Page 16 of Duke, Actually

Was it really Max’s whims she would be indulging if she accepted? It sort of seemed more like him indulging hers.Let’s go with that, anyway.

She smiled. She felt that same Christmas break frisson of excitement as last night.

Dani:What time is the ballet? Why don’t you send a car for my mom and I’ll take the subway.

There. She’d accept the tickets but not the chauffeur service. Holding back something felt important.

Max:You can’t take the subway in your fancy dress.

She gasped again, which set off another round of yapping from Dog Max. She had forgotten she’d told Max about the dress. She could barely remember last night, but it seemed Max had absorbed every detail. She didn’t know what to say. She felt sheepish, like she was a little girl wanting to dress up and go see the pretty ladies in the tutus.

Max:Listen. I don’t know how to say this without sounding like a vulgarian, but I am extremely rich. It is not a hardship for me to send a car. But if you want to take the subway, that’s fine. Or if you want to forget it, I’ll find someone to give the tickets to.

It boggled the mind that he could buy three tickets toThe Nutcracker—which should be sold out this close to Christmas, so who even knew how he’d gotten them?—then just give them away like it was nothing. Not to mention send a car halfway up Long Island and back. She also thought it was interesting that he wasn’t trying to hide any of this. In her limited experience with rich people—donors at the university, for example, or some of the diplomats she’d met at her dad’s work parties over the years—they were always trying to pretend to be middle class. “The cost of living in New York, am I right?” they’d say, like they had something in common with her.

Not Max, though. He was who he was. A rich playboy. Not her usual type.

Not that she meant itthatway. Not her usual type for friendship. Or anything. But somehow, with him, the extreme lack of hypocrisy sort of made up for the wealthy-playboy part. If he was the Depraved Duke, was he also the Blunt Baron?

The music from “The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” started earworming its way through her mind. Well, why not let him send his fancy car? It wasn’t like she was going to date him. Or sleep with him.

Or merge her bank account with his or change her research program for him or do his laundry for him—oranythingfor him.

Dani:This is lovely of you. Why don’t you send a car for my mom, then have it come get me? It will be nice to catch up with her, and I can lay the groundwork for my forthcoming crimes against fruitcake. Let me make sure she’s free, and I’ll text you to confirm times and addresses.

Max:Grand. Pass my contact info on to your mother in case there are any problems. You have my card, yes?

Dani:I do have your card. You have a Gmail address!

Max:Yes. That’s my real address.

Dani:As opposed to your fake one?

Max:Well, it’s the one I use for my friends. The family has a domain, and I have a professional address there.

Dani:And what is your profession?

Max:Man-whore, remember?

She laughed, and Dog Max started barking again. “I’m going to the ballet, Max.”

Dani was a younger, darker carbon copy of her mother. Max was waiting at their agreed-upon meeting spot outside Lincoln Center, and the likeness was so uncanny that he couldn’t stop staring as they got out of the car. Dani had light-brown smooth skin; her mother had a pale, finely lined face. But the shape of their faces was exactly the same, down to their high cheekbones and thin, slightly upturned noses. Dani’s hair was a deep mahogany and her mother’s was a mixture of light brown and gray, but they had similar shoulder-length, layered styles.

He shook himself out of his paralysis and hurried to greet them. “Hello, hello.”

“Max.” Dani smiled. “This is my mom, Valerie Arbour. Mom, this is Max von Hansburg...”

The way she trailed off suggested she was unsure if she should be adding his title. He extended his hand to preempt that. “Lovely to meet you, Ms. Arbour.”

“Please call me Val.”

“You’re a Brit!” She had an accent. “A Northerner, I think?”

“Yes! Leeds! I’ve lived in the States since I was eighteen, though.”

He ushered them inside and to the coat check and— Oh. There was the green dress Dani had referenced. It was the color of themountain at home in the peak of summer, but it was made of shiny taffeta, which turned the summer association into a Christmas one. The skirt was short—it came to just below her knees—but it was dramatic in the way it jutted out from her waist. It was shaped like a bell, which was an apt metaphor because the whole thing seemed exuberant and elegant all at once, like the bells at St. Stephen’s in Riems pealing on Christmas morning.

He cleared his throat and, realizing he’d probably been staring a little too intensely, suggested they visit the bar. “What can I get you ladies?”