Sir Thomas’s gaze darted to Darcy, then to the crowded ballroom. His weathered face softened, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I scarcely dared to hope for a moment like this,” he murmured. “To see them—everyone—together, as equals.”
Darcy gave Sir Thomas’s shoulder a squeeze. “Every handshake, every kind word tonight—those are the echoes of your own actions, the lives you’ve saved, and the chances you’ve given. Merry Christmas, Sir Thomas.”
Sir Thomas’s breath hitched as he turned fully to face Darcy, his voice trembling. “This… this is the greatest gift I’ve ever received. You and Bingley—this evening—what you’ve done here, it’s beyond what I could have hoped.”
Darcy inclined his head, his grip tightening once more on Sir Thomas’s shoulder before stepping back. He glanced across the room, where Bingley was engaged in a lively conversation with a group of local tradesmen, his natural charm bridging gaps that might otherwise have remained insurmountable. For all his friend’s easy laughter, Darcy knew how deeply Bingley believed in the importance of this night—and how much of its success was due to his unwavering enthusiasm.
As Sir Thomas turned to greet another well-wisher, Darcy allowed himself a rare moment of satisfaction. Tonight was a triumph, not for appearances or social niceties, but for something real—something that mattered.
But the triumph faded quickly for him—meaningless, almost, until his gaze chanced across the one who had inspired him. Across the room, seated at a card table, was Elizabeth. Her dark curls gleamed in the candlelight, perfectly framing the sharp curve of her cheek and the vibrant blue of her gown. She laughed—bright, unrestrained—and for a moment, he was utterly frozen, his entire world narrowing to that sound, that vision.
Fitzwilliam, seated across from her, was gesturing with a theatrical flourish at his cards, clearly losing but playing the fool to draw another laugh from her. Darcy’s stomach twisted—not with jealousy, but with an undeniable need to be the one seated across from her, to hear her laughter directed at him.
He barely registered Sir Thomas’s murmured thanks to another well-wisher as he excused himself. Darcy was already moving, his steps purposeful, his focus unshakable. Elizabeth Bennet had captured his heart, and tonight, he would not let her slip away again.
He hardly recalled walking across the room, but a moment later, he was standing behind her chair, watching her claim another victory over his cousin. “Miss Elizabeth,” he said, his voice carrying just enough weight to turn her gaze. “Would you join me in a different sort of game?”
She looked up at him. “Oh? What sort of game are you leading, Mr. Darcy?”
“Oh, do tell us, Darcy,” Fitzwilliam asked. “Are you about to demonstrate your skill at card tricks? Or perhaps an old hunting game you believe we country folk would find fascinating?”
Darcy did not even glance at him. “No cards, no hunting. But I do believe Snapdragon is the game of the hour.”
Elizabeth tilted her head, interest sparking in her eyes. “Snapdragon? I have heard of it but never had the opportunity to play.”
Fitzwilliam gave a theatrical groan. “Darcy, you are as full of surprises as a Christmas pudding. Very well, steal her away if you must. But be warned, I shall win her back at the next opportunity.”
Darcy turned to his cousin, his response dry. “Your chances are as promising as they ever were.”
Elizabeth’s soft laugh was… well, it was everything. He extended his arm to her, and she placed her hand lightly on his sleeve, her warmth seeping through the fabric. “I hope you have quick fingers, Mr. Darcy,” she said. “Lead on.”
As they entered the parlor, the faint scent of brandy greeted them, mingling with the warmth of the crackling fire. A shallow dish of raisins floated in the center of the table, and Darcy went to the fire, bringing back a glowing stick to ignite the brandy. Blue flames danced across the surface, casting flickering shadows that played against the walls.
Elizabeth’s eyes widened as she watched the fire’s hypnotic glow. “It is beautiful,” she murmured.
Darcy turned slightly toward her, the faintest smile touching his lips. “It is also unforgiving. Are you prepared for the challenge?”
Her gaze snapped to his, a flicker of determination sparking in her expression. “I am not one to back away from a test, Mr. Darcy.”
“Nor would I expect you to.”
He motioned to the flames and reached in, his movements swift and precise. A raisin appeared between his fingers, and without hesitation, he popped it into his mouth. He stepped back with a nod. “Your turn, Miss Elizabeth.”
She hesitated for only a moment before stepping forward. The fire’s heat kissed her skin, and Darcy noted the slight curl of her fingers as she reached into the flames. She emerged victorious, holding the raisin aloft with a triumphant glint in her eyes.
“Well done,” Darcy said.
She returned to his side, her cheeks faintly flushed. “I believe you underestimated me.”
“On the contrary, I expected nothing less.”
“Truly?” Her brows arched wickedly, and she held the raisin aloft between them as though she were offering it to him. In public? Darcy shot a quick glance over his shoulder, wondering if anyone was looking at them just now. Did he dare?
Elizabeth’s smile widened as she tempted him with that raisin, and just as he was dipping his head down to let her drop it in his mouth, she changed course and slipped it into her own mouth.
And Darcy nearly crashed forward, just barely stopping himself from following that raisin’s path to her lips. And any hope he might have ever entertained of keeping his composure around her was shattered.
They were not left alone for long once others saw the flames had been lit. Kitty Bennet was the next challenger, with Maria Lucas and Mrs. Jackson following. Laughter spilled into the room as guests tested their courage. Fitzwilliam, predictably, yelped when he “misjudged” the flames, earning a round of good-natured jeers. Even Sir William Lucas joined in, his booming laugh filling the space as he reached into the fire with the gusto of a man who had nothing left to fear.
