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.” Heextended 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.”
