And Mr. Wickham... Mr. Wickham was perhaps not as wronged as he claimed. His questions about her time alone with Mr. Darcy had been pointed. As though he were gathering information for some purpose she could not fathom.
Elizabeth did not know what to believe anymore.
But she knew what she felt.
She felt the press of Mr. Darcy's lips against her gloved hand, light as a promise. She felt the warmth of his gaze when he asked if she was chilled. She felt the flutter in her chest when he admitted he wished to speak with her but could not find the words.
Two moments kept returning to her, unbidden and impossible to dismiss.
Mr. Darcy bowing over her hand beneath the mistletoe, his lips brushing over the knuckles of her gloves, an imagined heat, while the world watched and she forgot how to breathe.
She could not forget how after, Mr. Darcy had walked with her through the winter trees and admitted his weakness at conversation with an expression that looked like longing.
Elizabeth pressed her hands to her cheeks and found them warm. “This is impossible,” she whispered to the darkness. “Absolutely impossible.”
UNSETTLING REVELATIONS
Breakfast was an exercise in torment.
Darcy descended to the dining room with his defenses carefully reconstructed, determined to behave as though nothing had changed. His first instinct upon entering was to search for Miss Elizabeth—an instinct so powerful it alarmed him.
She was not there, of course. She was at Longbourn, probably not thinking of him at all.
His relief and disappointment were equally intolerable.
Bingley, in contrast, was incandescent with joy. The near-tumble beneath the arch had convinced him that fate itself endorsed his courtship of Jane Bennet. He chattered endlessly about the holiday entertainment—the musicians, the refreshments, the dancing—while Darcy nodded mechanically and tried to focus on his coffee.
“And I have been thinking,” Bingley announced, buttering his toast with enthusiasm, “that we ought to add parlor games.Something to break the ice, as it were. Charades, perhaps. Or Blindman's Bluff.”
“Blindman's Bluff?” Caroline's voice dripped with disdain. She sat at the far end of the table, her posture rigid, her expression brittle. Yesterday's failures had clearly not improved her disposition. “Charles, we are hosting a refined entertainment, not a children's party.”
“Parlor games are perfectly refined. Lady Ashworth hosted them last season.”
“Lady Ashworth also served punch that turned three gentlemen's waistcoats purple. Her judgment is not to be trusted.”
“Nevertheless, we shall have games.” Bingley's tone was unusually firm. “Miss Bennet mentioned she enjoys them, and I intend to ensure her enjoyment.”
Caroline pursed her lips. “Of course she did,” she said, and added with a sigh. “Then games we shall have.”
Mrs. Hurst offered a languid observation about the weather. Caroline announced that she would personally curate the evening's amusements to ensure they met London standards. Darcy felt the first pang of dread settle in his stomach.
He knew Caroline's taste in amusements. He knew she would attempt to use games the way she had used greenery: as strategic weapons in her campaign against the Bennets—and for herself.
While Bingley happily described plans for wassail and lighting arrangements, Darcy's thoughts drifted inward.
He could not stop thinking about the walk.
Miss Elizabeth's cheeks, pink from the cold. Her laughter when he admitted to struggling with conversation. The way her eyes had warmed—just for a heartbeat—when he stepped between her and Caroline's mistletoe trap. The soft confusion in her expression, as though she were reassessing everything she had believed about him.
She had looked at him without mockery. Without challenge. As though he were someone worth knowing.
The memory was intoxicating.
But it was also dangerous.
Wickham was in Meryton. Wickham was spreading his poison. Wickham was charming everyone who crossed his path, including—especially—the woman Darcy could not stop thinking about.
He could not approach Miss Elizabeth honestly. Not while Wickham threatened her peace of mind. Not while she might still trust that smiling villain over himself. Not while his own silence about Georgiana's near-ruin made any defense impossible.
