“We have.” She stepped closer, near enough that he could see the rapid pulse at her throat. “I believe you were saying something this morning. Before Lydia so thoughtfully announced our location to the entire garden.”
“I was.” He took a breath, steadying himself—not from nerves, but from the sheer overwhelming joy of what was about to happen. “I was trying to tell you how ardently I admire you. How completely you have captured my regard.”
Her eyes softened. “I remember.”
“I was trying to tell you that every attempt I have made to suppress my feelings has failed. That every argument of reason has crumbled.” He stepped closer, close enough to touch. “I was trying to tell you that I love you, Elizabeth. Wholly. Desperately. Without reservation.”
Her breath caught. “Mr. Dar?—”
“MISTLETOE!”
Lydia Bennet's shriek split the air.
Darcy closed his eyes briefly, caught between exasperation and reluctant amusement. Of course. Ofcourse.
They both looked up.
There, suspended from the ceiling directly above their heads, its white berries gleaming in the candlelight, hung a sprig of mistletoe.
Caroline's handiwork again. The woman's determination to create chaos was almost admirable.
Miss Elizabeth laughed—a bright, surprised sound that made Darcy's heart flip.
“She is remarkably persistent,” she said.
“She is.” Darcy found himself smiling despite everything. “Though I confess, at this particular moment, I am grateful for her dedication.”
Darcy heard the rustle of fabric, and then Lydia peeked around the edge of the decorative screen, her eyes wide with delighted scandal. She must have been hovering nearby, waiting for precisely this opportunity.
“You are caught! Again!” She bounced into the alcove, practically vibrating with glee. “The tradition must be observed!”
Other guests were turning to look. Whispers rippled through the room. Caroline appeared at the edge of the crowd, her expression caught somewhere between triumph and horror—as though she had not fully considered what her trap might produce.
Mrs. Bennet pushed her way forward, her eyes enormous. “Lizzy! Mr. Darcy! Oh, my heart!”
Darcy looked at Miss Elizabeth.
She was already watching him, her eyes bright with laughter and something deeper. Something that matched the warmth blazing in his chest.
“Miss Elizabeth.” His voice was quiet, pitched for her ears alone. “I believe I already know your answer. But I would hear it again.”
Her smile could have lit the room.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Always yes.”
Darcy kissed her.
He had imagined this moment a hundred times—in the quiet hours before dawn, in the spaces between conversations, inevery unguarded second when his thoughts drifted to her. But nothing he had imagined prepared him for the reality.
Her lips were soft. Warm. She tasted faintly of punch and something sweeter beneath, something that was simplyher. The first brush of contact sent a jolt through his entire body—not just his lips but his chest, his hands, the very core of him.
He meant to keep it brief. Proper. A gentleman's kiss, suitable for a crowded room.
But then Elizabeth rose toward him.
Her hand found his sleeve, fingers curling into the fabric as though anchoring herself. The small movement undid him completely. He deepened the kiss—still gentle, still reverent, but no longer hesitant. His hand came up without conscious thought, fingertips grazing the curve of her jaw, tilting her face toward his.
She made a soft sound against his mouth. Not quite a sigh. Something more vulnerable than that.
