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“One must have the hoops ready,” Elizabeth said, “then the greenery. Apples if they are wanted. Oranges, if my aunt can be persuaded to sacrifice them. Ribbons.”
“Paper flowers?”
“You do know something about this.”
He smiled openly now. “My sister made them one year. She was five and demanded kisses from everyone who passed. But I maintain that at least the mistletoe should be first.”
“No, it must be last.”
“Why?” he asked.
She leaned forward. “Because once it is up, no useful work will be accomplished.”
For half a second, he merely stared at her, and for several long seconds, neither of them drew back.
Then he laughed quietly. “I cannot decide whether that is a better argument for your side or mine,” he said.
“Mine, of course,” she said, and sat back.
Mr. Darcy crossed his arms and cast his eyes up to the ceiling. “I do not know. I must consider the competing advantages.”
“Mr. Darcy,” she sputtered.
“Yes?” he inquired.
Aunt Gardiner looked up from her work. “Have I missed something?”
“Mr. Darcy is attempting to convince me that we decorate incorrectly.”
“I have said no such thing,” he protested, but he was smiling.
“He wishes to begin with the mistletoe.”
Her aunt smiled.
“I only asked where it belonged in the order,” Mr. Darcy protested.
“Repeatedly.”
“I believe I shall leave you to settle the matter between you,” Aunt Gardiner said, and returned rather determinedly to her sewing.
Mr. Darcy leaned slightly closer to say, “Your aunt is on my side.”
“My aunt has four children,” Elizabeth replied. “She only intervenes if the disputes threaten to cause bloodshed.”
“A sensible policy.”
“Do not think that means you are winning.”
“I had not realised we were keeping score.”
Elizabeth arched one eyebrow. “We are always keeping score, Mr. Darcy.”
He sat back. “So noted.”
There it was again, that small change in his expression when she pleased him. Elizabeth wished to see it all the time. “Very well. At Pemberley you may begin with the front hall and ruin Christmas in whatever order pleases you.”
“And here?”
