Darcy stood by thewindow of his room, his gaze drifting over the snow-covered grounds of Netherfield. He could already imagine the party in full swing: the music, the laughter, the house glowing with warmth and light. The image brightened as his thoughts fixed on Elizabeth Bennet.
He allowed himself a rare indulgence, picturing her beneath the mistletoe, her eyes sparkling with humor and challenge as they so often did. He could almost feel the soft brush of her hand in his, her breath warm against his cheek as he leaned in to…
He stopped himself. His imagination was dangerous territory, but the thought refused to be banished entirely. The vision deepened, becoming more than the fleeting joy of a Christmas kiss.
What if this was not just a moment? What if this was a beginning? The idea stirred something primal, something that had been growing quietly since he first saw her wit flash like lightning across a room. What would it be like to have Elizabeth as a permanent fixture in his life—not just for a night, but for all the nights to come?
It was a notion that had become his muse over the last days—the delirious intoxicant that made his blood heat and his stomach flip in the sort of anticipation he had not known in years. He just needed to speak to her—to learn her feelings and confess his own.
That, however, had been the problem. He could not very well haunt her drawing room. This present circumstance had offered all manner of opportunities to be in company with the Bennets, but over the past days, Darcy had only seen the father. And he had said nothing of his second daughter in Darcy’s hearing.
But surely, there was nothing to concern himself about. She was not a fickle woman—of that, he felt sure. Just a matter of poor timing, of too many things happening. He would have the pleasure of her company again soon enough. And hopefully soon, he could speak to her about making that permanent.
His mind turned, almost reflexively, to Georgiana. Would she like Elizabeth? He could not imagine otherwise. Elizabeth’s charm and warmth would be the perfect complement to Georgiana’s youth and inexperience, drawing her out, encouraging her, making her laugh. The thought made him smile—a rare, unguarded smile—and with it came a sudden resolve.
Georgiana must attend the party.
It was not merely a whim; it was a certainty. Elizabeth must meet Georgiana, and Georgiana must see the woman who had captivated him so thoroughly. But his smile faded as he considered the complications. Georgiana’s reputation was delicate, especially with her debut at court looming next year. Would it be unwise to bring her to Netherfield, given the whispers surrounding Sir Thomas’s household?
But then again, if this party was not respectable enough for his sister, then it was a sham. Everything he had been working toward would be meaningless. He could write to Georgiana and explain everything, but words on a page would not suffice. No, he would have speak to her in person while he was in London, escort her back himself. She deserved to hear it all in detail from him, and he trusted her judgment enough to let her decide.
The sound of sleigh bells outside broke his reverie. Darcy moved to the window, his breath misting the chilled glass as he watched a sleigh come to a halt in the drive. Mr. Bennet stepped down first, brushing snow from his coat, followed by Miss Bennet, her pale face framed by the fur-trimmed hood of her cloak. Darcy’s gaze swept the sleigh once, then again, and his breath hitched—Elizabeth was not there.
His brows drew together. Where was she? A dull weight settled in his stomach, disappointment sharper than he expected. For a moment, he remained by the window, composing himself, before striding purposefully down the stairs and toward the drawing room, his boots echoing softly against the polished floor. Through the open door, he saw Sir Thomas standing near the hearth, flanked by Mr. Bennet and Miss Bennet. A stack of papers rested in Miss Bennet’s hands, and she was speaking quietly as he stepped into the room.
“Thank you for bringing the finalized guest list,” Sir Thomas said, inclining his head toward Mr. Bennet. “Mrs. Bennet’s contributions, I assume, were… enthusiastic?”
Miss Bennet’s hands tightened slightly on the papers. “Very much so. She regrets not coming herself. I—I believe she is presently taking tea with my Aunt Philips.”
“And no doubt planning all manner of frivolity. You may want to rethink the… er… expenses you had decided to authorize, Mr. Bingley… and Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy approached, nodding briefly to the group. “Miss Bennet. Mr. Bennet. I trust the journey was not too uncomfortable?”
Miss Bennet glanced at him, her eyes meeting his for the briefest moment before darting away. “Not at all, Mr. Darcy. Though the roads are still a bit uneven.”
Darcy frowned slightly. Her complexion was pale, and her voice—though calm—carried a hint of strain. As she handed the papers to Sir Thomas, Darcy caught Bingley’s eye. His friend’s usual brightness was muted, his brow furrowed in what Darcy could only describe as concern.
“Have you reviewed the list already?” Bingley asked Miss Bennet, stepping closer. His tone was light, but the way his gaze lingered on her face betrayed his deeper thoughts.
“I have,” she replied, offering a faint smile. “I believe it is in good order, though Mama may still try to add a name or two before the day of the party.”
Sir Thomas chuckled, though his attention flickered briefly to Darcy. “A list in flux, then. Well, I trust we can accommodate whatever changes come.”
Miss Bennet glanced quickly at Bingley, murmuring something Darcy couldn’t catch. Bingley’s brows lifted slightly, and he turned to Darcy with a deliberate air. “Would you care to review the list, Darcy?” he asked. “Sir Thomas and I could use your input on the final numbers.”
“Of course,” Darcy said, stepping closer. As Sir Thomas handed him the papers, he noticed Bingley’s sidelong glance at Miss Bennet. Darcy’s curiosity burned, but propriety held his tongue.
The conversation carried on with details of the party’s logistics, but Darcy’s thoughts remained elsewhere. Miss Bennet kept avoiding his gaze, her tension evident despite her outward composure. And Elizabeth—her absence loomed over the exchange like a shadow. He forced himself to focus on the task at hand, though the questions churned relentlessly in his mind.
When the discussion concluded, Darcy caught Mr. Bennet watching him again, his gaze sharp but unreadable. Bingley lingered for a moment as the Bennets prepared to leave, his shoulders tight with some sort of anxiousness as he hovered near the lady. Darcy bid them farewell with the requisite politeness but could not bring himself to stand at the door to watch as they plunged into the cold.
Instead, he hurried back into his room and leaned on the window sash, gazing to the north, toward Longbourn. Something was amiss, and every instinct in him screamed that all was not right with Elizabeth.
Scarcely ten minutes latercame the knock at the door, and he did not even need to wonder who it was. “Come in,” he called.
Bingley entered, his manner roughened by an edge of urgency. “Darcy,” he began, running a hand through his hair, “we have a problem.”
Darcy straightened, his entire body going rigid. “What is it?”
