The Bride Goes Rogue (The Fifth Avenue Rebels #3)(89)
“I believe it. Good luck.”
It was said with complete sincerity, which Preston didn’t expect. “I’m surprised you’re being so supportive.”
“Do you know why your father and I betrothed our only children?”
“A temporary fit of insanity?”
Lloyd buttoned his coat and shook his head. “No, not quite. We never intended to force either of you to marry. The goal was to put you in each other’s path, hoping if you met there might be an attraction.”
“Was that why you encouraged her to come see me about the wedding details?” The sparkle in Lloyd’s gaze gave Preston all the answer he needed. Which made him realize something else. “So, the Twenty-Third Street deed? You did this to bring Katherine and I into contact again?”
Lloyd shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, looking quite pleased with himself. “Remind me to give you the name of my forger. He’s a lot better than yours.”
“Jesus Christ,” Preston breathed, dragging a hand across his jaw. “You are one devious son of a bitch.”
“As are you, son, which is why I trust Katherine with you. You’ll do whatever it takes to look after her.”
“Yes, I definitely will.”
Lloyd gestured to the door. “Go get her, then.”
“Thank you for coming with me this afternoon, Katherine,” Alice said as the carriage bounced along East Seventy-Fourth Street. “Kit is busy at the supper club and I need a second opinion on a town house we’re thinking of buying.”
Alice rang this morning to ask Katherine to tea and to accompany her uptown for an errand. As Katherine was still waiting to hear about the offer on the Brooklyn property, she wasn’t terribly busy these days. Also, she hoped an outing with her friend would provide respite from her heartache.
God, Kat. I’d rather die than cause you any pain.
Yet he had, again and again. She was so tired of thinking and remembering, allowing Preston to take up space in her heart and mind. When would this end?
Katherine peered out of the carriage window as they began to slow. “Alice, are you certain this is the house you and Kit are thinking of buying? It doesn’t look for sale.” The town house had no plants on the stoop, no flower boxes. The curtains were closed. It looked about as welcoming as a graveyard.
“I love the neighborhood,” Alice said, in a voice that sounded distracted.
East Seventy-Fourth . . . Didn’t Preston live on this street somewhere? No wonder Kit wanted to move here. The two friends would ride downtown together and attend dinner parties at each other’s home. An ache sharpened in Katherine’s chest, like a clamp was squeezing her ribs.
When they stopped, Alice got out first. “Shall we go poke around inside?”
Katherine started to examine the surrounding town houses, wondering, but quickly caught herself. He wasn’t here—not at this time of day, anyway—and she didn’t care. Lifting her chin, she tried to smile at Alice. “Lead the way.”
At the top of the steps, Alice withdrew a key from her bag, which seemed odd. Before Katherine could ask about it, though, Alice had thrown open the front door and started waving Katherine in. “After you,” her friend said.
Katherine stepped inside the foyer—and drew to a halt. The walls . . .
Paintings covered the walls, many of the frames so close they touched, as if the owner needed to adorn every bit of plaster with artwork. She recognized some of the works, but many were unfamiliar landscapes and cityscapes. Flowers and fruit. People and animals. The images surrounded the foyer and swept up the main stairs.
The door snapped shut behind her. Katherine turned to make a comment to her friend . . . but the space was empty. “Alice?”
“Katherine, I’m sorry! I hope you forgive me.”
Forgive her? Whatever for?
Then it hit her. East Seventy-Fourth Street. The paintings. Alice disappearing.
Preston.
Dash it. Katherine closed her eyes and drew in several deep breaths. “Alice Ward, you come back here right now.”
There was no answer. Unbelievable.
He wanted to see her? Fine. She’d tell him it didn’t matter how many paintings he hung, she wasn’t interested. Her mind had been made up in the Adirondacks. Preston would always love his company more than any woman. Certainly more than her.
She turned and looked at the interior of the house. There was no sound, the place as quiet as a tomb. Was he planning on ignoring her? And where were his servants?
A flash of green and white on the ground caught her eye. Orange blossoms. Not just one, either. A string of the flowers trailed up the steps, their delicate citrus scent hanging in the air. She couldn’t help but drag in a lungful of the heady aroma. What was she supposed to do? Did he want her to follow the flowers?
This was a silly game. Still, she had to admit, she was curious. Yes, this fluttering excitement in her chest was only curiosity.
Climbing the stairs, she called out, “Preston, this is a waste of your time.”
The flowers continued toward a set of double doors. In most homes the ballroom was situated here. She couldn’t imagine Preston actually had a ballroom, though.
She pushed open the door slowly, unsure of what she’d find.
There was no missing him. Preston stood in the middle of the huge room, wearing a formal gray morning suit complete with top hat. Rows of lit candles flickered to give a soft, romantic atmosphere, while a single harpist sat in the corner. Goodness, was that Louis Sherry himself? He and four waiters surrounded a round dining table.