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, soclearly 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. Ithadto be.
Dear Heaven...
