Page 30 of Duke, Actually
Right. Case in point. She’d been trying to figure out the dynamic between him and his mother, and he was turning the conversation back to her.
“That is incorrect,” he went on. “He’s the one making a fool of himself.” He was still using the quiet, restrained voice from before. Together with the odd intimacy of the transatlantic phone call, it made what he was saying sound extra true, somehow. “And everyone knows it.”
She wondered if it was possible for both things about Max to be true: Could he be deflecting attention from himselfandgenuinely interested in her life? Regardless, she wasn’t sure how hecould say that everyone knew. Max wasn’t part of her real life. He didn’t know the relevant “everyone.” But the quiet certainty with which he’d delivered his pronouncement was gratifying. So she just said, “Thanks.”
“I have to go. Merry Christmas, Dani.”
She smiled. “Merry Christmas, Max.”
When Max got back to lunch, Father was on his fourth martini. Max wasn’t sure why he was counting. He was in the habit, he supposed. It was something he’d started doing as a boy, as soon as he’d made the connection that the number of drinks consumed was directly proportional to the intensity of the anger his father would later display. Four was not a lot, in and of itself, but four before lunch was the start of a journey that wouldn’t end well. The familiar stirrings of anxiety started rumbling in Max’s gut, followed by the equally familiar stirrings of self-loathing. He was no longer a child. He didn’t live under the same roof as his parents anymore and was fully capable of retreating to his cottage whenever he wanted. Even here at the palace, he could get up and leave and go somewhere else. They couldn’tactuallycontrol him.
So why was he acting like they could?
Why was he sending Marie an SOS text? Why did he need Marie to rescue him when he had two perfectly good legs?
“We were just talking about Sebastien’s little garden project,” Father said tersely. Most people would be slurring after four martinis. But Father always did the reverse as he drank, at least up until a certain point. His speech became more precise, clipped.
“Oh?” Max glanced at his brother. He had no idea what his “little garden project” was, but Sebastien was forever brimmingwith outlandish ideas. He’d always been like that. Had never seen the potential problem with staging tea parties for his stuffed animals or putting on plays—like the March sisters did inLittle Women—right out in the open where Father could wander in at any moment.
“It’s more of a mining reclamation project than it is a gardening project,” Seb said. “But why don’t we discuss it later? It’s Christmas!”
Typical Seb, avoiding conflict, smoothing things over. When would he learn that trying to please Father was a thankless task? Seb was certainly better at it than Max, but to what end? It didn’t actuallychangeanything. Max tried to remind himself, though, that this was his doing as much as anything. Seb hadn’t been around—by design—for so many years. Perhaps he truly didn’t grasp the dynamics at work.
“On the contrary,” Father said. “Christmas is the ideal time to discuss it. So rarely are we all in the same place.” He looked at Max as he spoke, and they all knew he was referring to how much Max traveled. But the implied criticism hardly made a dent. Max had built up tolerance, like Father and his martinis. It would take a great deal more than that to hurt him.
“How was your New York trip, darling?” Mother said. She was trying to change the subject, but she’d made a tactical error with her choice of topic. Why could no one except him seem to understand Father’s triggers?
“Yes, how was New York?” his father echoed, infusing the question with a sneer. “How was the party?”
Here they went. Max wasn’t sure why Father was so annoyed,given that he’d been pleased about Max’s attendance at Lucrecia’s party, but they were certain to find out.
“What party?” Sebastien asked.
“I spoke to Ludwig von Bachenheim yesterday,” Father said. “He tells me that Lavinia reports you and she barely spoke.”
“We did speak!” Max winced internally. That had come out too indignantly. Max very much wanted not to be the kind of person whose father had conversations with other old men about what he did or did not do, but that was beyond his control. All he could control was how he reacted. “Lavinia and I had a chat about a Broadway show she’d been to see.” Their conversationhadbeen brief, though, and Lavinia hadn’t seemed very interested. He wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t made a lasting impression.
“Who is Lavinia?” Seb asked, and Max wanted to scream. As bad as his father’s heavy-handed meddling was, at this moment, Seb was almost getting to him more. His naive questioning. His naiveeverything. And in this case his innocent question was going to set off a whole chain of “discussion.” It wasn’t that Max expected Seb, a twenty-five-year-old younger son of a duke who had lived a sheltered life, to have street smarts. After all, Max had made sure Seb had led a sheltered life. But could he pay a little attention? Could he have the tiniest bit of instinct with regard to cause and effect?
“Lavinia is Lucrecia von Bachenheim’s sister,” Max said brusquely, irrationally hoping that would be the end of it.
“I didn’t know she had a sister,” Seb said, and Max wanted to throttle him.
“She’s the younger,” Mother said. “She’s at Yale.”
“Because you know our Max,” Father drawled. “He can’t be content with just any girl. She must be a genius to be worthy of him.”
“What doesthatmean?” Max snapped. Lavinia had been his parents’ idea. But that was Father for you. Four martinis in and he could twist anything, including reality, to suit his seemingly ever-present desire to pick on someone.
But Max didn’t have to take the bait. He pushed back from the table. “If you’ll excuse me.”
“Sit,” his father snapped.
“Max,” Mother said in a tone she probably intended to be soothing but had the opposite effect. “We haven’t had dessert yet.”
“We have an entire afternoon of cocoa ahead of us.” And martinis.
Father shoved back from the table, knocking his water glass over in the process, and one look at his face made Max wonder if he had miscounted. Father didn’t usually get this degree of angry until he was well past four.