Darcy, who had been contemplating the merits of fleeing to London immediately, looked up with a start. “I suppose some do.”
“There, you see? Even Darcy agrees.”
“I did not say I agreed. I said some people enjoy it.”
“Same thing.” Bingley was already warming to his theme. “We could bring provisions—bread, cheese, perhaps a flask of something warming. And if we encounter any scenic spots, we could hang some of Caroline's famous greenery from the branches.”
Caroline's eyes lit up. “What a splendid idea, Charles. Mistletoe in the trees—imagine couples taking walks, encountering romantic surprises along the path.” She smiled, and something in it made Darcy's instincts prickle. “I shall have the servants prepare several sprigs. We must ensure the route is properly... festive.”
“Capital!” Bingley beamed. “You see, Darcy? Caroline is entering into the spirit of things.”
She was entering into something, certainly. Darcy watched her calculating expression and felt the first stirrings of doubt abouther apparent change of heart. Miss Elizabeth's words echoed in his mind:Miss Bingley rarely does anything without purpose.
He had dismissed that as cynicism.
Now he was not so certain.
“Perhaps,” he said carefully, “a few sprigs would suffice. We need not transform the entire wood into a... romantic obstacle course.”
“Nonsense,” Caroline said smoothly. “If one is to embrace a tradition, one must commit fully. Half-measures are so dreary.” She turned to Mrs. Hurst. “Louisa, you must help me select the best locations. We want them to appear natural, as though they simply... grew there.”
“Mistletoe is parasitic,” Darcy muttered. “It does grow on trees.”
“Then we shall be helping nature along.” Caroline's smile sharpened. “How can you object to that?”
He could not, precisely. But as he watched her begin planning the placement of sprigs along their walking route, Darcy felt a growing certainty that he had been naïve to believe her schemes had ended.
Miss Elizabeth had tried to warn him.
He ought to have listened.
The breakfast concluded with Bingley still planning his winter excursion and Caroline still plotting her improvements. Darcy escaped as soon as courtesy allowed, desperate for air and solitude.
He walked into Meryton without conscious intention, his feet carrying him along the familiar road while his thoughts churned.The morning was bright but biting cold, frost glittering on every surface, his breath fogging in the December air.
He had nearly reached the village when he heard them.
Voices, light and feminine, carrying across the cold air with unmistakable clarity. Laughter—high and careless—followed by a deeper sound, a man's voice, smooth and practiced.
Darcy rounded a corner and stopped dead.
Miss Elizabeth stood in a cluster with her sisters and mother—Jane serene, Lydia giggling, Kitty bouncing on her heels, Mrs. Bennet gesturing expansively. They had clearly been making calls in the village, their cheeks pink from the cold, their spirits high.
And they were speaking with Wickham.
George Wickham, resplendent in his officer's uniform, his smile as charming and false as ever. He was leaning toward the group with easy familiarity, directing the majority of his attention toward Miss Elizabeth with a focus that made Darcy's stomach turn.
She was smiling at him.
Miss Elizabeth—sharp-witted, perceptive Miss Elizabeth—was smiling at Wickham as though he were worthy of her regard. As though his charm were genuine. As though she could not see the poison beneath the polish.
Darcy experienced a cascade of emotions so violent he could not separate them: jealousy, hot and shameful; fear, cold and creeping; anger at Wickham's continued presence in his life; regret for every silence that had allowed this situation to develop.
And beneath it all, the sickening memory of Wickham's past treacheries—Georgiana's near-ruin, the lies, the manipulation, the easy destruction of lives that meant nothing to him.
Wickham saw Darcy before anyone else.
His expression shifted—almost imperceptibly, but Darcy knew that face too well to miss it. The surprise, quickly suppressed. The calculation, instantly engaged. And then the mask settling back into place: the look of saintly innocence that had fooled better people than the Bennets.
