The Bride Goes Rogue (The Fifth Avenue Rebels #3)(8)

“Yes. Remember me telling you about a betrothal document our fathers arranged years ago? Turns out she took it seriously.”

“You’re engaged to Katherine Delafield?” Kit sat straighter in his chair. “I don’t believe it.”

“I’m not engaged,” Preston said quickly. “I’m not honoring that agreement. Lloyd is out of his damn mind if he thinks I’ll marry her.”

Kit blinked a few times. “Is that an option? I mean, he could sue you for breach of contract.”

“But he won’t. It would embarrass her and the courts would tie up the proceedings for years. She’d be a spinster by then.”

“That’s cold, Pres. Even for you.”

A familiar bitterness welled up in his throat. “I’m not doing it on purpose. But where was Lloyd’s help when my father needed it? When we nearly lost the Fifth Avenue house? When my mother was forced to sell her jewelry and borrow money from her sister? When I had to quit school and come home?”

Kit held up his palms. “I understand, but Katherine is a sweet girl. She doesn’t deserve to be caught up in this Capulet-Montague situation you have with her father.”

“That’s not my problem. I have enough on my plate as it is.”

“Yes, I know. Preston Clarke’s world domination. How’s that coming along?”

“Slowly. I’ve only conquered half the world so far.”

Kit huffed a laugh. “I have faith in you. How are things with Mrs. Russell?”

“Things ended two nights ago.”

“I see. Want to talk about it?”

“No. Same old issues.”

Arabella Russell, now his former mistress, had hated his demanding schedule, including frequent meetings and business dinners that often ran late. She hadn’t understood his ambition or the day-to-day responsibilities of running a company so large, especially when he already possessed a lot of money. No amount of explaining about employees and shareholders and his father made a damn bit of difference, either. Arabella wanted to be the most important thing in his life, which was impossible. The company would always come first.

Still, while he wasn’t in love with her, Arabella’s parting words stung:

You are heartless, Preston Clarke.

It was becoming a recurring refrain in his life.

“Well, that’s one problem easily fixed,” Kit said. “You need another woman.”

Preston doubted this was the answer, though he almost always kept a mistress. It was tidier. A neat, simple arrangement that suited his schedule and his appetites. A single partner was preferable to a string of random encounters with faceless women. But while he wouldn’t mind losing himself in a woman for a few hours, the idea of finding someone he liked, someone with whom he was compatible, sounded exhausting.

“I’ll get around to it,” he muttered.

“There was the singer a few months ago, the one that asked about you. Want me to see if I can find her?”

“Definitely not. The last thing I need is for someone to get attached.”

“Ah, allow me to guess? Arabella wanted more and you told her no.”

“Yes, in very simple terms. Our arrangement was supposed to remain uncomplicated.”

“You idiot. She’s an actress. Everything about them is complicated.” Kit would know. He dealt with singers and actors of all kinds for the supper club.

Preston stretched his legs out beside the desk and said, “I’ll not make that mistake again.”

“You aren’t taking up celibacy, are you?”

“God, no. Bite your tongue.”

Kit drummed his fingers on the desk, his expression pensive. “All right, so no singers or actresses. Well, there’s that exclusive brothel over in the Village—”

“No—and I don’t require help to find women, Kit.”

“Clearly you do. What about the ballet? Dancers are very limber, and I think there is a traveling company from Russia in town.”

Frustrated, Preston leaned his elbows on his knees and studied the floor. “I’m in no mood to romance a woman into becoming my mistress right now. I want something . . . anonymous. Something fleeting. Not a permanent arrangement. Just harmless fun.”

“Ah, I know what you mean. If I weren’t married, we could go tear up the Bowery together.”

“Those were the days,” Preston said with a fond smile.

“You know, the French Ball is tomorrow night. Why not seek your harmless fun there?”

Hmm. This wasn’t a terrible idea. “We used to love going to those. Too bad you’re married or you could come with me.”

Kit’s expression softened as he shook his head. “I wouldn’t trade Alice for any amount of debauchery. Someday you’ll feel the same about your own wife.”

“Doubtful.” Especially as he didn’t plan on marrying, not until he cleaned up Clarke Holdings into something more respectable. At the moment, that goal seemed as attainable as a trip around the sun.

“So, find a costume with a wig,” Kit said. “No one will know it’s you.”

“It would be nice to escape my own head for a few hours. Be someone else for a change.”

A heaviness settled between them, one that had been present since the funeral. Kit shifted in his seat and lined up the papers on his desk. “You know, you aren’t responsible for what happened to him.”