27. Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Seven

A ripple of laughter swept through the crowd near the punch bowl as Mr. and Mrs. Jackson found themselves paused beneath the mistletoe. Jackson must have missed seeing it, for it had been on his blind side, but his young wife did not. She covered her mouth with her hand and giggled, pointing upward when she discovered that their friends had suddenly cleared a space around them and were cheering them on. A quick peck—perhaps a little braver than others might have been—and the game was on as others “accidentally” wandered beneath its white berries.

The sprig of greenery dangled gently on its red ribbon, a quiet invitation more than a formal demand. Some guests lingered nearby, feigning casual interest, while others drifted past, their gazes flickering to the mistletoe with varying degrees of curiosity or amusement.

Elizabeth found herself at the edge of the gathering, Darcy still at her side. His expression was rather more composed than hers, though his gaze seemed fixed on the sprig of mistletoe swaying gently above the punch bowl… where practically everyone would stray under its intoxicating powers at some point during the night.

“Do you think Sir Thomas deliberately placed it there to cause a riot?” Elizabeth asked, tilting her head toward the mistletoe.

“If he did, he has been remarkably successful. It seems to have become the centerpiece of the evening.”

“Would you say the same if you were standing under it?”

He glanced at her, his eyes glinting with something almost teasing. “Perhaps you should test the theory.”

Elizabeth raised a brow. “That sounds suspiciously like a challenge, Mr. Darcy.”

“Not at all. Merely an observation.”

She turned to him, her cheeks warming at the intensity of his look. “Do you intend to join the spectacle, Mr. Darcy?”

“Only if you wish it.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth to respond, but before she could find the words, Colonel Fitzwilliam appeared, his grin as mischievous as ever.

“Cousin!” he exclaimed. “It seems you are the only one who has not yet participated in this grand tradition. What an oversight!”

Darcy’s expression shifted into one of mild annoyance. “I am not certain that I—”

“Oh, nonsense,” Fitzwilliam interrupted, grabbing his arm. “Come, come! Miss Elizabeth, surely you agree that ‘mingling’ is the point of the evening, and Mr. Darcy ought to set an example for the rest of us?”

Elizabeth glanced at Darcy, who was already looking at her. “Well,” she said lightly, trying to ignore the sudden quickening of her pulse, “it seems we have little choice.”

Darcy’s lips curved into the faintest of smiles. “It would appear so.”

He offered his hand, and she took it, allowing him to guide her toward the mistletoe. The crowd parted for them, their whispers and murmurs creating a hum of anticipation. Elizabeth’s heart was pounding so loudly that she was certain everyone could hear it.

They stopped beneath the sprig, its green leaves and white berries casting a shadow over their heads. Darcy turned to face her fully, his gaze steady and unwavering. Elizabeth’s breath caught as the room seemed to fade, leaving only him.

“For tradition’s sake,” he said softly, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

Elizabeth nodded, unable to speak. Her eyes darted to his lips, then back to his eyes. He leaned in slowly, giving her every chance to step away.

She did not.

The brush of his lips against her cheek was feather-light, yet it sent a warmth spiraling through her that felt a great deal like an inferno. When he pulled back, his gaze held hers, and the faintest curve of his lips hinted at something more . Gone were the daring taunts she had leveled at him over a game of Snapdragon. This was real, this… this could be forever.

The crowd erupted into cheers and applause, but Elizabeth barely noticed. Her cheeks burned, her heart hammering in a way that had nothing to do with the attention around them. Instead of stepping back, she stayed where she was, her eyes searching his.

Darcy inclined his head slightly, his voice low but carrying an unmistakable warmth. “Thank you, Miss Elizabeth.”

“For what?” she asked, her voice sounding somewhat even, though her pulse was anything but.

“For giving me the honor,” he replied, his tone edged with something almost teasing, though his sincerity was clear.

Before she could reply, Colonel Fitzwilliam’s laughter bellowed behind them. “Bravo, Darcy! A true masterclass in Christmas decorum.” He clapped his cousin on the shoulder, his grin unabashed. “Perhaps you could leave some of the mistletoe for the rest of us.”

Darcy gave a faint smile but didn’t look away from Elizabeth. His gaze, steady and intent, made her feel as though the crowd had melted into nothing more than background noise.

Elizabeth’s lips twitched. “I believe, Colonel, that the mistletoe is for everyone. No one has claimed exclusive rights.”

Darcy’s brow lifted. “Perhaps some traditions deserve a second indulgence.”

Elizabeth tilted her head, her smile daring. “Perhaps.”

And, so he indulged. Goodness, the man tasted like mulled wine and honey, and she could have lost herself there. They stayed like that for a moment longer, the room’s hum of voices and music fading into the periphery. Whatever had fractured their understanding before seemed, in that instant, to begin mending.

She was not sure her heart would ever stop racing.

D arcy and Elizabeth had only just rejoined the flow of the party, their quiet smiles lingering from the tender moment beneath the mistletoe when Georgiana appeared at Elizabeth’s side. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement, her eyes bright as she approached them.

“Miss Elizabeth! We have gathered a group in the drawing room for some Christmas fun, and your presence is absolutely required.”

Elizabeth glanced up at Darcy, clearly reluctant to let go of his hand, but the warmth in Georgiana’s invitation was undeniable. Darcy felt the faintest twinge of disappointment as she turned to his sister, her easy laugh answering Georgiana’s plea.

“Required, you say?” Elizabeth teased. “I suppose I must not disappoint.”

Darcy tightened his hold on her hand for a moment, his voice low as he said, “You will come back, will you not?”

Elizabeth tilted her head, her smile softening. “Of course,” she said. Rising onto her toes, she pressed a kiss to his cheek—light as a snowflake, yet it left him frozen in place.

Georgiana blinked, her gaze darting between them before she quickly collected herself. “Do not let me interrupt,” she murmured, though her tone carried the faintest hint of amusement.

Darcy reluctantly released Elizabeth’s hand, and Georgiana linked arms with her, guiding her away into the lively throng. Darcy stood rooted for a moment, watching as the two women dearest to him in the whole world disappeared into the drawing room. His fingers flexed at his side, aching to hold Elizabeth’s again, but he let her go, for now.

Because for now, Georgiana needed this moment with Elizabeth—needed a sister, a friend, and though Elizabeth probably did not know it yet, she needed Georgiana. There were still things Elizabeth could not see, things he wanted her to understand. And if anyone could bring Elizabeth into the fold of his world, it would be his sister.

But still, her absence left him feeling… incomplete.

“Darcy,” Colonel Fitzwilliam’s voice interrupted his thoughts, accompanied by a hand clapping his shoulder. “If you stare any harder, you will frighten the poor girl away.”

Darcy straightened, his expression carefully neutral. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“Of course, you do not,” Fitzwilliam replied dryly. “But if you are not going to do something about it, perhaps I should take my chances.”

Darcy turned sharply, fixing Fitzwilliam with a glare that could have silenced Parliament. “You will do no such thing.”

Fitzwilliam grinned, entirely undeterred. “Ah, so you do intend to do something! Glad to hear it. I was beginning to worry you had resigned yourself to kissing her once, then admiring her from a distance for the rest of your days.”

Darcy glanced toward the drawing room, where Elizabeth’s laughter carried faintly through the open doorway. A warmth spread through his chest at the sound, steadying him even as it unsettled him. “I kissed her twice, in case you were not counting, and I have not resigned myself to anything, Fitzwilliam.”

“Good,” Fitzwilliam said, leaning slightly closer. “Because if you have been waiting for the perfect moment, Cousin, it is here. If I were you, I would make sure this night ends with her knowing exactly where you stand.”

Darcy’s jaw tightened, but he gave a curt nod. Fitzwilliam, infuriating as he could be, was not wrong. For weeks, he had grappled with his feelings, balancing his longing against his uncertainty. But Elizabeth was here, in his world, laughing with his sister, standing with him under the mistletoe. And though the memory of her impulsive kiss still tingled on his cheek, it was not enough.

It would never be enough.

“Excuse me,” he said briskly, stepping away from Fitzwilliam’s amused gaze. He needed time to think, to gather the right words—not to sway Elizabeth, but to give her the truth she deserved.

Darcy stopped just outside the drawing room, drawn by the lively chatter spilling into the hall. Georgiana sat beside Elizabeth at the center of a circle of women, her hands gesturing wildly as laughter rippled around her. The game was in full swing, the circle of women volleying adjectives with growing creativity. “The Minister’s cat is mischievous!” Charlotte Lucas declared, prompting a ripple of approving laughter.

“The Minister’s cat is melancholy!” another added, her tone so exaggeratedly somber that even Georgiana doubled over with laughter.

The turn passed to one of Sir Thomas’s younger residents—a petite girl with auburn hair who wrung her hands nervously. She opened her mouth, then closed it, her cheeks turning scarlet as the silence stretched. The group stilled, waiting with kind but expectant smiles.

Elizabeth leaned toward the girl, her voice low and soothing. “Why not ‘magnificent’?” she suggested, her tone as light as a secret shared between friends.

The girl’s lips twitched into a tentative smile. “The Minister’s cat is… magnificent!” she said, her voice gaining confidence as the word tumbled out.

The circle erupted into applause, clapping and laughing as the girl sat back with a relieved grin. Georgiana gave her an encouraging squeeze on the arm, and Elizabeth beamed at her, her delight as radiant as if she’d been the one to win the moment.

Darcy’s fingers flexed against the doorframe. She belonged to no circle, yet she brought life to every one she entered. How did she always know exactly what to say?

There was something magnetic about Elizabeth in moments like this, her natural warmth drawing people toward her. She was central to every moment of magic that had unfurled itself here this night. Not because she belonged to Netherfield, or even to him, but because she had a rare and undeniable gift for making any space feel brighter, more alive.

He could not—would not—let this slip away. Not again. By the end of this night, he would find the right moment to speak to her, to lay bare everything he had been holding back. Elizabeth deserved nothing less.

By the end of this night, he resolved, he would offer everything he was… to her.

T he parlor at Netherfield was a scene of quiet, cheerful chaos. Chairs were being set to rights, trays of empty glasses gathered, and bits of greenery and ribbon swept into piles. Elizabeth bent to pick up a fallen sprig of holly, the scent of pine and lingering candle smoke still heavy in the air. Around her, the hum of voices filled the room—not the usual noise of her neighbors mingling in polite gossip, but the camaraderie of people working together.

Her mother was flitting from corner to wall to window and back again, directing a cluster of younger girls—Kitty, Lydia, Maria Lucas, and several of Sir Thomas’s charges—toward the next room to retrieve the last of the discarded linens. Nearby, Mr. Bennet leaned against the mantel, his face a mask of wry bemusement as he observed the unlikely spectacle of gentry and tradespeople working side by side.

Elizabeth glanced across the room. Jane was deep in conversation with Mr. Bingley, their heads close together, the air between them alive with the ease of shared understanding. Even Mary had been coaxed into assisting, her determined frown softening as she sorted a stack of empty dishes beside Sir Thomas himself, who looked as if he might burst with gratitude and pride.

“Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy’s voice came from behind her, sending a shiver of prickles racing over her skin. She turned to find him standing just a step away, his dark eyes warm in the flickering firelight. He had shed his coat and rolled his shirtsleeves back, his waistcoat slightly askew—a rare and disarming sight.

“I thought you were in some serious conversation with your friends from London before their carriages whisked them away,” Elizabeth said, arching a brow as she stood with the holly in hand. “Yet here you are in your shirtsleeves as though you are ready to move tables. It hardly suits our Master of Ceremonies to be cleaning up after the party.”

“On the contrary,” he replied with a faint smile, “it suits me well enough tonight. And what do you mean by calling me the Master of Ceremonies? I think we both know that I did nothing tonight that Bingley did not put me up to.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Do you always make a habit of cleaning up after your guests?”

“Only when the guests are worth the effort,” he said lightly, though there was a depth to his gaze that made her heart flutter.

They fell into step together, weaving through the room as they gathered stray ribbons and candlesticks. The shared work brought a gentle closeness to their conversation

“It is remarkable,” Elizabeth said after a moment. “The way everyone has stayed. I cannot imagine it happening again, and yet… tonight, it feels right.”

“It does,” Darcy agreed. “Though I suspect the credit lies with you.”

Elizabeth blinked at him, surprised. “Me?”

“You brought them together,” he said simply. “Your warmth, your generosity… why, it was even your idea. Bingley and I may have done our part, but without you, none of this would have been possible.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth to reply, but the words faltered. She glanced away, unsure how to respond to the intensity of his compliment. The gentle brush of his fingers against hers as they both reached for the same ribbon made her heart stand still.

“Will you walk with me?” he asked.

She nodded.

He guided her from the parlor, and they passed the threshold into a quieter corridor. Behind them, laughter rose and fell, faint now, like music heard from another room. The air felt thinner here, sharp with the cold that seeped through the old walls. Her pulse thrummed louder with each step. She told herself it was the exertion of the evening, her head light and bones heavy with fatigue and too much punch. Yet her thoughts spun around him, his nearness, the gravity he carried so effortlessly.

They stopped near the staircase, where the shadows from the banister danced on the walls in the firelight from the hall. He let go of her hand, only to turn toward her fully. He stood straight, no hesitation in his frame. She could not look away.

“Elizabeth,” he said. Her name, so simple, yet transformed in his voice. “I must speak plainly.”

She nodded again. Her throat was dry.

“I have spent years,” he said, “believing my life was already determined. My duty was clear, my course set, and anything beyond it was folly.” He paused, and there was that little smile—the one that made the faintest dimple appear in his cheek, that dimple that most people probably never knew he had. “But I see I was wrong. You have shown me what life could be,” he said. “With you, I can see more than duty. More than ambition. With you, there is meaning.”

He lowered himself to one knee. She stared at him, and for a moment, the world held still. His words hung in the air between them, not like questions but truths waiting for her answer. Her chest squeezed, as though all the air had been knocked out of her. She tried to draw a breath, but instead hiccupped—a small, undignified sound that startled them both.

She pressed her fingers to her lips, horrified, but Darcy’s smile widened, with a brilliance that made her heart lurch.

“I have known you but a few weeks, but there is nothing sudden or uncertain about my feelings. Almost from the first moments of our acquaintance, my affections have been fixed. Elizabeth Bennet, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Well… for such a question there was only one way she could answer.

She ought to have smiled demurely, offered some polite excuse for her feminine charms or blushed prettily at his compliments. But that was not her way. No, no, if he wanted her, he would have all of her, from this moment forth.

Elizabeth laughed and leaped into his waiting arms. “Y-yes, you… you impossibly wonderful man!”

Darcy yelped in surprise and caught her with a sharp intake of breath, his hold tightening instinctively as he steadied them both. Her arms looped around his neck, and he lifted her from the ground. Elizabeth laughed again, giddy and unrestrained, as Darcy spun her in a wide circle. His laughter joint hers, and the world blurred around them, the corridor and the snow-dusted windows fading into nothing. It was only when he slowed, lowering her gently back to her feet, that she realized how wildly her heart was pounding.

He kissed her then, a bold, claiming kiss that felt like a vow. Her fingers curled into the back of his shirt as if to anchor herself, but she had never felt so free. When they finally parted, her breath came in quick gasps, and her cheeks burned—not from embarrassment but from the kind of joy that left no room for restraint.

As she tilted her head back to look at him, her eyes caught on a movement over his shoulder. Beyond the staircase, just visible through the archway, stood Jane and Mr. Bingley. They were holding hands, watching with undisguised amusement. Jane’s smile was soft but knowing, her eyes sparkling with sisterly triumph. Bingley, meanwhile, was grinning broadly, his expression as bright and open as ever.

“Well, Darcy,” Bingley called out, “I must say, you have surpassed even my highest expectations. I had no idea you remembered how to smile!”

“More than that,” Jane added, glancing at Elizabeth. “I have never seen my sister so thoroughly silenced. It seems you have achieved the impossible, Mr. Darcy.”

Darcy turned his head slightly, casting them a glance that was both indulgent and faintly exasperated. “Thank you for your insights,” he said dryly. “However, I am afraid I must ask you to excuse us. I have important business to attend to.”

Before either could respond, he turned back to Elizabeth and claimed her lips again. This time, the kiss was slower, deeper, and so thoroughly consuming that Elizabeth felt herself tip forward into him, her laughter muffled by the warmth of his embrace.

When at last they broke apart, Elizabeth caught her breath and pressed her forehead against his chest, shaking her head as she smiled. “You are impossible,” she whispered.

“And you,” he murmured against her hair, his voice low and full of warmth, “are everything.”