The drawing room doors burst open and Mr. Bingley strode in, his face alight with enthusiasm.
“Jane! Miss Elizabeth! How delighted I am to find you here. Caroline mentioned you were coming to consult on the preparations. Is it not magnificent?”
He spread his arms wide, encompassing the greenery-draped room with boyish pride.
“It is certainly... abundant,” Jane said, her cheeks pink.
“Abundant! Yes, exactly. We shall have the finest entertainment Hertfordshire has ever seen.” He beamed at Jane with undisguised adoration. “And you must promise to save me thefirst dance. And the second. And possibly the third, if propriety allows.”
“Charles.” Miss Bingley's voice held a warning note. “You are monopolizing Miss Bennet.”
“Nonsense! A man cannot monopolize a lady he intends to—” He stopped abruptly, his ears reddening. “That is to say—I merely wish to ensure?—”
Jane's blush deepened. Elizabeth bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.
“Perhaps we should continue the tour,” Miss Bingley interrupted, her smile strained. “I wished to show our guests the arrangements in the music room.”
She swept toward the door—and then stopped, her expression transforming into something Elizabeth could only describe as predatory delight.
“Oh dear,” Miss Bingley said, in a tone that suggested she was not sorry at all. “Charles, Jane—you appear to be standing beneath the mistletoe.”
Elizabeth looked up. Sure enough, a spray of the fateful plant hung directly above where Mr. Bingley and Jane stood frozen.
Jane's face had gone from pink to crimson.
Mr. Bingley looked as though Christmas had arrived early.
“Well!” he said, his voice slightly higher than usual. “It appears tradition demands—that is—if Miss Bennet would not object?—”
“Charles.” Miss Bingley's eye was twitching again. “Perhaps a handshake would suffice for a first acquaintance with the custom.”
“Handshake! Yes, of course. Very proper.”
He seized Jane's hand and shook it with vigorous enthusiasm. Jane looked simultaneously relieved and disappointed.
Elizabeth caught Mr. Darcy's eye. He appeared to be struggling with some internal battle—his lips pressed firmly together, his shoulders suspiciously rigid.
“A narrow escape,” Elizabeth murmured.
“For whom, I wonder?”
She did not trust herself to answer.
The party moved on, and Elizabeth allowed herself to relax. Until she stepped backward to admire a particularly elaborate garland and felt something brush the top of her head.
She looked up.
Mistletoe.
Directly above her.
And Mr. Darcy was standing not three feet away, having followed her to examine the same garland.
The room went very quiet.
Or perhaps that was merely Elizabeth's imagination, the blood rushing in her ears drowning out all other sound. Miss Bingley was watching from across the room, her expression sharp with interest. Mrs. Hurst had actually sat up on her settee. Jane looked torn between concern and curiosity.
Mr. Darcy had gone very still beside her, his gaze fixed upward. When Elizabeth followed it, her stomach dropped.
