Updated Apr 18, 2026 • ~12 min read
Chapter 26: Christmas Returns
Emmeline
December arrives with surprising speed—nearly a full year since Emmy begged the Duke for mercy at his Christmas party and he offered her a loveless marriage that’s somehow transformed into genuine love—and as the days shorten and Christmas approaches Emmy watches the Duke with growing concern because the holiday that destroyed him five years ago is coming again and she has no idea how he’ll handle it.
They’re at Ashford Hall for the winter season—having left London in late November to escape the social obligations and enjoy the quiet of country estate—and one morning in early December Emmy wakes to find the Duke already awake beside her, staring at the ceiling with an expression that’s more vulnerable than usual.
“It’s almost Christmas,” Emmy observes quietly. “Are you—how are you feeling about that?”
The Duke is quiet for a long moment, and Emmy watches him struggle visibly with how to articulate what he’s feeling.
“I don’t know,” the Duke admits. “Last Christmas I married you on the same day Caroline and Thomas died. Used the holiday to try creating new associations instead of just being trapped in grief. But I don’t know if that actually worked. I don’t know if I can celebrate Christmas without being overwhelmed by memories of losing them.”
Emmy takes his hand and squeezes gently, offering comfort without words because sometimes silence is more supportive than attempting inadequate reassurance.
“What do you want to do?” Emmy asks. “Do you want to ignore Christmas entirely? Do you want to try celebrating? Do you want something in between?”
“I don’t know that either,” the Duke says with frustration. “Part of me wants to decorate and celebrate and prove I’ve moved past my grief. But part of me is terrified that attempting celebration will just trigger all the pain I’ve been managing for five years.”
They lie in silence for several more minutes while the Duke processes his conflicted feelings, and Emmy waits patiently for him to work through what he needs.
“Can we try?” the Duke asks finally. “Try celebrating Christmas this year? Not ignore it or just endure it but actually attempt to make new memories? And if it becomes too overwhelming, if the grief is too much, we stop immediately?”
“Of course,” Emmy agrees. “We can try whatever you want. Stop whenever you need to. There’s no pressure to be perfect at this.”
Two days later Emmy broaches the subject that’s been weighing on her mind since the Duke agreed to try celebrating Christmas.
“Can we decorate together?” Emmy asks while they’re having breakfast. “Not just have staff do it like usual. Actually put up decorations ourselves. Make it our Christmas instead of just repeating what was done for Caroline.”
The Duke looks uncertain but not immediately resistant, and Emmy sees him considering whether he’s ready for that level of engagement with the holiday.
“That might help,” the Duke admits. “Creating new traditions instead of just repeating old ones. Making it ours instead of mine and Caroline’s. Yes. Let’s try that.”
They spend an afternoon decorating Ashford Hall together—Emmy selecting greenery and ribbons while the Duke hangs garlands and arranges ornaments, both of them working side by side to transform the cold house into something festive and warm—and Emmy watches the Duke carefully for signs that it’s becoming too much, ready to stop immediately if grief overwhelms him.
But the Duke seems… not happy exactly, but engaged. Present. Actually participating in creating Christmas atmosphere instead of just enduring it or hiding from it.
“This feels different,” the Duke observes while hanging holly over the mantel. “Creating Christmas with you instead of just remembering Christmas with Caroline. It’s not replacing those memories. It’s just… making new ones alongside them.”
“Good different?” Emmy asks hopefully.
“Good different,” the Duke confirms. “Surprisingly good.”
They reach the massive tree in the entrance hall—the same tree that was decorated when Emmy first came to beg for mercy nearly a year ago—and Emmy starts hanging ornaments while the Duke watches with an expression that’s gradually becoming more complicated.
“There’s something I need to show you,” the Duke says after several minutes of silence. “Something in the west wing. An ornament that belonged to Thomas. I’ve kept it in his nursery since he died, but I think—I think maybe it’s time to bring it out. Hang it on the tree instead of keeping it locked away.”
Emmy’s breath catches at this suggestion because the Duke visiting the west wing is still rare and difficult, but actually retrieving something from Thomas’s nursery and integrating it into their Christmas decorations feels monumentally significant.
“Are you sure?” Emmy asks gently. “We don’t have to do that if it’s too painful.”
“I’m sure,” the Duke says with more confidence than Emmy expected. “Thomas should be part of our Christmas. Not locked away. Not forgotten. Actually honored by including him in our traditions instead of treating his memory like something too painful to acknowledge.”
They go to the west wing together—the Duke unlocking the door without visible hesitation, leading Emmy through dusty corridors to the nursery that still holds all the baby clothes and toys prepared for a child who never got to use them—and Emmy watches the Duke approach the cradle with careful reverence.
He retrieves a small ornament from the cradle—a delicate silver star engraved with “Thomas” in elegant script, clearly commissioned for Christmas that never came—and Emmy sees tears on the Duke’s scarred face as he holds it.
“Caroline had this made,” the Duke explains quietly. “Ordered it in November before Thomas was born. It arrived two days after they both died. I couldn’t bring myself to hang it on a tree, so I put it in his cradle and locked the door and haven’t looked at it since. But I think—I think she’d want it displayed. Want Thomas remembered and honored instead of hidden away.”
“Then let’s hang it on our tree,” Emmy suggests gently. “Right at the top where everyone can see it. Make Thomas part of our Christmas instead of separate from it.”
They return to the entrance hall and the Duke climbs the ladder to hang Thomas’s star ornament at the very peak of the tree, and when it’s positioned properly—catching light and gleaming silver against dark green—Emmy sees something shift in the Duke’s expression.
Not quite peace.
But maybe the beginning of it.
Acceptance that honoring Thomas’s memory doesn’t require keeping his existence locked away but rather integrating it into the life the Duke is building with Emmy.
“Thank you,” the Duke says after climbing down from the ladder. “For suggesting this. For making it possible to include Thomas in our Christmas instead of feeling like I have to choose between remembering him and moving forward with you.”
“You never have to choose,” Emmy reminds him. “Caroline and Thomas are part of your past. I’m part of your present and future. There’s room for all of us in your heart and in our Christmas.”
They finish decorating the tree together—adding new ornaments alongside old ones, creating a blend of Duke’s past and their present—and when they’re done Ashford Hall feels warm and festive in ways Emmy has never experienced here before.
“It’s beautiful,” Emmy observes, looking at their decorated tree with Thomas’s star shining at the top. “Perfect.”
“It is perfect,” the Duke agrees, pulling Emmy close. “Because it’s ours. Not repeating Caroline’s Christmas traditions. Not avoiding Christmas entirely. Just creating our own version that honors the past while celebrating the present.”
Over the next weeks leading up to Christmas, the Duke continues engaging with the holiday in small ways that suggest genuine healing instead of just forced participation—attending church services without visible distress, arranging gifts for staff and tenants, even suggesting they host a small Christmas party for close friends instead of avoiding all social obligations.
“You’re sure you want to host a party?” Emmy asks when the Duke first suggests it. “Last year you could barely tolerate attending one. Now you want to organize one?”
“Last year I was trapped in grief,” the Duke points out. “This year I’m choosing to move forward. There’s a difference. And yes, I want to host a party. I want to create new Christmas memories with you instead of just being haunted by old ones.”
The party happens on Christmas Eve afternoon—small and intimate with just Lady Margaret and a few close friends, nothing like the elaborate society event where Emmy first met the Duke—and Emmy watches her husband actually enjoy himself instead of just enduring social obligation.
He’s laughing.
Actually genuinely laughing at something Lady Margaret said about London gossip.
Participating in conversation instead of just offering monosyllabic responses.
Being present and engaged instead of emotionally absent.
It’s remarkable to witness after seeing him so closed off for most of their marriage.
“He’s different,” Lady Margaret observes quietly to Emmy while the Duke is speaking with their solicitor Mr. Pemberton across the room. “Genuinely different. Less cold. More alive. You’ve been good for him, Emmy.”
“He’s been good for me too,” Emmy responds honestly. “In ways I didn’t expect when I married him desperate to save my father.”
That evening after the party guests leave, Emmy and the Duke sit together in the library watching fire burn in the hearth while snow falls outside the windows—exactly one year after the Duke proposed marriage and Emmy accepted out of desperation rather than love.
“This time last year I was terrified,” Emmy admits. “Terrified of marrying you. Terrified of what my life would become. Terrified I’d spend forever trapped in loveless arrangement with cold distant man who’d never want me.”
“And now?” the Duke prompts.
“Now I’m grateful,” Emmy says honestly. “Grateful you offered marriage instead of just refusing to help. Grateful I was desperate enough to accept. Grateful we somehow built something real despite every reason it should have remained cold arrangement.”
The Duke pulls Emmy closer, and when he speaks his voice is rough with emotion.
“I used to hate Christmas,” the Duke admits. “Hated everything about it because it reminded me of losing Caroline and Thomas. But this year—this Christmas with you—it doesn’t hurt the same way. It still aches sometimes. I still miss them. But there’s also joy. New memories being created alongside old pain. That’s healing, Emmy. Actual healing instead of just managing grief.”
“I’m glad,” Emmy responds. “Glad you’re healing. Glad I could help even just a little.”
“You helped more than a little,” the Duke argues. “You forced me to confront my grief instead of avoiding it. Made me see that honoring Caroline and Thomas doesn’t require locking myself away from new happiness. That building a life with you doesn’t betray the life I lost with them. That’s everything, Emmy. That changed everything.”
They fall asleep together in front of the fire—not in bed but curled up on the sofa with blankets wrapped around them—and when Emmy wakes on Christmas morning the Duke is already awake, watching her with an expression of such complete love that Emmy’s breath catches.
“Merry Christmas, wife,” the Duke says softly.
“Merry Christmas, husband,” Emmy responds. “Our first real Christmas together.”
“Not our first,” the Duke corrects. “We married on Christmas Day last year. But our first Christmas where I’m actually present instead of just surviving. Our first Christmas that feels like celebration instead of endurance. Our first Christmas that’s ours.”
“Ours,” Emmy agrees. “I like that. Making Christmas ours instead of just yours or Caroline’s or weighted with grief. Just ours.”
The Duke kisses Emmy slowly—not desperate or hungry but tender and filled with love—and when they separate he’s looking at her with an expression Emmy is finally learning to read.
“I have a gift for you,” the Duke says, producing a small wrapped box Emmy didn’t notice him hiding. “Nothing extravagant. Just something that represents what you’ve given me this past year.”
Emmy opens the box to find a delicate locket on a silver chain, and when she opens the locket she sees two miniature portraits—one of her father looking healthy and happy, clearly painted from a description since he died months before, and one of Thomas from the portrait in Caroline’s sitting room.
“I wanted you to carry both of them,” the Duke explains. “Your father who you lost this year. And Thomas who I lost years ago. Both of them together. Both of them honored. Both of them part of our family even though they’re gone.”
Emmy’s eyes are burning with tears at the thoughtfulness of the gift, at the Duke understanding that she grieves her father while also wanting to honor his lost son, at this physical representation that their marriage includes their losses instead of requiring them to forget.
“It’s perfect,” Emmy manages to say through tears. “Absolutely perfect. Thank you.”
“You gave me back Christmas,” the Duke says simply. “You helped me see it as something besides tragedy. That’s worth more than any gift I could give you.”
They spend Christmas Day quietly together—no elaborate celebrations, no social obligations, just the two of them enjoying being together and creating new traditions that honor the past while celebrating their present—and when Emmy hangs Thomas’s star ornament back in its place of honor at the top of their tree she knows with absolute certainty that they’ve healed something important.
Not completely.
Not perfectly.
But enough.
Enough to move forward instead of staying frozen.
Enough to celebrate Christmas instead of just enduring it.
Enough to build new happiness alongside old grief.
And that’s everything Emmy hoped for when she promised her dying father she wouldn’t give up on the Duke.
However long it took.
They made it.
To Christmas.
To healing.
To love that’s strong enough to honor the past while building the future.
Together.
Finally.
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