“Mr. Bingley!” I exclaimed as I realized where he was leading me. The gilded arch of mistletoe hung ahead, already having served many a blushing couple that evening. “You cannot possibly intend for us to—“
“Tradition, Miss Bennet,” he teased, winking as he referred to the holiday gesture.
“But you’re meant for Jane,” I retorted, my eyes darting to the dwindling berries above.
He paused, feigning shock. “Am I not allowed a bit of fun with my future sister before the season’s end?”
“No!”
“Too late, for here we are. Oh! And look! One berry left.”
Before I could even consider how to respond, he gave me another spin, positioning me perfectly under the arch. However, instead of leaning in, he took a step back, leaving me somewhat disoriented. “What the devil?”
A soft laugh sounded behind me. I turned to find Jane, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief, guiding a rather startled-looking man toward the mistletoe. He was wearing a deep red masque, and the pitch of his voice, the cut of his chin…My Mr. Darcy.
Jane leaned in. “I suggest you make use of the opportunity while it lasts,” she whispered to him. He sputtered at her, declaring that he would do no such thing… and then he turned around.
“Oh!” I blinked, and my eyes drifted up.
Mr. Darcy’s gaze followed mine, settling on the single berry left. And then his mouth turned up. He arched a brow, his voice dripping with feigned innocence. “I believe it’s tradition… Elizabeth.”
I took a step back, readying a witty retort when his hand snaked out to gently grasp my wrist. “You cannot possibly be suggesting—“
He interrupted my protest with a roguish grin. “Why, Elizabeth Bennet, are you afraid of a mere sprig of mistletoe?”
“No, but—“ I stammered, trying to muster my wits, “I believe the tradition is reserved for lovers, not mere acquaintances.”
His eyes twinkled with mirth. “Then allow me to correct our status.” With that, he pulled me into his arms, the sudden movement taking me by surprise. For a second, everything around us blurred into insignificance.
And then he was kissing me. And I was pushing that masque off his face to feel more of him.
It was unexpected, sizzling, and delicious. All the sounds of the ballroom, the gentle hum of voices, the rustle of gowns, the soft music, receded into the background. All I was aware of was him—the heat of his lips, the solid strength of his embrace, and the slight teasing pressure of his mouth against mine.
As he pulled away, the world slowly returned to focus, leaving me disoriented and breathless. His eyes, a deeper shade of brown now, searched mine. I felt as if I had been swept into another world and was just now landing back on solid ground.
He cleared his throat, the teasing glint never leaving his eyes. “Well, my love, was that enough for you? Or do I have to propose again?”
I swallowed, trying to find my voice, “Mr. Darcy... I believe you’ve made your point.”
He chuckled softly, releasing me but keeping a lingering hand on my arm. “Good. I wouldn’t want there to be any misunderstandings about traditions.”
25
6 January 1813
Themorningaftermyfirst Twelfth Night Ball as Mistress of Pemberley, the grand estate was bathed in a soft golden light as the sun began to rise, casting an ethereal glow upon the remnants of the previous night’s festivities. The once-pristine ballroom, now strewn with crushed flower petals and crumpled dance cards, lay dormant, while the echoes of laughter and music still seemed to linger in the air. Outside, the gardens were a veritable wonderland, the frost-kissed flowers and statues glistening like diamonds, inviting one to explore their crystalline beauty.
As I awoke from my slumber, a feeling of contentment washed over me like a warm embrace, filling my heart with inexplicable happiness. My thoughts drifted to the events of the previous night, replaying the joyous dances, the delightful conversations, and the warmth of being surrounded by those I held most dear. I could not help but smile as I recalled the sight of my loved ones finding happiness and love beneath the enchanting mistletoe, their faces alight with hope and affection. It was a scene that had filled my soul with a sense of fulfillment and gratitude that I had not known possible.
As I lay there, cocooned in the plush bed linens, I allowed myself to bask in the serenity of the moment, the tranquility of the morning providing the perfect backdrop for my introspection. How fortunate I was to have played a part in bringing such joy to those around me, and how truly blessed I felt to be surrounded by such love and support. My mind wandered to the future, envisioning what it might hold for myself and those I cherished. If this first Christmas season at Pemberley was any indication, I knew that our lives would be filled with laughter, love, and untold joys. And for that, I could not have been more grateful.
The door to my chamber creaked open, and Fitzwilliam appeared in the doorway, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he surveyed the room with an air of feigned disapproval. “My dear Mrs. Darcy,” he drawled, folding his arms across his chest, “it appears that Pemberley has survived your first Christmas season as its mistress—albeit just barely.”
I rose from my bed, suppressing a grin as I gathered my dressing gown around me. “Oh? Pray, elaborate on this miraculous survival, Mr. Darcy,” I challenged, raising an eyebrow playfully.
“Indeed, I shall,” he replied, striding towards me with ease. “The boughs and holly may be scattered haphazardly all over the floor, and the halls strewn with remnants of evergreen garland, but the house yet stands, and the staff remains in good spirits. Therefore, I must conclude that you have performed admirably.”
“Your faith in my abilities is truly touching, sir,” I retorted, my voice dripping with sarcasm as I tied the sash of my dressing gown firmly around my waist. “But let us not forget my true triumph this season—securing mistletoe magic for others!”
