Mistletoe. Directly above them both.
“It would appear,” Mr. Darcy said, his voice strained, “that we have made a tactical error.”
“So it would.” Elizabeth's cheeks burned. “A miscalculation on both our parts.”
“Should I—that is—tradition would seem to?—”
“Tradition can go hang.”
The words came out more forcefully than intended. Mr. Darcy blinked.
Elizabeth took a deliberate step sideways, removing herself from beneath the offending vegetation. Mr. Darcy remained frozen for a half-second longer before following her lead, the two of them now standing a safe distance apart.
“I believe the custom applies only to those who remain stationary,” Elizabeth said, willing her voice steady. “Having relocated, we are no longer bound by its demands.”
“A creative interpretation.”
“I am a great believer in creative interpretation when the alternative is public humiliation.”
Something shifted in his expression—a softening, almost imperceptible. “I meant no disrespect by—that is—I would not have presumed?—”
“I know.” Elizabeth managed a smile, though her heart was still racing. “And I thank you for the warning. Your talent for noticing has proved useful once again.”
“It seemed only fair. You were admiring the garland with such concentration.”
“I was attempting to determine whether the berries are poisonous. For future reference, in case Miss Bingley decides to weaponise those as well.”
Mr. Darcy's lips twitched. “A prudent inquiry.”
Miss Bingley appeared at Mr. Darcy's elbow, her smile bright with triumph.
“How fortunate that crisis was averted,” she said, laying a proprietary hand on his arm. “These country customs can be so awkward for those unaccustomed to society's refinements.” She tilted her chin toward him. “I confess, Mr. Darcy, I am relieved you escaped unscathed. The tradition is meant for those who share a certain... understanding.”
Mr. Darcy's expression flickered—discomfort, or something else Elizabeth could not name. He stepped back, dislodging Miss Bingley's hand with a movement that might have been accidental.
“I believe Miss Elizabeth and I share an understanding perfectly well,” he said. “We both understand the value of a timely retreat.”
Miss Bingley's smile faltered.
Elizabeth pressed her lips together to contain her laugh.
“Indeed,” Miss Bingley said, recovering. “Well. Shall we continue the tour, Mr. Darcy? I wished to show you the arrangements in the music room. I have placed the candles exactly as you prefer.”
“I was not aware I had a preference regarding candles.”
“You mentioned once that you found excessive candlelight fatiguing. I have been most attentive.”
Mr. Darcy looked as though he wished to be anywhere else in England.
Elizabeth took pity on him. Or perhaps on herself. “I ought to return to Jane. I believe Mr. Bingley is describing the refreshment menu in exhaustive detail, and she may require rescue.”
She slipped away before Miss Bingley could respond, but not before catching Mr. Darcy's eye. The look he gave her was equal parts gratitude and resignation—a man watching his ally abandon him to the enemy.
Elizabeth smiled and did not look back.
The remainder of the visit passed without further incident, though Elizabeth navigated every doorway with the caution of a soldier crossing enemy territory. Mr. Darcy, she noticed, had adopted a similar strategy—the two of them engaged in an unspoken dance of avoidance, mapping the room's dangers with shared glances and subtle warnings.
It should have been awkward.
