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Chapter Twenty-Nine

H e should not have come.

Or rather, he should not have brought Georgiana.

Christmas Day had been miserable—Lady Catherine casting aspersions on Miss Ashford's lineage with every arched brow, the dowager’s barbs hidden behind compliments, and Darcy seated at the head of his own table like a statue, unable to pacify either camp.

He had meant for today to be better. He had promised himself Georgiana would enjoy it.

So here they were, standing in the narrow front hall of the Ashfords' leased townhouse, where ivy and holly draped every lintel and the scent of oranges steeped in clove filled the air.

Georgiana’s gloved hand rested lightly on his sleeve.

“You promised this would be quiet,” she whispered.

“It will be,” Darcy murmured. “Relatively.”

The butler opened the door to the drawing room, and warmth poured out—voices and light and the unmistakable laughter of people who had never sat across from Lady Catherine de Bourgh on Christmas Day.

Mr. Ashford rose to greet them, one hand already extended.

“Darcy! And Miss Darcy—what a pleasure. Come in, come in, we have just poured the punch.”

Mrs. Ashford stood, regal in burgundy silk, and took Georgiana’s hand. “My dear, I have saved you a chair beside me. I shall tell you all about Miss Susan’s disastrous pudding.”

Miss Susan, nearby, made a face. “It was not a disaster. It was… unconventional.”

“We were warned,” said her sister.

Darcy took a glass of punch from Mr. Ashford and allowed himself a glance around the room. A modest party, all family. No debutantes in sight. No patronesses. No politics.

Just… cheer.

Georgiana had already been drawn into conversation. She was smiling.

Darcy’s shoulders eased. Perhaps this would not be such a chore after all.

From the far end of the room, a voice called brightly, “You there! You have not drawn a slip! Every guest must draw one.”

Mr. Ashford brandished the basket with theatrical flair. “Family tradition,” he said. “On St. Stephen’s Day, everyone draws a slip with a word—charity, humility, forgiveness, and so forth—and then you must embody that word for the remainder of the gathering.”

Georgiana drew her slip first, unfolding the paper with care. “Patience,” she read, then laughed softly. “How fortunate.”

“Unfair advantage,” said Mr. Ashford, plucking the basket from his daughter. “You already possess an abundance of it.” He extended the basket to Darcy. “Come, let us see what your word shall be.”

Darcy reached in without comment, withdrawing a crisp fold and smoothing it open.

“Gratitude,” he read aloud.

“Oh, that is an excellent one,” said Mrs. Ashford, peering over from her chair. “You must spend the entire day brimming with appreciation. I suggest starting with the plum pudding.”

“Or the port,” added her husband, already leading the way to the sideboard. “You are just in time for the game, Darcy. A trifle foolish, but it keeps the blood warm.”

“A tradition?” Darcy asked, accepting a glass.

“Only on St. Stephen’s. The ladies have prepared riddles and forfeits. You must draw a slip from the basket, answer correctly, or face the consequence.” He grinned, offering the decanter toward Georgiana. “Miss Darcy, will you join?”

She nodded, her expression composed but curious.

Mr. Ashford refilled his own glass and gestured toward the center of the room. “Come, then. There is just enough space between the chairs to make a circle. Prepare yourself, my dear fellow—Penelope's riddles are said to reduce grown men to gibbering ruin.”

“I usually have assistance,” she replied, glancing sidelong at her younger sister.

Darcy sipped his wine and said nothing. He would not be drawn into rhymes.

Miss Ashford turned to Georgiana. “Do you enjoy riddles?”

“I am very poor at them.”

“That is not true,” Darcy said quietly.

She blinked. Then smiled—small, real.

The younger Miss Ashford clapped her hands. “Come, everyone must draw! Mama has already promised to sing if hers is wrong.”

Lady Ashford gave an indulgent sigh. “I have done more alarming things for holiday peace.”

Darcy drew no slip. But he watched Georgiana take hers, carefully, and hold it to the firelight to read. Her brow furrowed. She whispered something to Miss Ashford, who whispered back.

There was laughter across the room—low, familial, warm.

Darcy sat back. He watched the easy way Georgiana tilted her head, the way her lips shaped something like amusement. Miss Ashford leaned toward her to explain another riddle, her voice pitched low, smiling.

This was what he had planned.

It was going well.

Then Mr. Ashford unfolded a folded sheet and said, “And now, the latest holiday satire—an anonymous author has again gifted us all a laugh.”

Darcy’s spine stiffened. His hand twitched, almost involuntarily, toward Georgiana—as if to shield her from words not yet spoken.

Mrs. Ashford reached eagerly for the sheet. “Oh, do let me! I heard these little snippets one mentioned at Mrs. Carlisle’s luncheon the other day—everyone said it was too clever by half.”

Darcy frowned . “I do not read such trifles.”

She blinked at him, then smiled indulgently. “Of course not. You are too virtuous by far. But I am just wicked enough to enjoy it.”

Her husband chuckled, leaning over to catch a glimpse. “The last one had me in tears. Quite unfair that someone should be so sharp and also rhyme.”

“That is rather the appeal,” said Miss Ashford, her tone almost wistful. “If I had half so much salt in my pen, I would never be bored.”

Darcy looked down at his glass, the rim catching light as if it might offer distraction.

The realization struck hard and sharp, like a door swinging inward on an empty room. He had chosen Penelope Ashford she would never cause problems. Because she was easy. No fuss. She never once raised her voice or her expectations.

She could never be anything like Elizabeth Bennet. That was the point.

And here she sat—hands folded, smile fixed—envying the very fire he had spent months… years, actually… trying to forget.

“Here,” said the younger Miss Ashford, holding the sheet aloft.

“I promise only the least offensive passage. ‘On Certain Tones of Moral Superiority in Daughters with Ink-Stained Fingers.’ Let me see… Oh, I like this one. ‘He spoke of virtue as though it were a waistcoat: tailored, buttoned, and best admired from a safe distance.’”

Darcy looked up too sharply. That… sounded rather like a jab she might have pointed at himself.

Miss Ashford giggled. “Oh, that is positively delicious! Do another one.”

And something in Darcy’s chest twisted. How easily she laughed—how lightly she trampled something sacred.

The girl read aloud, with theatrical relish. “‘She speaks like Cicero, laughs like wine, and lists her virtues to all who ask—though no one has.’”

Darcy stared at the page in her hands. That line. That cadence. It was hers—sounded nothing like some of the warped and twisted passages from previous issues. No, this was all Elizabeth’s wit—sparkling and savage, yet loving at the same time.

And suddenly the laugh caught in his throat.

Mr. Ashford slapped his knee. “My word! That is something. Even Darcy cannot help but chuckle at that line. Go on, go on, my dear.”

The next line followed without mercy. “‘One is tempted to believe she considers her opinions a public service.’”

Miss Ashford laughed again. “I wish I knew her—this authoress. Imagine being able to say exactly what you think and get away with it!”

Darcy squirmed in his seat. Something unpleasant roiled in his stomach. Get away with it, indeed…

“Read another!” called the younger Miss Ashford. “That one about the gentleman with high expectations. It is in the middle somewhere.”

Miss Ashford leafed through, humming thoughtfully. “Here. ‘He does not yield easily, nor does he forgive being surprised. But offer him wit without polish, and he will listen longer than he means to.’ ”

The room chuckled.

Darcy did not.

Miss Ashford smiled toward him, teasing. “Well? I do not suppose it reminds you of anyone?”

He held his glass still. The temptation to shatter it against the hearth was brief—but vivid. Instead, he tightened his fingers around the stem, clinging to decorum the way a drowning man clings to driftwood.

She had written those lines with innocent laughter behind them. He could hear it still. And now they were being gutted for entertainment.

Another voice chimed from across the room. “There’s one here that I liked—about the modest girl. The one with the initials. What was it—Miss L?”

Someone found it. “ ‘Miss L— sees the world with eyes quite clear, and finds the kindness others miss— Though some might say ambition dressed in modesty is still ambition.’ ”

That stopped him cold. Not for its cleverness. For its betrayal. The tone had shifted halfway through—Elizabeth’s voice, so clearly present in the first line, had vanished in the second. It had been tampered with. Twisted.

And it was written about her dearest friend, Charlotte Lucas. It had to be.

Dear Heaven...

It was not mere commentary anymore. These were real people. Recognizable. Too recognizable.

“I have one!” the younger daughter cried. “This one is my favorite. ‘Mrs. B has a remarkable capacity for declaring catastrophe before the tea is poured.’ ”

The laughter broke like glass.

Darcy sat very still. His spine rigid, the room swimming before him. They were closing in. Names were appearing. Parodies thin as paper masks. Elizabeth had written in jest—in confidence. And she always said she did not use names. But Caroline Bingley had dressed it up for the slaughter.

He could see it now. Line by line. Just enough truth to stain her.

It was only a matter of time.

He glanced at Georgiana. She was seated with unassuming posture, hands gently clasped in her lap, eyes scanning the room with mild curiosity. But when she looked over at him—caught his expression—her brow creased. Not recognition, not alarm. Just a quiet question she would not voice.