Darcy accepted a mug of mulled wine from Georgiana. “She said the pies lookcreative.”
“Diplomatic.” Elizabeth reached for one.
Georgiana snorted.
Darcy tasted the wine. “This is excellent.” He studied the pie in Elizabeth's hand. “The pies look like they were assembled by toddlers.”
“William!” Georgiana protested, laughing.
“What?”
Elizabeth found herself grinning at this unexpected bit of teasing. She was beginning to understand that his careful formality wasn’t indifference, it was just how he navigated situations until he felt secure enough to let his guard down. She just didn’t understand why he was still so nervous around her.
As they gathered around the table with their mulled wine and lopsided mince pies, Elizabeth found herself watching Darcy relax by degrees. She was becoming familiar with the process. His shoulders dropped a bit, and he began contributing to the conversation again with the dry observations that made both women laugh.
Elizabeth caught herself considering the meaning of the headphones again, circling endlessly in doubt. And then it struck her: she and Darcy were both overthinkers, only his vigilance pointed outward, toward fixing the world for others, while hers circled inward, toward deciphering their hearts.
Alas, she could not help it. He bought presents for everyone, so was she any different? The headphones felt more meaningful now that she better understood his approach, but she still felt uncertain about what she meant to him.
Chapter Ten
Darcy ought to have been content.
The fire was warm, casting dancing shadows across the music room’s polished mahogany surfaces. Christmas garlands draped the mantelpiece with tasteful elegance, and Elizabeth sat scarcely three feet away in the wingback chair, her cheeks flushed from their earlier laughter, dark curls catching the firelight like spun bronze.
Georgiana had settled at the piano bench, her fingers finding the familiar opening chords of “The First Nowell” and even the dogs had arranged themselves with unusual harmony, Athena in her position by the hearth and Waffles sprawled across the Persian rug as though he owned every thread of it.
Everything was as it ought to be. This was a Christmas Eve scene his mother would have adored, full of warmth and music and the easy companionship of people who enjoyed each other’s company. And yet something was off.
“Elizabeth, you must sing,” Georgiana announced, her fingers dancing through the carol’s familiar melody with an effortless skill that came fromyears of proper instruction. “I can tell you’ve an excellent voice. I have an ear for these things.”
“Your ear is wrong,” Elizabeth protested, though she was laughing as she said it. “I’ll ruin whatever song you choose, and Athena will never forgive me for subjecting her to such torture.”
At the mention of her name, the Great Dane whined.
“See?”
“Nonsense,” Georgiana insisted. “William, tell her she must sing. You’ve heard her humming, haven’t you?”
Darcy had. Soft little melodies when she thought no one was listening, usually while she was absorbed in some task or another. “I think Georgiana’s right,” he said, trying to look encouraging. “You shouldn’t deprive us of the pleasure.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes with theatrical exasperation, but Darcy caught the pleased flush that crept up her neck. “Fine,” she said, standing with mock solemnity and pressing a hand to her heart. “But when this goes horribly wrong, I’m blaming both of you.”
Georgiana struck the opening chords of “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,” and Elizabeth took a deep breath and began to sing. It wasn’t the polished soprano of his mother, whose voice had been trained by the finest instructors in London. Nor was it the careful precision that Georgiana had developed through years of scales and arpeggios and stern-faced music masters. It was a warm mezzo-soprano, rich as aged whisky and completely unaffected. There was something so alive in the way she sang, sopresent, so joyful. She wasn’t performing. She was sharing herself, openly and without artifice, the way she seemed to do everything.
Waffles, overcome with the sheer enthusiasm of the moment, threw back his golden head and began to howl along in what could generously be called harmony. The sound was so ridiculous—so wonderfullyabsurd—that Elizabeth doubled over mid-verse, dissolving into helpless laughter. Georgiana’s hands slipped from the keys as she succumbed to her own fit of giggles, and even Athena lifted her head to regard them all with an expression of such profound disdain that it only made the whole scene funnier. Darcy found himself laughing too, an unguarded, ridiculous laugh that left his ribs aching and his eyes watering. When was the last time he’d laughed like this? When was the last time anything had felt so effortless?
This was what he wanted, this warmth, this life, this sense of home that had nothing to do with proper behaviour and everything to do with being present with the people who mattered.
Elizabeth caught his eye across the room, still laughing, and something passed between them that made Darcy’s breath catch. For just a moment, the careful distance he maintained seemed to collapse, and he felt utterly exposed.
Waffles chose that moment to provide another musical contribution, and the spell was broken.
Georgiana leapt up from the piano bench. “Right then. We must do the ornaments next. Christmas Eve isn’t Christmas Eve without hanging the ornaments.”
“I imagine they’re breakable?” Elizabeth inquired, glancing at her dog.
“Yes,” Darcy confirmed with a nod.
