“Heck, no.” She grabbed one of the plastic cups he produced and held it up to be filled. “You do know, though, that not concerning yourself with what other people think is easier when you can buy them off.”

“I do know that. Wealth has its compensations.” He had turned serious, almost somber. It was interesting that he used the word compensations, as if being wealthy was by default negative. His mood change fit with a growing sense she had of a darker undercurrent to Max’s affable, pleasure-seeking exterior. There was a wistfulness to him she sometimes saw flashes of, and that, together with his tendency to deflect attention from himself, made her feel like maybe Max was actually . . . sad. “Max, I wish you would—” No. She was being weird.

“You wish I would what?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me,” he insisted.

Well, hell. He’d inserted himself pretty firmly into her business earlier this evening—to good end, she had to admit. She had chatted with everyone at the party, even Vince and Berkeley. She had laughed and nodded and flattered and commiserated. It had all been a performance, and it had been exhausting. But Max had been there to bolster her. Unlike at Christmas, he hadn’t had the aristocratic charm turned up to eleven. This time, he’d been more of a quiet, steady presence, laughing at her jokes, answering questions when asked, but otherwise keeping quiet. He had pitched everything—his own performance and the one he’d thrown her into—perfectly. They were real, true friends, friends who helped each other—which meant she could speak truthfully. “I feel like you’re unhappy. Not right now but . . . elementally. I wish you would tell me why.”

He blinked rapidly, his breezy facade dropping. On the surface, he was all confidence and swagger, but he would, from time to time, say something that startled her with its guilelessness. It used to be his proclamations about how much he liked her. Or his New Year’s Eve declaration about wanting to get a job. Maybe she could trigger another such admission.

It worked. He took a long drink of his champagne and said, “I’m unhappy because my father is a vicious drunk. Or perhaps I should say that my father is vicious, period, since he’s drunk all the time. He terrorizes all of us, but no one seems to mind except me.”

The word terrorizes gave her pause, but she didn’t want to interrupt him.

“I hate living on the estate. I have no purpose in life other than to consume resources while I wait for my father to die so I can become the Duke of Aquilla, which I very, very much do not want to do. Hell, I don’t even want to be a baron.” He laughed bitterly and raised his cup. “Poor Max, right?” He rolled his eyes, then closed them like he was sick of himself.