The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings #2) - J. R. Ward Page 0,65

someone take advantage of you? Were you hurt?”

“No,” the girl said. “It wasn’t like that.”

Gin spoke up. “There has to be a way to get her back in—”

“Aren’t finals coming up?” Lane interrupted. “Are you going to lose your credits? Jesus Christ, Ames, seriously. This is a big deal.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yes,” Gin muttered, “you look sorry. Would you like a tissue? Would that help you play the part better?”

“That’s a nice diamond on your finger,” Amelia snapped. “You’re getting married, I gather?”

“The day after your grandfather’s visitation here.”

“Yes, nice of you to call me and let me know, Mother.”

“The marriage is not important.”

“I agree. I’m talking about the death of my grandfather. My own grandfather died, and I read about it in a newspaper.”

Lane’s eyes swung around. “You didn’t call her, Gin? Really?”

“I beg your pardon, but she is the one who got kicked out of prep school. And you’re looking at me like I did something wrong?”

“I can go to school here in Charlemont,” Amelia interjected. “Charlemont Country Day is a good school, and I can live here at home—”

“What makes you think they’ll take you now?” Gin asked.

“Our family endowed the expansion five years ago,” Amelia countered. “Like they won’t? And who are you marrying, Mother? Let me guess. He’s rich and spineless—”

“Enough!” Lane snapped. “Gin, she’s your daughter. For once in your life, will you act like it? And, Amelia, this is a bigger problem than you realize.”

“But it’s fixable,” the girl said. “Everything is fixable in this family, isn’t it.”

“Actually, that is not true. And you better pray you don’t learn that lesson on this particular screw-up of yours.”

As Lane went to leave, Gin thought of her wedding reception and called out, “Wait, you and I have something to discuss.”

“I’m not calling Charlemont Country Day. You’re going to do that for her. It’s time you step up.”

Gin crossed her arms over her chest and winced as one of Richard’s bruises on her elbow let out a squawk. “Amelia, would you be so kind as to go sulk in your room? Or perhaps out by the pool? I’m sure that with the help of your Twitter account you can spend an enjoyable couple of hours informing your friends of the abominable nature of your return unto the fold.”

“My pleasure,” Amelia said. “It’s certainly better than being in your company.”

The girl didn’t storm off; she swanned away, leaving a ripple of fragrance in the air along with her disdain.

It was a wonder they didn’t get along better.

As the door back into the house eased shut, Gin bitched, “Maybe she should just forget school and go to New York to model. She’ll have more luck using her face rather than her mouth if she’s looking to get ahead.”

“Your mouth hasn’t stopped you,” Lane said. “But it hasn’t done you any good. Look at who you’re marrying, for instance.”

“Richard is one of the wealthiest men in the state, and he can help our business.”

“You hate him.”

“So does everyone else. That’s hardly a news flash—but this brings me to the issue. Your little darling girl Lizzie said I need your permission in order to have my reception here. I told her it was not going to be a large affair—four hundred, at the most—”

“Wait, what?”

“My wedding reception. The licenses are being issued tomorrow, and we are going to the courthouse on Friday. Father’s visiting hours are the day after that. The reception will be here on Saturday—just cocktails in the back garden followed by a dinner—”

“Gin.”

“What?”

“Who’s going to pay for all that?”

“We are. Why?”

Lane’s eyes narrowed. “We don’t have the money, Gin. As in checks will bounce. Do you understand what I’m telling you? There is no money right now. I’m trying to fix that, but I don’t care if it’s four hundred or forty people—we can’t write any checks that aren’t necessary.”

“We’re paying for Father’s visiting hours.”

“And that’s it. The parties are over, Gin. The private planes. Hell, taxis are out of the question. There are no more clothes, or balls, or trips. Everything is stopping. You need to understand that.”

She frowned as she tracked a rather alarming fluttering of her heart. And then she whispered, “I find it hard to believe that you’ll put on the funeral of a man you hated, but not give me the reception I deserve.”

Lane stared at her for a moment. “You know, Gin, I’m going to be completely honest here. I’ve always known you were a self-serving narcissist, but I really never thought you