Page 38 of Save You (Maxton Hall #2)

Ruby

I see Lydia’s messages the moment Percy turns onto the Beauforts’ driveway.

Change of plans!

Dad just came home

Better tell Percy to turn around

Ruby?

She sent the first a good fifteen minutes back, and the last three minutes ago; there are three missed calls from James too.

The panic starts to rise within me as I stare at my phone and wonder what to do.

But before I even manage to get my thoughts together, Percy is pulling up outside their house.

I watch with growing unease as he gets out, walks around the car, and opens the door.

I gulp hard as I pick up the little bag with its three tubs of Ben after all, the only things I feel for him are rage, scorn, and revulsion—certainly no respect.

So I straighten my back and meet his eyes. “Good evening, Mr. Beaufort,” I say.

“Dad, I’m sure you remember Ruby,” James adds.

Mr. Beaufort just gives me a nod. Then he turns to James. “Dinner is ready. Your…girlfriend is welcome to join us.”

He turns on his heel without a second glance at either me or Lydia and disappears into a room at the other end of the hall.

I hear Lydia beside me as she suddenly lets out her breath. “Oh God, Ruby,” she says with a grimace. “I’m so sorry. We wanted to have a nice evening, and now we have to face Dad. There’s probably coq au vin, not sushi.”

James’s eyes are piercing as he looks at me. “You still have time to escape.”

“Your dad knows I’m here.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Would you prefer it if I left?”

James doesn’t miss a beat. “No, of course not. The sooner Dad gets used to the idea that you’re one of us now, the better.”

Warmth fills my body at his words. I take James’s arm and give it a quick squeeze. “I won’t leave. And I like coq au vin.” I pick up my bag. “Plus, I’ve brought ice cream.”

“I’ll just take that down to the kitchen,” Lydia says. “You two go ahead.”

James’s hand is on my lower back as we walk into the dining room.

It’s huge, with a high ceiling and wide windows that look out over the Beauforts’ extensive gardens.

The walls are painted a dark green that’s echoed in the seat covers; over the long dining table hangs an impressive chandelier that’s easily a match for the ones at Maxton Hall.

The table is set with rows and rows of cutlery, dainty porcelain, and gilt wineglasses.

But it isn’t only the furniture and décor that makes this dining room—if that’s even the word for it—so different from home. It’s mainly about the atmosphere. Everyone is tense and the mood is chilly, nothing like the warm, relaxed house I grew up in.

Just the same as that time at their London workshop, Mortimer Beaufort’s presence is dominating the room. His brusque manner and cold eyes make it utterly impossible to feel at ease. It’s incredible.

We all take our seats, Mr. Beaufort at the head of the table, James to his left with me at his side, and Lydia opposite us.

Two of the kitchen staff come into the room and set a deep bowl of soup in front of each of us; it smells delicious.

I follow James and Lydia and spread the folded damask napkin over my lap.

“To a pleasant evening,” says Mr. Beaufort, raising his glass.

James and Lydia mumble some kind of agreement, and I lift my glass too.

This is already the most un pleasant evening I’ve had in ages.

The first ten minutes pass in silence. The room is so quiet that it feels unnaturally loud every time I swallow or set my glass down on the table. I’m desperately trying to think of something to say—or wondering if I should even speak at all. I have absolutely no idea.

I dare to glance at James and he flashes me a quick, thin smile.

In the end, Lydia speaks up. “The charity gala went well, didn’t it, Ruby? Or at least, I’ve only heard good things about it.”

I’m relieved that she’s picked a subject I know about, where I have something to say. “Yes, it was brilliant. We raised over two hundred grand, which was way more than we even hoped.”

“Wow,” says Lydia. “Was Lexington happy?”

I nod. “Yes, luckily. But he’s usually pleased with us.”

“With a few exceptions,” murmurs James.

As I turn toward him, he’s grinning into his glass.

I know what he’s thinking. I remember the day we sat side by side at Lexie’s desk, when James was ordered to join the events committee as a punishment, as vividly as if it were yesterday. I smile back at him.

“Well, one exception, maybe. But that was hardly my fault, or anything to do with my team.”

Mr. Beaufort interrupts our conversation, and I feel the grin immediately wiped off my face. “I hear you’re very involved in school life, Ruby.”

“Yes, I’ve been on the events committee for the last two years.”

He just nods. Blink and you’d miss it. “Uh-huh.”

“Ruby is the head of the events committee,” says James, not looking up from his soup.

His father pays him no attention. “And will you be going to university too?”

“I hope to be starting at Oxford next year.”

Now Mr. Beaufort looks up, and, for the first time this evening, I get the impression that he’s actually taken notice of me.

I hold my breath. Everything within me is rebelling against talking about Oxford with this man. It’s sacred to me, and I don’t want anyone who doesn’t get what studying there really means to me to trample on my dreams.

“Oh, really? What will you be reading?”

“PPE,” I reply.

“A solid degree. And which college has taken your fancy?”

“St. Hilda’s.”

He nods. “Just like James. How convenient.”

I ignore his insinuation. “It’s a lovely college.

At the interviews…” I fall silent. It was during the interview period that Mrs. Beaufort died.

I glance at Lydia, who has frozen, her spoon halfway to her lips, and is now staring blankly into her soup.

“I really liked everything there, and I’m looking forward to it a lot,” I conclude hastily.

I can hardly imagine how painful it must be for James and Lydia to think back on that time.

I venture a glance at James, but he’s not letting anything show, just spooning up his soup.

Just the starter takes more than an hour.

During the main course, Lydia and I try to make the best of the situation and chat about all kinds of things—from films and music to books and blogs.

When Lydia mentions that she used to do ballet, Mr. Beaufort even manages a fleeting smile.

It only lasts a split second, after which I start to wonder if I’d imagined it.

“I once had the tiniest part in The Nutcracker , but I was so proud,” Lydia reminisces. She cuts into her chicken, which is beautifully garnished with griddled vegetables. The cook has put so much work into the presentation that I can hardly bear to destroy his mini work of art.

“I’d love to see photos.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” James mumbles beside me. “She was a little rat. The pictures are terrible.”

“Why don’t you tell Ruby about the times you did ballet too?” Lydia mocks from across the table. As James glares at her, she pops a huge forkful into her mouth and shrugs.

“Did you really?” I ask in surprise.

A muscle in James’s jaw stands out. “Lydia made out that it was really hard. She used to kick up a major fuss every time. So I said it couldn’t be that difficult and that anyone could do a bit of jumping up and down.”

“And then he came along to three lessons. You should have seen him. He was so awful!” She bursts out laughing.