“More mistletoe, I expect.”
“Almost certainly.”
She turned to face him, and something in her expression made Darcy's breath catch. She was looking at him without guardedness, without the sharp wit that usually armored her exchanges. Looking at him as though she were seeing him clearly for the first time.
“I am glad we happened upon each other, Mr. Darcy,” she said quietly. “It has been... unexpectedly pleasant.”
“The feeling is mutual, Miss Elizabeth.”
She dropped a curtsy, her smile soft and genuine. He bowed, more deeply than strictly necessary.
And then she was gone, walking back along the lane with her basket of holly, leaving Darcy standing alone in the winter woods with his heart pounding and his thoughts in disarray.
He watched her until she disappeared around a bend in the path.
He had witnessed her with Wickham and felt wounded. Then he had walked with her here and felt restored.
Darcy returned to Netherfield in a daze, barely noticing Caroline's pointed remarks about his extended absence or Bingley's cheerful chatter about tomorrow's excursion. Hemoved through the evening, his thoughts fixed on a frosted path and a woman with holly in her basket.
That night, he stood at his window, watching the moon rise over the frozen grounds, and allowed himself to admit what he had been fighting since the Netherfield ball.
He could see it now—how a man might fall in love with a woman like Miss Elizabeth Bennet. How her wit might sharpen from irritant to delight. How her fine eyes might become the only eyes worth seeking in a crowded room. How her laugh might lodge itself beneath one's breastbone and refuse to leave.
And he could see how mistletoe season, with all its dangers and opportunities, was going to ruin him completely.
THE WINTER OUTING
Elizabeth felt lighterthe morning of the winter outing than she ought. She blamed the bright December sun glittering off the frost and the prospect of a pleasant walk through Netherfield's grounds with agreeable company.
It had nothing whatsoever to do with Mr. Darcy.
Nothing to do with their accidental alliance beneath the mistletoe, or their shared laughter over Miss Bingley's botanical warfare, or the way he had looked at her when she declared tradition could go hang—startled and amused and something else she refused to examine.
Nothing at all.
Jane had chosen her warmest pelisse and her prettiest bonnet, a combination that suggested she anticipated both cold weather and Mr. Bingley's admiring gaze.
“You look lovely,” Elizabeth said.
“Do I?” Jane smoothed her skirts with unnecessary care. “I was not certain about the ribbon. Mama suggested blue, but I thought perhaps?—”
“The ribbon is perfect. Mr. Bingley will be struck speechless.”
“Lizzy.” Jane's blush deepened. “You make it sound as though I dressed for his benefit.”
“Did you not?”
Jane opened her mouth, closed it, and finally smiled. “Perhaps a little.”
Mrs. Bennet's voice echoed up the staircase before Elizabeth could reply, issuing a steady stream of instructions that grew louder as they descended.
“—and Lydia, you must not throw snow at gentlemen, no matter how amusing you find it. Kitty, stand up straight.” Spotting her two eldest daughters, Mrs. Bennet turned her attention to the pair. “Jane, you look radiant—Mr. Bingley will propose before the week is out, I am certain of it. Lizzy—” Mrs. Bennet paused, surveying Elizabeth's practical walking dress with evident disappointment. “Could you not have worn something with more lace?”
“I intend to walk, Mama, not pose for a portrait.”
“One can do both. I managed it perfectly well in my youth.”
“I do not doubt it.”
