Max had no idea why he was doing this—“This” being sitting in a sauna holding Dani’s hand and telling her stuff he’d never told anyone, not even Marie.
“That doesn’t really answer the question,” Dani said with her signature mixture of kindness and hard-assed-ness, which he supposed answered the question of why he was doing this.
He was aware that he was being evasive. It was hard, even now, even having bared so much of himself, to fully drop the impulse to deflect that had been his default mode for so long.
“Sebastien was having a tea party, which was something he liked doing,” he began slowly. “He was a solitary, dreamy child with an unfettered imagination. The problem was, he was having it in the library. He was sitting there with all his stuffed animals, babbling about who knows what, when my father walked in with a minor Austrian aristocrat who was visiting. I was too young to be attuned to matters of state, but I had the sense he was someone Father wanted to impress.” Max didn’t remember the man’s name, but he did remember Father had insisted that Max and Seb wear their formal eveningwear at dinners during the visit, which both boys hated. “I wasn’t there at the start of it,” he said, thinking back to that day. “But my father upended the table Seb was using. I came running when I heard the ruckus, and when I got there, Father was in the midst of throwing Seb’s favorite stuffed bear into the fire and telling him that only women had tea parties and that he was an embarrassment to the family and to Eldovia.” Dani winced. “Yes, apparently a tender eight-year-old not adhering to proper gender conditioning is a threat to king and country. Seb had a black eye the next day.” He could still see it, the grotesque midnight-blue blossom against his brother’s pale skin. He could still feel it, too, the shame blooming in his gut when his father’s guest gasped. And the anger when Mother started trying to smooth things over, when she looked at him like he was supposed to help in her twisted endeavor. “I waited for something to happen, for there to be a reckoning of some sort—for my mother to object or for my father to apologize.”
“But nothing happened?” Dani asked quietly.
“Nothing happened,” he confirmed. He remembered waiting again, later that night in the nursery, thinking that even if Father wasn’t going to apologize, surely Mother would appear with some retroactive explanation, some words to soothe and placate. She didn’t come. And when not a word was said the next day, Max had come to understand that he and Seb were on their own. They couldn’t rely on their parents, and since their parents were the duke and duchess, ultimately they couldn’t rely on any of the household staff, either. “I decided then that I would use what power I had to draw my father’s fire, so to speak.”
“So he hit you instead?”
“Not really. A few times.”
She squeezed his hand again, and suddenly he felt as though he might cry. He had always thought the times he and his father had come to physical blows were less painful memories than their other, verbal confrontations, which made a certain sort of sense. A punch was a punch. It hurt, but it ended things. Whereas a sneering examination of what Father thought Max should have learned in the schoolroom but had not yet mastered could go on and on and on. That kind of torture, Max had always thought, was more insidious than a quick slap.
Max’s sympathy and concern had been reserved for Sebastien, because Seb had always been so guileless, so much more vulnerable. Max had been older and stronger. But he thought suddenly of Leo’s sister, Gabby. Of someone laying hands on her in a fit of violence. He would kill anyone who did that. She was a child.
But he had been, too. A child. He had been a child who had deserved better.
His eyes were burning. “Fuck.” He lifted his free hand to swipe away a rogue tear, swallowed the rock in his throat, and went back to her question. “I didn’t get hit that much. I developed a well-pitched campaign of distraction. If I made bigger mistakes—more consequential ones—than Seb, what did a tea party matter?” He shrugged. “Eventually, I got taller and bigger than him.”
“I’m sorry, Max.” Dani spoke quietly, without the fraught expressions of outrage or shock he didn’t want.
He was glad he’d told her. He was glad she was here.
And, idiot that he was, he suddenly realized he was still holding her hand. Clutching it as if it were a lifeline—perhaps it was. He let go, which was more difficult than he would have expected, and grabbed the Veuve to pour refills. “Drink up. This is getting warm.”
“I have one more question.”
“All right.” He didn’t really want to answer any more questions, but he could not deny her something that was so easy to give.
“Is it possible things will get better after your father dies? How old is he?” She winced. “I sound like I’m wishing for him to die.”
“It’s all right. It’s a fair question. My father is fifty-three. He’s in remarkably good health despite the fact that he’s practically pickled in vodka. And to answer your other question, I suppose in one sense, life will be easier when he’s gone. But it is difficult for me to convey how much I do not want to be the duke. Not to be melodramatic, but the idea of inheriting feels like . . .”
“Feels like what?”
“Locking myself up and throwing away the key.” He snorted. “Listen to me. I sound like a princess trapped in a tower.”
“How would a princess trapped in a tower get out?”
“Well, I think traditionally, a prince would come and rescue her.”
“And you had a princess, didn’t you? But instead of rescuing you, she’s going to marry a cabdriver from the Bronx.”
“She is indeed.”
Chapter Eleven
Things were much less fraught back in the room. They ordered room service. The McMuffins had been delicious, but Max was still hungry. Apparently too much truth telling worked up an appetite. As Dani divided the steak they’d ordered to share, he perused her Netflix account on the hotel TV.
“What shall we watch? Probably Dirty Dancing, yes?” He squinted at the diverse array of films on her list. “First in your queue is Love Actually.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s always there. I love that movie—I’ve seen it dozens of times—but it’s a Christmas movie, so we can’t watch it.”
“Incorrect. We can do whatever we want.”
“Yeah, but Christmas only runs from December 11 to January 6, remember?”
“Ah, yes. I see the dilemma.” He read the synopsis. “I’ve never seen it.”
“Really? Oh, it’s so good. And so bad. It’s complicated.”
“It stars Emma Thompson? Sold.”
“But—”
“You don’t have to watch it.” He pressed play. “I’m going to, though. You can do your own thing.”
He wasn’t sure what was more enjoyable, the movie itself or Dani’s running commentary on it. “I think the problem,” she pronounced when they were about two-thirds through, “is that everyone thinks this is a romantic comedy and judges it accordingly. But it’s not a rom-com. If anything, it’s a romantic tragedy. I mean, some of the stories turn out, but even among those, there are some that are hella problematic. Like, I don’t want to spoil anything, but there’s one in particular that seems all sweet, but when you think about it, you’re like, ‘How is that going to work out?’ You’ll see.”