone agreed to see him, except it wasn’t Katherine. Her aunt patiently informed him that Katherine was not in the city at the moment. While Preston tried to wrap his head around that, Dahlia requested that he leave Katherine alone.

“I’m not telling her father about your visit today, Mr. Clarke,” Dahlia had said. “I only ask that you not send her more notes or try to reach out to her in any way. I’m not certain what transpired between the two of you, but I can only assume it was improper. Fair warning: my brother will not take kindly to any disregard of her virtue.”

Preston nearly rolled his eyes at the threat of Lloyd, but he let it go. He needed to see Katherine. Had she really left? If so, where was she?

One person would know—except he wasn’t sure if she would tell him.

Still, he had to try.

Built in the French Second Empire style, the Young’s Fifth Avenue mansion was one of the biggest residential properties in the city. On any other day he would have admired the mansard roof and the ornate window hoods. It was monumental and inspiring, with decorative touches, including iron cresting on the roof and heavily bracketed cornices and quoins.

But Preston couldn’t appreciate any of that, not in his current panic.

He rang the bell and presented his card. “Mr. Preston Clarke to see Miss Young.”

The butler admitted him and Preston stood in the entry, noting the painting hanging there. It looked like something Kat would love, with soft colors and a dreamy, romantic setting. Similar to the paintings from her art show.

His stomach twisted. He wished she were here so she could tell him about the artist and the inspiration for the scene. Where in the hell had she gone?

The butler reappeared, his footsteps impressively silent on the tile. “Mr. Clarke, Miss Young will see you in the ballroom.”

Ballroom?

He left his things on the small side table, then followed the butler up the stairs. As they approached the double set of doors, he could hear the sound of . . . swords?

“Allez! Non, you are much too slow,” a man with a heavy French accent was saying. “Quicker, mon petit chou.”

Preston walked in to find a fencing lesson in progress, with two men squaring off in white fencing outfits. Who was . . . ?

Oh, wait. One of them was most definitely a woman. Was this Nellie? Good God.

The two continued to spar and Preston couldn’t help but be impressed. He didn’t know much about fencing but Nellie appeared to be holding her own. What she lacked in strength, she made up for with speed.

“Riposte,” the man instructed. “Drive me back!”

She lunged, but it was too late. Her opponent recovered and scored a touch. They stopped, each breathing hard, and removed their masks. The young man, clearly an instructor, smiled fondly at her. “You are getting better, chérie. We will try again after your meeting, non?”

“Merci, Adrian. I’ll be but a moment.”

He came forward and kissed her hand, lingering a tad too close. “Take your time.”

These two were obviously intimate, not that it was any of Preston’s business. He was here to get answers, not to chaperone.

The instructor strode out of the ballroom, while Nellie put down her épée and removed her gloves. “I’m surprised to find you on my doorstep, Preston. What may I do for you?”