Now everything was muddled.
Mr. Darcy kept stepping between her and danger—mistletoe, embarrassment, spectacle. He looked at her with an intensitythat made her breath catch. He struggled to find words and then found exactly the right ones.
And Mr. Wickham... Mr. Wickham smiled too easily. Spoke too smoothly. Adjusted his stories in ways she had only recently begun to notice.
Elizabeth pressed her hands to her face and tried to compose herself.
Tonight would clarify everything. It had to.
Mrs. Bennet's voice echoed through Longbourn like a trumpet.
“Jane! Your ribbons are crooked. Lizzy, stand up straight—you are slouching like a scullery maid. Lydia, if you mention officers one more time before we arrive, I shall leave you at home. Kitty, stop giggling. Mary, must you bring that book?”
Mary clutched her volume of Fordyce like a shield. “One never knows when moral guidance may be required.”
“Moral guidance will not catch you a husband.”
“I do not wish to catch a husband. I wish to improve my mind.”
“Your mind will not keep you warm when your father dies and we are all thrown into the hedgerows!”
Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Jane, half sympathy, half resignation. Some things never changed.
The carriage ride to Netherfield was a blur of Mrs. Bennet's instructions, Lydia's complaints about the cold, and Kitty's endless speculation about which officers might attend. Elizabeth sat in silence, watching the frost-covered hedgerows slide past, her thoughts already at the great house.
Already with him.
She told herself she was eager to see Jane happy. To watch Mr. Bingley's devotion bloom into something permanent. To enjoy the music and the dancing and the festive atmosphere.
It was partly true.
But when the carriage swept up the Netherfield drive, and the house came into view—glowing with candlelight, garlands draped across every window—Elizabeth's pulse quickened for reasons that had nothing to do with her sister's courtship.
The transformation was breathtaking.
Evergreen garlands arched across the entryway, thick with holly and ivy and clusters of red berries. Candles blazed from every surface, their light warm and golden against the December darkness. Ribbons wound through banisters, around doorframes, across mantels. The air smelled of pine and cinnamon and wood smoke.
And there, hung with strategic precision throughout the entrance hall, were the inevitable sprigs of mistletoe.
Elizabeth counted five before she had taken three steps.
Miss Bingley swept forward to greet them, resplendent in silk the color of winter roses, her smile bright and brittle as spun glass.
“The Bennets! How delighted we are to have you.” She took Elizabeth's hand and gave it an overly sweet squeeze. “So pleased you still wished to attend, Miss Elizabeth. After all the... confusion of the season.”
“I would not have missed it for the world,” Elizabeth replied pleasantly. “You have outdone yourself, Miss Bingley. The decorations are magnificent.”
Miss Bingley preened. “One does try to maintain standards.”
Mrs. Bennet was already exclaiming over the garlands, the candles, the obvious expense of every arrangement. Lydia had spotted a cluster of officers near the refreshment table and was tugging Kitty in that direction. Mary stood stiffly, clutching Fordyce, looking as though she expected the festivities to corrupt her morals at any moment.
And Mr. Darcy?—
Elizabeth's breath caught.
He stood near the foot of the stairs, tall and immaculate in dark evening clothes, his expression carefully neutral. But when his gaze found hers across the crowded hall, something flickered in its depths—recognition, warmth, and an intensity that made her pulse stutter.
He bowed, the movement precise and formal.
