“That’s exactly what I told him. I used those precise words.”

“That’s not how he interpreted it.”

Max was aware. “Telling him I was going to Lucrecia’s Christmas party to meet Lavinia was a strategic move designed to prevent me from having to make a special-purpose trip to New Haven later to meet her. Can you imagine? That wouldn’t be awkward.”

“I’m sorry, Max,” Marie said quietly. “I really have left you in the lurch, haven’t I?”

“No, no. It’s quite all right. One of us might as well be married to someone they actually fancy.” He truly was happy for Marie and Leo. “But now that you’ve thrown me over”—he winked to show he was teasing—“I’m committed to my bachelorhood.”

“But you have to marry someone.”

“Ah, but I don’t.”

“What about the lineage?”

“What do I care about the lineage? If Sebastien’s children are anything like him, the estate will be better off in his branch of the family. I’ll do my best when my father dies, but you know I’ll make a perfectly awful duke.” He was trying to keep his tone light, but as always when he contemplated the prospect of inheriting, his chest started to feel heavy, which made his voice start to sound labored. “And as for my parents, all that matters is that they think I’m trying. I can string out the prospect of a match with Lavinia for at least a year or two.”

In his parents’ eyes, Lavinia von Bachenheim was perfect. Well, Marie, as a princess, had been perfect, but Mother and Father had rallied and were currently championing Lavinia. She was the younger sister of a wealthy and powerful Austrian family. She was studying at Yale but like her sister would no doubt make a “career” as a socialite. Everything about her met with his parents’ approval.

“And how was it meeting her?”

He shrugged. “It was fine.” In truth, he and Lavinia had had only a brief conversation, but it was enough to tell she had no sense of fun. She’d seemed both distracted and overly serious, which wasn’t a winning combination in Max’s eyes. He wasn’t looking for a wife, but had he been, a sense of humor, perhaps even of adventure, would have been a requirement. Even if he were on the market in earnest, Lavinia would not make the cut.

Lavinia would never make snow angels in Central Park.

When Leo called Dani early in the morning on Christmas Eve, she got right to the point. “Hi,” she said. “I think I need to get on an app.”

“Merry Christmas to you, too. What kind of app?”