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.
The parlor at Netherfieldwas 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.
