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Miss Bingley had never before required much encouragement to enlarge upon anything to do with Mr. Darcy, including Pemberley, its consequence, its elegance, or her own familiarity with all three, and so Elizabeth waited for what would undoubtedly come next.

But Miss Bingley merely looked at Mr. Darcy, then blushed and turned away to address Jane and her brother.

Elizabeth blinked. Mr. Bingley had entered at some point and taken the chair beside Jane, but she had not seen him come in. Mr. Darcy appeared vastly satisfied with her surprise, and Elizabeth decided immediately that she would not ask why.

“You see?” she said. “Miss Bingley has provided witness. When does all this grandeur begin?”

His brows pinched together. “On December twenty-fourth.”

“Yes, naturally. And what do you do first?”

He frowned. “First?”

“The greenery arrives. What happens to it?”

“It is put up.”

“Mr. Darcy,” she said with a fond, disbelieving shake of her head, “that is rather like saying ‘dinner is cooked.’”

“I believe that is generally what happens to dinner,” he said.

His drollness delighted her. “Do you suppose the greenery walks willingly to the mantel and arranges itself?”

“No,” he replied, attempting to keep his words sounding innocent and failing rather badly, “I had assumed people were involved.”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “You are mocking me.”

“Not yet.”

That yet nearly made her laugh. “Very well. You have holly, ivy, bay, perhaps rosemary⁠—”

“And mistletoe.”

Elizabeth was suddenly far too aware that this gentleman was formally courting her. She looked down at the book on her lap. Mistletoe was merely greenery. There was nothing remarkable about discussing mistletoe with Mr. Darcy. Not at all.

When she looked up again, he was watching her. “The question,” she said, rallying, “is where you begin.”

“The decorating?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“The front hall,” he said.

At the same time, she said, “The parlour.”

Elizabeth sat straighter. “The parlour,” she insisted. “Or the drawing room, at least.”

He shook his head. “The front hall.”

“Why?”

“Because it is where one enters the house.”

“That is why it should not have the best greenery.”

He squinted at her in what she thought an exaggerated manner. “I said it was where one begins,” he said. “I did not claim that it receives the best holly.”

“Whatever is put up first is the pick of the basket, Mr. Darcy. Any housekeeper would tell you so. Mrs. Hill is quite adamant on the subject.”