Instead, it felt almost like collaboration.
When the time came to depart, Elizabeth gathered her things with mingled relief and something else—something she refused to examine too closely. Jane was glowing, Mr. Bingley was rapturous, and Miss Bingley was already issuing commands about additional sprays of mistletoe for the entertainment itself.
“We shall have them in every doorway,” she declared. “No guest shall pass unscathed.”
“What a charming objective,” Elizabeth murmured.
Mr. Darcy appeared beside her, his voice pitched for her ears alone. “I believe 'unscathed' is precisely the wrong word for Miss Bingley's purposes.”
“You think her motives are not purely festive?”
“I think her motives rarely are.”
Elizabeth glanced at him—at his dark eyes, his careful expression, the hint of humor lurking beneath his reserve. Something fluttered in her chest, inconvenient and undeniable.
“Then we shall both need to sharpen our navigational skills before the entertainment,” she said.
“Indeed.” His gaze held hers. “Perhaps we might... compare notes beforehand.”
“Mr. Darcy.” She raised an eyebrow. “Are you proposing an alliance?”
“I am proposing mutual self-interest. The enemy of one's enemy, and so forth.”
“Miss Bingley is hardly my enemy.”
“No. But I suspect her mistletoe might be.”
Elizabeth laughed—she could not help it—and Miss Bingley's head snapped toward them with predatory interest.
“Until the entertainment, then,” Mr. Darcy said, stepping back with a bow. “I wish you safe travels.”
“And you safe navigation. Mind the doorways.”
“Always.”
On the carriage ride home, Jane spoke softly of Mr. Bingley's kindness and Miss Bingley's decorating prowess. Elizabeth murmured appropriate responses, but her mind was elsewhere—replaying the moment beneath the mistletoe, the panic and the warmth and the way Mr. Darcy had looked at her when she declared tradition could go hang.
He had not been offended but instead relieved.
Or perhaps not entirely relieved. There had been something else in his expression—something that looked almost like disappointment, quickly suppressed.
Elizabeth pressed her hands to her cheeks. They were still warm.
“The entertainment,” she said aloud, “is going to be a catastrophe.”
Jane turned, surprised. “Whatever do you mean?”
“I mean that Miss Bingley has declared war on propriety with nothing but greenery, and I suspect we shall all be casualties before the night is through.”
“Surely it will not be so dire,” she said in a small voice.
“Jane, the woman intends to hang mistletoe in every doorway. Every doorway. One will not be able to fetch a cup of punch without risking one's reputation.”
Jane considered this. “Mr. Bingley did seem rather pleased by the custom.”
“Mr. Bingley would be pleased by anything that brought him closer to you. The man would embrace a tradition of standing on one's head if it meant spending more time in your company.”
Jane blushed. Elizabeth smiled.
