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“Then the debate is not about order at all. It is about the quality of the holly.”

She lifted her brows and tipped her chin up while he studied her, a suspicious tug of his mouth suggesting he enjoyed being contrary.

“Every argument about Christmas decorating is at least in part about the holly,” she informed him. “The quality is only the beginning.”

Mr. Darcy seemed genuinely interested. “So you propose that the family receives the superior holly and guests the inferior?”

“I do, for there is always a shortage of the best holly.”

“Not at Pemberley.”

Elizabeth gave him a look. “You cannot use the size of Pemberley’s woods to win an argument about decorating.”

He inclined his head with exaggerated gravity. “I do beg your pardon. I was not made aware of the rules.”

Elizabeth liked that Mr. Darcy did not surrender merely because he was courting her. He listened, contested, conceded when she earned it, then returned with another argument. He treated her opinions as worth engaging—even the silly ones.

“The front hall remains the logical place to begin,” he said.

“Logic has very little to do with Christmas.”

“Ah. That explains a great deal about your approach.”

She laughed again as she said with some exasperation, “Mr. Darcy.”

“Miss Elizabeth.”

The answering solemnity almost undid her, but she pressed on. “The parlour or drawing room, wherever the family gathers, ought to be first. The best holly should be placed upon the mantel, the ivy where it will trail properly, and enough bay or rosemary should be added so that one can smell it when one enters.”

“And the front hall receives what survives?”

“The family sits in the drawing room at Longbourn, Mr. Darcy. People only walk through the hall.”

“But those who enter are cheered by the decorations in the hall.”

It occurred to her then that there might be more people walking in and out of Pemberley’s entrance hall than there were family to sit in the drawing room. It made her a little sad to think of it, but it also meant that Mr. Darcy was becoming easier for her to read. She had begun to recognise the little pause before he made a dry remark, the way one corner of his mouth tightened when he was trying not to smile, the intensity of his gaze when she surprised him.

She was becoming fond of his various expressions.

“And the kissing bough?” he asked.

Elizabeth paused. “The bough comes later.”

“Why is that?”

“Because it requires more work.”

“That argues for beginning with it.”

“No, it argues for keeping the children away from it until everything required for it has been assembled.”

Henry was on the floor constructing something from a box of wooden blocks, a length of string, and what appeared to be the doll’s button from yesterday.

“I concede the force of that argument,” Mr. Darcy said.

“Do you?”

“We are in the presence of your evidence.” He nodded at the boys. “What all is required?”