Page 60 of The Longbourn Bloodline

He could not answer. The carriage was slowing, the horses stamping, and Elizabeth was already at the door—ahead of the servants, ahead of her family, ahead of every rule of propriety that should have kept her waiting in the hall with her hands folded and her expression composed.

She reached the carriage before anyone else, and as the footman swung open the door, Darcy’s heart lodged itself somewhere most inconvenient. He attempted to descend—unfolding himself with rather less elegance than he might have preferred—his hat tumbling ignominiously as the cold air cut through his travel-worn attire.

Yet all the world narrowed to Elizabeth—her cheeks bright with color, her breath a silver cloud, and those eyes, impossibly luminous, drawing him in with a force he could neither resist nor explain.

“Miss Elizabeth.” His voice came out rough. “I⁠—”

“Mr. Darcy.” She was slightly breathless, her eyes searching his face with an intensity that made his chest ache. “You came.”

Yes, of course he had come; absence from her had become as impossible as abstaining from breath. But she had not requested him to come, and it appeared she had been waiting, expecting. She had run to the carriage, and they were staring at each other as if…

He cleared his throat and gathered himself, stepping to the ground. “I came because…”

Behind him, Georgiana made a squeak, and he remembered that his sister wished to meet her cousins, and that he had responsibilities beyond his own thundering heart.

“Miss Elizabeth.” He turned and offered his hand to help Georgiana down. “May I present my sister, Georgiana? She has been eager to meet you.”

Georgiana descended with considerably more elegance than her brother had managed, her eyes wide and curious as she took in the flushed young woman on the drive. “Miss Elizabeth! I have heard so much about you—all of you—and I am so glad.”

And because Darcy needed the reassurance that Elizabeth was no mere vision conjured by longing, he presented his sister’s hand to hers. When Elizabeth clasped Georgiana’s hand with warmth, he allowed his own gloved fingers to graze hers and heard the catch in her breath.

“Miss Darcy.” Elizabeth’s voice was warm, although her gaze lifted to meet his again before returning to his sister. “Welcome to Longbourn. Your brother speaks of you with such affection that I feel I know you already.”

“He speaks of you too,” Georgiana said, with the devastating honesty of a sixteen-year-old. “Rather constantly, actually.”

Darcy felt heat rise in his face. Elizabeth’s eyes found his, dancing suspiciously like laughter, as she then drew Georgiana toward the door. “You must be frozen,” she said with another teasing glance at him. “Come in. We are at dinner, and there is goose, and my mother will not rest until everyone has eaten twice.”

“I should like that very much.” Georgiana glanced back at her brother with an expression Darcy knew well—part mischief, part evaluation—and he saw her register what he could not conceal: the way his gaze followed Elizabeth through the doorway, the way his body had turned to track her like a compass seeking north.

The entire company had evidently left the dining room to gape at their unexpected arrival, Mrs. Bennet’s voice cresting above the general tumult.

“Mr. Darcy! What a surprise! What an honor. Hill, the good port, and this must be your sister; what a delightful creature. She has your eyes; how fatigued you both must be. Have you eaten, sit, sit!”

“Mrs. Bennet.” Darcy bowed. “I apologize for the hour. We have come directly from the road, but we shall retire to an inn. We saw lanterns and wished to wish your household a very merry Twelfth Night.”

“How very kind of you to call directly from the road.” Mrs. Bennet fluttered, her gaze landing on Elizabeth. “You are all welcome to stay for dinner. Oh, Hill! Two more place settings, and the good napkins.”

Bingley appeared at his side, clasping his hand. “Darcy! You came. I said you would come, didn’t I, Miss Bennet? I told her you would not stay away long.”

“You said he might write,” Jane Bennet corrected gently, appearing at Bingley’s elbow with a mild smile. “Arriving in person is an improvement. Come, let us celebrate the arrival of friends.”

She curtsied to Darcy, and he presented Georgiana before they were offered refreshment, their cloaks and coats relieved, and ushered into the dining room.

The room itself was warm and crowded, exactly as a dinner party at the Bennet household would proceed. Mrs. Bennet directed Darcy to a seat too far from Elizabeth and too close to herself, while the younger sisters peppered Georgiana with questions without waiting for the answers. Sir William repeated his St. James’ story, and Mr. Bennet toasted him and everyone he could recall. The goose was carved in a manner he had never seen before, and platters were passed around haphazardly. Still, through it all, he laughed, he smiled, conversed, and kept his eyes on Elizabeth, their gazes meeting through the candlelight, holding steady as he could, catching him with a terrifying and uncontrollable hope—because a pink ribbon was woven through her curls. Her eyes held more than their usual mischief, deeper and filled, and the ache increased because it might have mirrored his own.

She had missed him.

“Mr. Darcy.” Mr. Bennet’s voice cut through his reverie. “I must congratulate you on your timing. We are about to cut the Twelfth Night cake, and I believe my wife has been orchestrating this moment since breakfast.”

“The cake!” Mrs. Bennet seized upon this with relief. “Yes, yes, the cake must be cut. Jane, dear, you shall serve. The bean and the pea are hidden inside, Mr. Darcy; it is tradition that whoever finds the bean is King for the evening, and whoever finds the pea is Queen, and they must wear the crowns and lead the wassailing.”

“I have my own bean,” Lydia announced, producing a dried bean from her pocket with evident satisfaction. “I got it from Cook. If the real one goes to Mary or someone dull, I shall substitute.”

“Lydia!” Mrs. Bennet’s voice rose. “You will do nothing of the sort! The tradition must be observed properly, or it means nothing at all!”

Georgiana, seated beside Jane, was watching the Bennet family drama with wide-eyed fascination. Darcy caught her eye and saw her suppress a smile. This was nothing like Matlock, nothing like the careful formality of aristocratic dinners. This was all commotion, warmth, and life. His sister, raised in drawing rooms where every word was weighed, was clearly enchanted.

The Twelfth Night cake made its entrance on a silver tray, iced in white and adorned with sugared rosemary and holly berries, resembling nothing so much as a snowbound fortress valiantly resisting Lydia’s marauding fingers.