“Miss Valentine.” Her voice hits me like a slap. “You’ve returned.”
Wiping my expression clear, I turn to face her. I know what she must see — borrowed t-shirt, bedhead, bare feet, black circles beneath my eyes. I’m a disaster. And she’s the picture of poise in her gray blouse, buttoned straight to the collar. Not a single wrinkle on her skirt. Not a single lock of hair escaping her low chignon.
“Good morning, Mrs. Granger.”
“Morning? It’s nearly afternoon.”
“Right.” My smile is weak. “Good afternoon, then. If you don’t mind, I’ll just be on my way upst—”
Her voice stops me again. “I was quite distressed when I arrived this morning and found you missing. Your bed not slept in, no sign of you. In another hour, I’d planned to phone the police and file a report.”
“I’m just in time, then.”
The silence is frosty.
“I apologize if I worried you,” I say. “I spent the night with some friends. We lost track of time. When I realized how late it was, I was too tired to drive home.”
Not to mention too toasted to remember my own name, let alone get behind a wheel, I add silently. In this case, a bit of omission is necessary. The judgment rolling off my housekeeper is potent. She says nothing — merely starts at me in frosty silence, her thin eyebrows arched in an inscrutable fashion.
I’m far too hungover for this.
Sighing, I run a hand through my messy waves. “I’ll call next time, okay? I’m sorry for worrying you.”
“It’s not my place to worry—”
“Agreed,” I mutter.
“—but I hardly think your parents would approve of this untoward behavior.”
“Then it’s a good thing they aren’t here.”
Her eye twitches — the only ripple of displeasure visible in an otherwise placid mask. Awareness slams into me as the moment drags on. I scoff in disbelief. “You already called them, didn’t you?”
“They have a right to know that their daughter is acting like such a… a…”
“A what?”
Her chin jerks slightly. Whatever name she was about to call me — probably something along the lines of two-bit floozy or woman of loose morals — remains stubbornly lodged on her tongue. I lean over the bannister, breathless with sudden anger. “You had no right!”
“I had every right!” she retorts haughtily.
“Is this why you’re here, Mrs. Granger? To spy on me? To report any and all indiscretions to my parents? Because in case you’ve forgotten, I’m a legal adult.”
“And I am the keeper of this household!“
“Of this household, perhaps. But you are not my keeper.”
We face off across the drafty foyer, our mutual displeasure seeming to magnify and echo back at us from all sides. When I speak again, my voice is stone-cold. “Let’s get something straight: If I choose to stay out all night, if I choose to join a biker gang, if I choose to tattoo my body from navel to nose… none of that is your concern. You are not judge, jury, or executioner, Mrs. Granger. If I offend your thick moral fiber, well, I’m sorry about that.” I pause, spine stiffening. “Actually, I take it back. I’m not sorry.”
I stomp my way up the stairs without a backward glance. I’m rather giddy from the rush of actually standing up for myself for once, instead of letting my parents — or their minions — steamroll me into bumbling apologies and cowed subservience. A bit of that levity evaporates when Mrs. Granger’s voice follows me across the upper landing.
“Your mother is expecting your call, Miss Valentine. If I were you, I wouldn’t keep her waiting.”
I slam my bedroom door so hard, the frame rattles.
God, could this day get any worse?
It could indeed.
“What were you thinking? Staying out all night?” my mother hisses into the phone. “Are you trying to jeopardize your future with Oliver? Have you lost your senses? You know the Beaufort family is from good southern stock, where propriety and manners still reign supreme. They will not be so keen to welcome you into their ranks if you continue to spiral out of control!”
Of course she wasn’t concerned for my safety — merely the possibility that I might upset my potential in-laws and thus derail any future business dealings between the two family companies. The Beaufort bloodlines are old as their money, an empire built on oil and tobacco dating back well over a century. From what I’ve heard from Oliver, his parents — and grandparents and great grandparents and great, great grandparents — are steeped in tradition stronger than the sweet tea they serve at their bi-monthly luncheons.
Appearances are everything.
“Mother.” I glance at my bedroom ceiling, trying to get a handle on my ever-increasing exasperation. My hair, still wet from my shower, drapes over my shoulders in a damp curtain. “I hardly think having a sleepover with my friends is cause for all this overreaction. And even if I’d been out all night smoking crack and getting knocked up—”
“Do not even make jokes about such things!”
“—it wouldn’t matter to the Beauforts,” I finish tersely. “Oliver and I aren’t engaged.”
“Yet.”
I swallow a scream. Unless she knows something I don’t, she’s wildly off-base. “Have you taken up tarot card reading since I left? Purchased a magic crystal ball that predicts the future?”
“I don’t need to be a psychic to see where this relationship is heading. Men like Oliver are not frivolous. They do not flit around indecisively. They move through life with intention. And I assure you, men like that look for the same qualities in their spouse.”
Her pointed pause informs me I am not currently up to par.
“I’m not even twenty,” I grumble. “Don’t you think I’m a little young to be discussing lifelong commitments?”
“I married your father at eighteen. Look at all we’ve built since then. Look at all we’ve accomplished. Do you think I’d be able to say the same if I’d waited a few years longer to settle down? Dated a slew of useless suitors with nothing to offer? No. I taught you better than that. Men of calibre are not an abundant resource, Josephine. When you find one, you keep him. You’d be a fool to let Oliver slip away.”
“Who says I’m letting him slip away?”
“He did.”
“He did?”
“He may as well have.” Her voice is practically smug. “He confided in me that you’ve been distant since your departure. I assured him you would be coming back soon, and all would be well again.”
My frustration bubbles into furious betrayal. I can’t believe Oliver is having pow-wows with Blair and Vincent, discussing me like a science experiment gone wrong.
“Your father and I both agree,” Blair continues, “It’s past time you ended this little charade of independence and returned to Switzerland, where you belong.”
“Charade? I’m here to figure out my college plans, not audition for Cirque du Soleil.”
“You cannot possibly still be considering attendance at that institution.”