Page 88 of Duke, Actually

“Ruin Marie’s wedding by throwing a tantrum?” Max had supplied, marveling over how thoroughly he had misjudged Lavinia at that first meeting in New York.

He had happily signed on to her diabolical plan. She had been correct in that their ploy had effectively neutered their parents. As for her other argument, he couldn’t really say he was having fun without having to look over his shoulder. But that wasn’t a flaw in her plan so much as it was about the fact that Dani would not sit still. He’d meant what he said earlier. He didn’t want to be near her until this interminable evening was over. He couldn’t look at her. If he had to, he was at risk of throwing her over his shoulder caveman-style and carrying her out of here regardless of the fallout it would create.

He felt trapped in his own skin. As if he were on fire, and not in a good way.

But what could he do but focus on Lavinia and try to act normal? Even if he wasn’t sure what that meant anymore.

A few hours later, he had danced the ländler, eaten cake, and endured a long conversation about the king’s decision to make some changes to Morneau, the royal family’s watch company, when his mother appeared at his side.

“Max, darling, I’d like to take your father upstairs.”

Other than a brief conversation in the receiving line after the ceremony, he’d succeeded in his mission to avoid his parents. But he couldn’t avoid this. “Max, darling, I’d like to take your father upstairs” was code for “Your father is drunker than usual andabout to embarrass us.” Max and his mother had an unspoken agreement to put aside their differences and join forces to extract his father in these sorts of situations.

Max sighed. “Where is he?”

“He’s talking politics with Lucille Müller.”

Lucille Müller was the leader of the far-left opposition party in Parliament. She was not a good person for Father to be talking to, especially if he’d been keeping up his usual pace at the bar. Remarkably, Max hadn’t been counting this evening. He looked around for Sebastien, who apparently hadn’t been counting either, because he was nowhere to be seen. “All right. Let’s go.” He steeled himself.

In some ways, even with all the chaos and unkindness that characterized his family interactions, these rare moments when his mother asked for his help managing his father were the worst. They didn’t happen very often. Only when they were in public and there wasn’t household staff on hand.

It was in these moments that Max was reminded how elementally alone he was. One would think, given that his mother was asking him to help, that there would be a sort of solidarity in the act of trying to manage Father. There was certainly a common understanding of what needed to happen. But somehow that didn’t translate into actual understanding. Understanding of the emotional variety, the sort that was supposed to travel, unconditionally, from parent to child.

“You and Lavinia looked like you had a lovely evening,” Mother said.

“Yes,” he said flatly.

“Your father was very happy.”

“Grand. That is the most important thing, after all.”

“Max.” She huffed a martyred sigh. “Don’t start.”

He eyed Father. He was right in Lucille’s face, jawing about something and shaking his finger. The crowd had thinned considerably, and their heated argument was beginning to draw the attention of people near them.

“Don’t you ever get tired of it, Mother?”

She looked at him for a long time, and for an instant, he thought he saw something different in her eyes—a flash of uncertainty, perhaps? It was gone before he could puzzle it out. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

As they approached Father, Max ran through what would happen. Mother would apologize for interrupting and make some case for why they needed to leave, and Max would engage Lucille in conversation. That was their first strategy, and it might work. If they needed to escalate, Max and Mother would switch places, and Max would hiss in his father’s ear that he was embarrassing himself and the family and strong-arm him out of the room.

That would work, but there would be a cost. Father, humiliated, would turn his rage on Max. He wouldn’t hit him. It would just be words. Words, Max reminded himself, slid right off him. He was a well-seasoned pan, impervious.

Max stopped walking and looked around.

No, he looked forher. Even though he’d had an ever-humming awareness of her, of her presence in this ballroom haunting him like a ghost breathing down his neck, he’d been trying to avoidlookingat her. Out of self-preservation. But now, though it defied logic, looking at her felt like anactof self-preservation.

There she was, at a small table with Leo, deep in conversation.Some wisps had come out of her hairdo. They had their heads together, and their faces were lit by the flames of a candle on the table, making her skin glow.

She looked up and right at him, as she had earlier that day, during the dress fitting. As if she felt him. As if they felt each other.

“I’m not doing this.”

Mother, who’d proceeded a few steps ahead of him before noticing his absence, turned. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’ve been helping you extract Father from potentially embarrassing situations since I was a child, and I’m not doing it anymore. I’ve spent my whole life listening to you two tell me what’s wrong with me. Seb and I have spent our whole lives being abused by Father while you stood by and let him. Why would Ihelpyou? Why have I been helping you for so long?”

He huffed a laugh. He couldn’t believe he’d said that, but he also couldn’t believe how easy it had been, in the end. “I’m going to leave now. Good night, Mother.”

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